seymoure

Chapter 39

Masquedon

“This place Masquedon,” Smiga said to those standing behind him. “It called ‘Land of the Dead.’”

“Why?” Slip gently pushed the openly scared guide for some kind of information.

The cat/reptile man turned with what looked like tears welling in his eyes and didn’t seem capable of speaking anymore.

“We don’t want to make this any harder than it is for you, my friend,” Hawk said. “We, also, have spaces in our knowledge.”

Slip kicked at Hawk’s ankle.

“Don’t use big words,” he growled under his breath. “It will only make him feel worse.”

Hawk looked at Slip with a new awareness; the hard little man was more understanding than he had ever given others to know about him.

“I appreciate that,” Smiga said, stretching up to stand at his full height, “But I cannot continue the charade any longer.”

Slip looked deep into the creature’s eyes. “What?”

“I wasn’t trying to attempt a fiction for my own benefit,” the man said. “I am under long-standing orders.”

“What do you mean?” Cela entered the conversation.

“My chief is only barely passable in using your language, and even less so with the languages of others who come through our land. Those of us more able to communicate with those travelers are warned to pretend that his is the elevated ability, and ours is less than his.”

Hawk snorted and then said, “Royalty is the same everywhere.”

Cela asked, “How is it that any of you know our speech?”

“We are,” Smiga said, “Slightly telepathic. Those with the facility can translate words from almost any origin. The King, unfortunately, has a void in that ability. He reads the translation from our minds. That makes his use of your language much slower and harder.”

Slip, who was slightly non-plussed for defending someone he thought was slow but rather who was shown to possibly surpass him, asked, “You said that this place ahead was called Masquedon, the Land of the Dead. Why is it called so?”

“Masquedon indeed it is so called,” Smiga elaborated, “because that means Land of the Dead. They gave it that name because it is believed that only the Dead would be comfortable there.”

“Why?” Hawk queried.

“In half a dozen more steps you can see for yourself,” came the answer.

Smiga began walking, and the others hesitantly followed.

In a few feet the answer was obvious.

The bright sky became black; the white cotton of Slip’s tunic was likewise darkened into the opposite hue.

The black of Hawk’s hair was radiant white, as were his vest and belt.

Everything had become the completely opposite color.

Black lightning cut the dark sky.

“When we got close enough to this land you could hear me, unlike the area before it,” Smiga told them in a voice that sounded little like it had before. It didn’t sound like it came from something living, more like something mechanical.

A white whirlwind, like a tiny tornado, roared past them. The sound was not of wind, but of music. It was not good music, more a cacophony of noise, but more like music than rushing air.

“I don’t think I would like this place, even if I were dead,” Slip said.

“Let’s not find out,” said Hawk.