Clearing brush. And one burned, but was consumed not. James stood and watched it until everything else had burned to ashes and still it flickered redly within the fire.
“James,” said the bush.
He leaned a little more solidly on the handle of his shovel. The lower half of his face was covered in ashes, out of which his teeth gleamed whitely.
“James. I am your god. Know me, and do me homage.”
“Ayeh,” said James, and spat stolidly. “Guess so.”
“Listen,” said the bush, and spoke to him in riddling quatrains, spoke of the bad times to come. James stood there wiping his face with his handkerchief and listened impassively. One of them went like this:
From Ocean comes a Seabeast
Fire in one Hand, Food in the Other
And upon his Head, Three Crowns
And in his Wake, the Rising of the Waves
And all of this James listened to, and betrayed no curiosity. The voice of God fell still and the bush crumbled into ashes and he turned it over with his shovel.