Blue Hills (5 page)

The Sea of Blue Hills

“Run, Bek! Run! Such close it is. The crest. Hurry. Hurry! See!”

“Ohhhh! Blue Hills. They're …”

“Moving! I told you. Look. The path. It zigs and zags right down the steepness. Is it too high for you? Ever was it so that you were afraid of heights. Close your eyes. I'll guide you down. We'll get to that lake, cross it, and …”

“Kar! Settle! Not another … word. I am … Bekka of Thorns. I am not … bothered one shake by this … this … so said steepness. I am changed. Not like you … a silly bird. But … on the inside … strange power. Listen closely to … what I say. Somewhere over there among those drifting … Blue Hills, the witch, the Babba Ja Harick, she … she … awaits our arrival. She is expecting … me. Kar, see how the Blue Hills drift … in tiers?”

“I see.”

“Ah! They change direction … all together at once so such. The first tier … the lowest … it was moving right and now it moves left. Ah. And with it drifts the third and the … fifth … while the second and the fourth, they were drifting left and have reversed direction to the … right. Count, Kar.”

“Count?”

“Yes. Now!”

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fif …”

“Yes! That's it! Stop. Start over.”

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.”

“So! On every count of … of … fifteen, the tiers so such reverse their drift. Ah.”

“What does it mean? Are they as like hackenlumps, gateways to the Land of the Rainbow Giants?”

“No, no, no, not at all, but … yoss, yes, maybe … Kar, yes, you do have a very … idea there. Very in spite of being a ridiculous bird. Hackenlumps? The Impassable Swump of Greedge. Yes, a true Gwer drollek with the Triplet Princesses Three and, in addition, the most famous of all bendo dreen, Bandy of Thorns. So such well thought of, Kar. So such.”

“It wasn't …”

“Silence. I am yet thinking while I speak. So … the Blue Hills are as like similar to the hackenlumps in the … the … Swump of Greedge. But these hills are … more of ‘em …and … and … bluer. Watch ‘em, Kar. They lull with their gentle back and forth, don't they?”

“They do.”

“Yes, yoss, yes, they do.”

“They do.”

“Yoss.”

“Shouldn't we be moving on, strange Bek?”

“What? Oh. Right. Go on. We should. Down the zigs and zags. I'll … I'll… run. You fly. I'll race you to that lake! That lake … ah … that lake …”

“… is the source of the Greenwilla River?”

“So said. Well thought. The source of the Greenwilla River. We'll … swim. We'll swim! Then will I press the print of my highboots on the lowest tier of the moving Blue Hills. Such will be so. And noon … no … soon. Yes!”

Another Swim

I raced in clattering eagerness down the steepness, weaving in jubilation back and forth, zigging and zagging, following the path. Down I hurtled, unable to stop, legs churning, highboots slamming, jarring my spine with shuddery thrill. Old Bekka would have crawled her way below on so such a steepness. New Bekka flung herself along in carefree glee. Such was truly so. I reached the base of the steepness, crossed it, attacked and conquered a low smooth blue black mossy hill, slid, jumped, and tumbled to the edge of the lake we'd observed from the high crest of the Charborr Forest. Kar came fluttering awkwardly over the hill.

“Ha! I won! I was the first!” I boasted without one oat of guilt.

“I don't care. It wasn't fair. I'm not me. I couldn't shift. I'd like to see you try to beat me when I'm a Striped Racing Dragon,” complained Kar.

“Don't grump, Kar. Truth is … true. You would beat me as … Dragon. Such I know is so,” I soothed. “Quick … now. Regard. I will … I will hold my poor dry dead stick Jo Bree between my teeth. Let's swim.”

* * * *

I sat, thoroughly soaked, boots and all, on pale blue grass. Apparently I'd splashed my way across the lake fully clothed and booted. I stared above the motionless water to the heights of the Charborr Forest. Something … oh. I suddenly realized I still held Jo Bree between my teeth. I released my jaw grip and allowed the Carven Flute to fall into my waiting, but strangely unfamiliar, common bendo dreen yellow green hands. Tears sprang to my eyes. I wiped ‘em. Jo Bree, my Carven Flute, was no longer dead and brown. Flush yellow

pink it glowed.

“Kar! Kar!” I shouted. “Jo Bree is … is … restored. Kar!”

No response. No Kar. Where was she? It was then I noticed for the first time the movement, the smooth and gentle drift of the ground beneath me. I counted silently to myself. At fifteen came a pause, followed by the ground drifting back the other way. I rode on the low apron of a moving hill, a Blue Hill! A hill of pale blue grass. Nothing more. Not a tree. Not a bush. No moss, blue black or other. I searched the lake, the sky. A speck. I saw a speck in the sky high above the Blue Hill. It grew larger and larger, plunging straight at me. Wings. Dragon! It swooped.

