The Nemisin Star (23 page)

Similar
overlaps were evident on the backs of hands and in horizontal
ridges along the length of their protruding spines. They were
otherwise hairless, their skins a translucent grey, the latter
likely a condition due to lack of sunlight. Eyes were varied, from
blue to brown.

One of the men
sucked a finger where he scraped it with his spear point; their
blood was as red and dense as their captives. It was a reassuring
sight.

Torrullin
listened to the guttural conversation. The language was
incomprehensible and he despaired of a way to communicate.

They appeared
too backward to have more than rudimentary knowledge of anything,
never mind the mysteries of rebirth, and then he glanced up at the
electric lights in the rock ceiling. Technology, in some form. He
would do well to keep an open mind.

Their
disrobing complete, they turned to their captives. An argument
seemed to erupt with a number gesturing one way and a few into the
other direction. Some remained uninvolved, waiting for a decision.
It was made, for father and son were dragged up and prodded towards
two openings in the far wall. Four men led the way and the rest
fell in behind with levelled spears.

Tristamil
noticed two men shouldered their packs, unopened. Most likely they
would now be taken to someone with authority - more accommodating
or the devil in disguise?

Torrullin
noticed four hefted metal boxes that clinked the way laden
toolboxes were wont to. It seemed they were on a maintenance
mission, not security, and he wondered what they set out to repair.
Nothing was in evidence on the surface. He was also intrigued as to
the origin of the furs; animals below or a trading relationship
with another world?

Concentrating
on sounds, particularly repeated ones, Torrullin sought the pattern
that would unlock the code to this harsh tongue.

Heading into
the left opening, the first man slapped a switch on the wall and
lights came on beyond.

It was a short
tunnel leading to a flight of stairs. The tunnel acted as a buffer
against the cold of the raised slab. The Cèlaver were proving
ingenious also; another promising sign.

At the foot of
the stairs there was a small chamber with tunnels leading in three
directions. They went right into a longer passage with doors of
solid wood on either side. Half their escort peeled away there,
entering in pairs beyond those doors, and the brief glimpse the
captives had was of living quarters.

Eight remained
with them and they reached a larger door at the end; they entered a
large cavern with smoothed and painted walls that could only be
described as a lounge.

There were
comfortable couches, coffee tables, and bookshelves laden with
bright magazines. A muted television set flickered in one corner.
There was a bar to the left with unfamiliar labels on colourful
bottles, and tumblers of all shapes. Men and women laughed and
chatted at the counter, with others clustered around the television
watching what appeared as some kind of archery competition.

When their
comrades entered with strangers, they were clearly surprised. A
nervous sally from one was answered by a curt nod from the leader,
and silence fell, full of speculation. Nobody came closer, and
nobody interfered.

A large metal
canteen near the bar emitted the aroma of brewing coffee and,
smelling it, Torrullin realised he had made the transition back to
normal air, and took that as a good omen. He reflected that these
people possessed added biology akin to the Valleur.

They did not
tarry there. They were prodded through a set of double doors
leading into and through a well-equipped kitchen. Another door gave
onto another flight of stairs, which they descended. Soon they
stepped into a massive circular chamber.

Numerous doors
were spaced about the perimeter, some open to reveal offices with
men and women bent over stacks of paper, and others firmly closed.
This region of the Cèlaver underground was clearly the
administration and practical section.

Around a
marble table a meeting appeared in progress.

Men and women
alike were dressed in colourful silk robes, and a man rose to bark
a sharp query. One of the men answered in a subdued tone and his
questioner waved an irritated hand to the left, sitting immediately
to turn in self-important earnest to his companion.

Two strangers,
and these bureaucrats could not be less interested.

They went
left, as indicated.

Another
landing, stairs leading both left and right and up and down. They
turned left, but ascended for the first time. Interminable stairs
later - no wonder the Cèlaver were fit - and they arrived in
another circular chamber. This one was smaller than the one below,
unoccupied and the doors were shut. The uniformity of the habitat
was mind boggling.

Warning spears
brought them to a halt. They had reached their destination and this
was proven when the leader knocked on one of the doors. A guttural
command sounded beyond and he entered, closing the door.

Minutes later
a tall thin man erupted from inside, followed by the leader.
Dressed in a dark blue cotton robe with red sandals on his feet, he
rushed up to Tristamil, brown eyes avid. He spoke and stepped back,
looking at Tristamil, who glanced at his father and shrugged with
hands eloquently displaying ignorance. The thin man nodded as if he
expected that and spoke again and it was clearly a different
language, softer … and still incomprehensible.

He was a
linguist.

The Cèlaver
who brought them in clearly thought their duty done. They turned to
go, leaving the two packs on the ground, and the linguist beamed,
saying something that evidently satisfied.

Torrullin and
Tristamil were alone with the man. The Cèlaver were too trusting.
Tristamil lifted his chin significantly to the ceiling and
Torrullin saw there the tell-tale signs of closed circuit
television.

Monitored. Not
so trusting. How long before the wrath of the security types
arrived?

It was time to
find common ground.

Torrullin
cleared his throat, drawing the man’s attention.

The linguist
indicated he should speak, and Torrullin addressed him first in
Valleur, saying basically
how are you
and when he drew a
blank he tried the common tongue, but that also elicited no
recognition. He attempted Siric, and then the man spoke - neither
understood.

Torrullin
spoke a few words in Sagorin and then Sylmer. Although the man
frowned as if he almost understood, it took them nowhere.

The linguist
began to smile, finding the situation amusing, and Torrullin
grinned as well. The man beckoned, leading them into his office
where he waved them into two chairs before his untidy desk. He
opened a drawer on his side, bringing forth three glasses and
holding up a bottle of wine significantly. The two before him were
parched and both nodded.

