Elloch lurked in the shadows the bonfire did not penetrate, moving counter to the dancers’ clockwise orbit around the flame. He moved more silently than the llungruel, creeping past the line of veiled, wide-shouldered drummers who hammered upon their leather drums to near a pair of outsiders whose pale faces wore no mask or veil. There, he listened to the language that fluttered to his concealment.
“You’d better get hold of another one of those lizards, Mick.”
“I grabbed the last one,” the man mumbled. “You know how I despise those creatures. They smell foul, and they hiss spit at my eyes whenever I try to wangle one with the glove. I swear the stinging spit is as awful as their bite.”
The other laughed. “Would you rather spend the night sweating in the crew quarters on the bottom ship level? Catch hold of another one of those lizards, Mick, and your spin around the fire will come soon enough.”
“Suppose you know better than me, Sam.” Mick sighed.
Elloch held his breath as Mick passed closely in front of his position within the trees, stopping only a pace shy of the forest before crouching before a wicker basket kept at the bonfire’s edge. The man grabbed a thick glove resting atop the box and pulled it over his hand before slowly lifting the wicker lid.
A hiss screamed as Mick plunged his hand into the box. The box shook, and the man yelped as he pulled back his hand, quickly removing the glove and checking his fingers for hurts. Mick appeared to find none, and after taking a minute to slide his fingers back into the glove and summon another dose of courage, he plunged his hand deeply again into the box. There came another hiss. The box rattled. Mick withdrew his gloved hand and grasped a squirming llungruel in his fingers, the creature's bite snapping in every direction, desperate to sink its fangs into something that would release it from the hold that choked it. Mick cursed and squeezed harder as the llungruel’s tail whipped at his wrist.
“I oughta squeeze until your guts run between my fingers,” Mick growled. “We already breed more of you than we can handle in the lom. No one would mourn the loss of only one llungruel. But you’re the last one in the box, and tonight’s party shows no signs of slowing.”
Sam’s gruff laughter interrupted Mick’s further cursing. “Get that lizard on over here. The drink’s starting to fade and the dancers are going to be real thirsty here soon.”
Mick gave the llungruel another shake before returning to Sam’s side. Mick clutched the llungruel as Sam poked a long implement into the lizard’s maw. The llungruel replied with a gargled hiss and stream of spit.
“Hold tight, Mick.” Sam pushed the tool a little further into the creature’s mouth, and the llungruel’s tail wipped violently at the gloved hands. The llungruel chomped repeatedly at the tool forced upon him, and venom seeped down the implement into a clay bowl Sam positioned beneath it. “We might drain that beast of all its venom before the night’s over, but that little monster will still want a piece of us.”
Sweat beaded on Mick's forehead. “I’m not about to let go until I get the beastie back in the box.”
Mick managed to drop the llungruel back without suffering a bite, roughly throwing the creature into the box and kicking shut the lid before the lizard had a chance to spin around for more strikes.
“Did you get enough venom?”
Sam nodded. “Doesn’t take much.” Sam poured water into the clay bowl and stirred its contents. “You should see what this venom does to the natives. A single bite drives them savage. Makes them feral. Absolutely burns them with fever. We pay attention to how the bites burn the natives. Helps us know how much to serve around our fires.”
“And to think that the natives take such good care of the lom fields,” Mick smirked. “That’s a great system.”
Sam nodded. “Wheels within wheels, Mick. The natives grow all the lom they can eat, and we have the venom for the bonfire and the drink. Everyone wins.”
Elloch’s eyes blazed in the dark. He did not think the llungruel and the lom as such a blessing.
“It only takes that much?” Mick asked as Sam poured the concoction into a tray-full of clay cups.
“It takes less and less as the night progresses.” Sam nodded towards the dancers, whose gyrations twirled about the fire, their sweat glistening in the firelight.
“Is the drink as wonderful as they say?”
Sam’s eyes gleamed. “More wonderful than you imagine. I sure hope I’m the one who gives you your first taste. You’ve earned your sips after handling the llungruel all night. Our gray language lacks the words with which to describe it. We don’t have the means to describe the rush of color that floods over you after the swallow. How could I begin to tell you of the euphoria when you have known only the grime of our homelands? The drink makes all the seas and stink worthwhile.”
Mick’s eyes sparkled as he dreamed of the taste. “But what’s with all the masks?”
Sam chuckled. “The masks came after the early llungruel bonfires. Then, the dancers didn’t wear a thing around the fire. But eventually, enough danced around this island so that it became common to recognize a face that shared a dance around the blaze, that shared more than just an embrace around the warmth. Removed from the rush and the color, I suppose our early dancers felt ashamed when they recognized each other in the gray streets.
“And then a dancer brought that first mask to the gathering. Those masks really help the party rage when dancers don’t need to worry about stumbling into a surprise meeting with one of their fellow dancers once back across the gray seas. It’s now considered rude not to bring a mask. There’s an old man in the village who’ll give you any mask you can imagine, Mick. You’ll just love it. That mask takes care of whatever reservation might linger after you sip the llungruel’s venom.”
Mick’s mind raced with the anticipation of raising the diluted venom to his lips. “And it’s all enough to fill our eyes with color?”
Sam’s smile flashed in the fire’s light. “It blinds you with thrill. Give me a hand with the dancers and the drinks.”
The rotation of the circling dancers slowed as Sam filled the last waiting cup with llungruel drink. Elloch remained shrouded in the forest’s shadow, and he watched as those writhing bodies of outsiders righted themselves to accept the cup Mitch and Sam offered to their lips.
“Hurry before the rush turns into a haggard headache,” Sam urged Mick.
The dancers drank heavily from the offering. Though precious, much of the liquid dribbled down their chins and seeped upon their necks, where the tongues of companion dancers licked before the llungruel drink might trickle upon lower curves. The veiled drummers never paused their heavy beating of their drums, and the dancers renewed their gyrations to the colorful thrill of the llungruel’s venom that fevered their minds.