“Ha! Bek! My powers are back!” roared the Dragon, dipping a glide to land nearby.

Of course it was Kar, striped orange and yellow as Racing Dragon with a whippy tail and wonderful see-through membraned wings. But not so such for long. In a mad frenzy of delight, she shifted to winged cloud, to tumbling Acrotwist Clown Queen Jebb, to upside down jrabe with dark green mantle and enormous lavender ears, to swirling red mist, and finally to Karro, my own old Karro of Thorns, my best friend from forever.

“Oh,” she cooed,” I'll never shift to anything so such ridiculous as that silly bird again. But it was funny, wasn't it, Bek?”

“Oh … funny. I liked the blue … plume,” I offered.

“I didn't,” said Kar, and she studied me closely. “Are you my old Bek, or the other?”

Before I could decide, Jo Bree rose into the air between us and began to pulse all the colors of the rainbow. We waited, not shocked, but relieved. The Carven Flute would sing. Jo Bree would sing us a path to follow. Without a delay of any worrisome length, the Flute sang in its quavering, calming voice:

“Prophesied pale purple witchlet
Returned to the home she forgot
One has been sent here to find her
For magic, success must be bought
First A and E, then I, O and U
The tiers of the snaves must be climbed
Riddle and nonsense, babble and bargain
The nook to be found must be rhymed.”

The Carven Flute dropped into my hand and faded to flush yellow pink. Kar and I exchanged fuddled looks there in the late afternoon. Such was so.

The Snaves of Annek

“What does it mean, Bek?” asked Kar.

“It means what it wants to … mean … when … folded … over,” I stated firmly, much to my own surprise and fuddlement. “If the trays are … tilted, the food … falls … on the … floor. I mean to say that A and E and I and O and U are symbols … used … to write the language … from … down the … Well. They are … for me … alone … to understand.”

“All right, strange Bek, tell me so such about snaves,” said Kar, regarding me with narrowed eyes and a steady frown.

“Once upon a time … Gwer drollek … the oceans were … marmalade,” I spouted, throwing myself deeper into fuddlement. “Wait … Hutters can't … swim in the … oatfields. I mean to say that I … know nothing … of … snaves.”

Kar walked over to me, forced me to sit down, made me settle. She paced in a circle around me. I was glad of it. Such was so. The Blue Hill gently moved, sliding back, and then forth. Why did the words sent from my brain change when spilled from my lips? Such I asked myself. And yet, the muddle I spoke had cleared somewhat near the end of the spew.
Yoss,
I thought.
Why ‘yoss' and not‘yes'? Why ‘yoss' as like says the Babba Ja Harick?
My chin cupped in my hand, I gazed silently at Kar in the gathering night.

“We are here to find the witch,” she began, talking more to herself than to me. “We are here to bring magic back to our lands and seas. My friend Bekka is maddened, but even so such, she is the key. The waterwizards so said. Should I shift to Dragon and carry her all and over on a search of these Blue Hills?”

The answer to her question came not from me, but from the top of the drifting Blue Hill. There, of a sudden, a shaft of silver blue light streamed straight up into the night. At the base of the shaft, a red tentacle writhed into view. It pointed at us and beckoned with its tip. Kar was a statue frozen. I, surged with confidence, sprang to my feet.

“Kar, we have to wrestle … under the table,” I announced.

I grabbed her by the elbow and marched her quickly up the slope. The tentacle slipped out of sight before we reached the summit. I hurried. The shaft was thinning. An entrance! An entrance to below! A hole in the ground. Perfect circle. Was the hill hollow like near Dragon's Deep Pool? The shaft was thinning, the entrance closing. I ran, pulling Kar. I pushed her in. I dove, sliding through. The snap crack closing sound of the entrance echoed above us. Where were we?

Kar and I found ourselves piled in a jumble on a silver blue level platform, a landing so such at the top of a flight of silver blue stairs. While I struggled to know what I was doing, Kar got to her feet.

“All right, strange Bek, you got us in here, whatever here is,” she said. “Did you see what I saw? Red tentacle? Do you think it might be a garl?”

Not trusting my mouth, I nodded yes.

“I've always liked silver blue light the few times I've been bathed in it. Enchanting. Magical. So such. That garl probably wants us to go down the stairs, don't you think?” mused Kar.