With a wide
smile the man poured three generous measures and indicated the
glasses. Torrullin leaned forward and took possession of two,
passing one to Tristamil. With ceremony all three drank and
Torrullin’s eyes widened. It was an excellent cultivar, without
doubt. The linguist grinned at the reaction, nodding
emphatically.

Words bandied
as they attempted to establish common territory and both Torrullin
and the linguist obviously enjoyed the game.

Tristamil
glanced from one to the other, bemused. He had not understood
before how many languages there were in the universe and had not
realised his father was proficient in many.

A short
silence fell as both men sifted through their stores of knowledge,
and Torrullin gazed around the office at the paintings on the
walls. Some were too strange for him to find comparison, while
others were familiar.

The linguist
was not only a collector of languages, and his tastes were
eclectic. His gaze alighted on a realistic rendition of dolphins
erupting from an extraordinarily well-worked azure ocean, and he
pointed at it, saying, “Dolphins.”

The man’s eyes
rounded in astonishment and he swivelled to stare at the painting.
“Intelligent mammal,” he whispered, and turned back to Torrullin
expectantly.

Torrullin
laughed and held his glass out. “This is a truly excellent wine;
may I have some more?”

The man
clapped his hands and grabbed the bottle. “It is indeed a good
wine, a very good year, fruity, yet not overly sweet …” and both
burst out laughing.

Tristamil
grinned.

It was
English, an ancient dialect from the original human world Earth … a
long, long time ago.

Men speak in
tongues, angels in action, demons in deed. Gods do not speak.

~ Efur of
Pendulim

Cèlaver

“
T
his
language is an ancient one,” Tristamil murmured, looking up from
his plate.

They were in a
small dining room with the linguist - whose name was too alien to
pronounce and they thus settled on Breem - and another man, Breem’s
superior - whom they dubbed Lufer - and an old woman. She was
Breem’s mother and after a heated discussion and much laughter they
decided to call her simply Mother Breem.

“Not as old as
Valleur or Siric, but certainly in human terms. It was once
regarded as their international language - a common tongue - for
they spoke a variety of languages,” Torrullin said.

There was
subdued accompaniment to his words; Breem translated everything
said for the others benefit. Tristamil did not understand, but his
father tapped him in; mind translation with a second’s delay.

“I thought
this Earth thing was a legend,” Tristamil said, taking another
mouthful.

The food was
wonderful and his evident enjoyment caused Mother Breem to smile.
Neither he nor his father had occasion recently to sit down to a
decent meal and both ate with gusto.

Torrullin
translated Tristamil’s words when Lufer raised brow ridges.

“Legends are
based on truth,” Breem responded, and Torrullin reflected how true
that was, as he knew from personal experience.

Breem was
somewhat bemused by Tristamil’s delayed grasp of his words, for it
was obvious to him the young man knew them not and yet
understanding came to him. Torrullin now merely translated his
son’s words for the others, no longer their words to him.

He glanced at
Torrullin, aware of the relationship between the two, and thought
there had to be a manner of relay, but did not desire to delve into
the occult, not when he enjoyed himself tremendously. Visitors were
rare; no need to look for a demon behind every rock. He was
astounded however, that Lufer said nothing about the lack of
translation, but he always thought the man was dense … or cleverly
laying a trap.

Breem
continued, “I am an ancient civilisations enthusiast. One day I
hope to collate what I have learned into a book. I gather languages
as well, as you may have noticed, for the two go together. After
the Earthlings conquered true space travel, they colonised new
worlds. Earth was too populated, too polluted, a history repeated
on other human worlds. Humankind is not alone in guilt of
mismanagement.” Breem shrugged eloquently and added, “They brought
with them many languages.”

“Those clashed
with the many they encountered. Humans were in fact the pioneers of
the common tongue,” Torrullin said. “How is it the Cèlaver do not
know it?”

“Is that what
you call us? Cèlaver?” Lufer asked, and Breem translated, adding,
“I like it. Cèlaver. Nice sound.” He glanced at a device amid the
dishes and frowned. His personal comment would not be appreciated,
but when he translated the intricacies on the recording to the
powers, he would omit a few details. “We are isolationist and
contact with others is rare. You must teach me this common
tongue.”

“We do not
intend remaining that long,” Torrullin said, “but I promise to
freight over dictionaries and grammar books, if that will be
permitted?”

After
translating, Breem nodded, his eyes bright. “It will be permitted,
and I thank you.”

Torrullin
inclined his head and continued eating.

Conversation
was put on hold as they did justice to Mother Breem’s cooking. It
was plain fare, yet the clever use of spices transformed it into a
culinary delight. Frothy nutmeg mashed potatoes, sweet buttery
green peas, chilli brinjals and heaps of sausages, accompanied by
thick savoury gravy. The sausage did not taste like real meat -
probably a soy compound - but was good nonetheless.

Breem opened
another bottle of his excellent wine.

As he ate
Torrullin wondered if the promised books would be allowed in. He
wondered if they would be permitted to leave, but was not concerned
- they could transport out of a sticky situation. He was concerned
about learning something before the situation reached that
point.

Lufer was
suspicious, but that was his task. He was the Protection Master in
charge of the day-to-day security trivialities, and occasionally
surprises from beyond. Breem was the linguist on his team and
patently dismissive of security. Akin to every academic universe
over, he leaned towards knowledge foremost.

Apparently the
team that found the two strangers on the surface was one of Lufer’s
patrols, technical division, and it was sheer luck they saw the
hiking men. The patrol was out on assignment to replace a component
of a distant generator, and was late in returning.

Knowing their
superior, they had not attempted to make friends but erred on the
side of caution. After leaving the two with Breem, the leader
reported directly to Lufer, who had at the time been in a fury with
a subordinate for not tracking them on the internal monitors.