Thomas Kinkade Spirit of Christmas

Thomas Kinkade Spirit of ChristmasThomas Kinkade Serenity CoveThomas Kinkade Petals of Hope
know, it's odd, isn't it," said St. Ungulant. "There's all this wonderful stuff to drink but every so often I get this, well, I can only call it a craving, for a few sips of water. Can you explain that?"
"It must be . . . "I think we could manage to put up with that," said Brutha, through dry lips. He backed toward the rope-ladder that was the saint's contact with the ground.
"Are you sure you won't stay?" said St. Ungulant. "It's Wednesday. We get sucking pig plus chef's selection of sun-drenched dew-fresh vegetables on Wednesdays."
"We, uh, have lots to do," said Brutha, halfway down the swaying ladder.
"Sweets from the trolley?"
"I think perhaps . . .a little hard to come by," said Brutha, still talking very carefully, like someone playing a fifty-pound fish on a fifty-one-pound breakingstrain fishing-line."Strange, really," said St. Ungulant. "When icecold beer is so readily available, too.""Where, uh, do you get it? The water?" said Brutha."You know the stone plants?""The ones with the big flowers?""If you cut open the fleshy part of the leaves, there's up to half a pint of water," said the saint. "It tastes like weewee, mind you."