I nodded yes and stood. I shrugged. Kar shrugged. We descended the stairs. There were a lot of ‘em and they plunged deep down until they made a turn which led us into a great cavern arena. Such was amazingly so. Silver blue light. Tiers of benches rose in circles around a so said sort of a stage. And the benches teemed with babbling red tentacled, one-eyed, bulbous headed creatures. They silenced and turned to greet our appearance with a tentacle salute. I counted four tentacles to each creature -so such not enough for a garl, at least not any garl I knew. One of the creatures posed alone on the stage.

“Jelly and toasted vines,” it shouted from its wide smile of a mouth. “And when I say ‘Jelly and toasted vines', I mean ‘Welcome to our theater. You're in luck. The performance is about to begin. We are the snaves of Annek.'”

The Pageant of the Snaves

“Snaves of Annek!” Kar hissed into my ear.

I stopped myself from blurting ‘I know!' because I felt certain it would come out all wrong. Instead, I wobbled my head in a nod and fixed my mouth with a grin. The snave down on the central circle slithered its way to a latch-lidded trunk sitting at the edge of the stage. With one red tentacle it lifted the lid and held it up open. A second tentacle snaked inside and pulled out a red floppy velvety cap. Slam shut went the lid while the snave arranged the cap at a jaunty angle on its bulby red head. Blinking its eye and smiling a wide smile, the snave left the stage with a neat slither down some two or three stairs. Eye on us, it moved to the aisle and stopped at the first tier of benches. It plucked the cap from its head and tentacled it to the closest snave. While all of this so such activity took place, a blanket of silence hung over the masses of snaves in the cavernous bowl. Kar nudged me with her elbow. I nudged her harder in return.

“The bread is spoken with custard,” said the snave receiving the cap. It turned to face us and added, “By which I mean ‘Let the pageant unfold'.”

The newly capped snave slithered to take the stage, and the first rushed up the aisle with alarming swiftness directly at Kar and me. We both stepped back in some goodly level of fright in spite of the snave's wide smile. Truth, a snave is twice the size of any bendo dreen. One great round eye. Four writhing tentacles. So said. Alarming.

“I will dip you in honey!” said the snave in urgent hush, looming above two cowering bendo dreen, one so such me and one so such really a shapeshifting jrabe jroon. “And when I say ‘I will dip you in honey', I mean ‘I will narrate and explain'.”

My mind was eased, and so was Kar's. I felt her rigid arm relax. The snave slithered left, unblocking our view of the stage. What happened for the next unknown number of hours was a numbing jumble of confusing gibberish. Each snave in turn advanced to the round platform stage when given the floppy red velvet cap. Some wore it pushed back, some low over the eye, some jaunted left, some right. And after each snave surrendered the cap, it moved to the top of the cavernous bowl and took the last spot on the highest tier's bench. The masses of snaves moved in orderly procession, one space at a time along the benches, winding back and then forth, descending the bowl, until reaching the first seat on the lowest bench tier and receiving the cap. Each snave, when on stage, roared or whispered, shouted or sang, writhed wildly or spun elegantly, droned dully or waved tentacles in the slowest of motions. No two acted the same. Such was so. And I understood nothing. Nothing. The snave whispering explanations to us was twice told more fuddling than the nonsense spouting from the stage below.

“The Queen's diamonds means the King's raft. The biggest mushroom means lunch is overthrown. Dragon overhead means goblets of fun. Weeds of char means bake it now. Sing loudly means drain the lake,” whispered the snave in a blur of rush.

Kar looked at me. I looked at Kar. We did what we do. We shrugged. On and on it went, snaves winding down the tiers, each patiently waiting its turn to bellow nonsense. Kar tapped Jo Bree at my belt. Good idea. I lifted it up. Flush yellow pink it rested on my hands. I wanted it to rise and pulse rainbow. It didn't. It wouldn't. It rested flush yellow pink on my hands. I replaced it in my belt, and Kar and I again exchanged shrugs. The snave on our left continued to whisper rapid nonsense. Where was the witch? Where was the witch? A double loud shriek from the stage brought me back from numb stupor. The snave to our left abandoned our left. Instead, it sped slithering down to the stage. It took the cap from the snave who'd shrieked, scundled to the latch-lid trunk, lifted the lid, inserted the cap, slammed the lid, and turned so such to fix its staring eye on Kar and me. Truth, every snave in the cavern turned our way and stared with wide open eye. The silence was truly somewhat stiff.

“To weave an island from flooce's wool, you need more than water and oats,” said the snave on the stage.

I understood. I understood! Why? I don't know. In my head the nonsense jelled into clarity. The snave had announced that it was now time for the visitors to perform.