Lingo – Containment Protocol-Part 21
True names. Fiction. 2300 words, 12-minute read.
The rest of the Containment Protocol saga can be found here: https://raytabler.substack.com/s/containment-protocol-serial
Part 1 (the beginning), ... Part 20 (last episode), Part 22
Lingo – Containment Protocol-Part 21
By Ray Tabler
It surprised Booker how sure-footed the swahldet were over the rough terrain of the wooded canyon they climbed. The beasts, larger than elephants, planted their broad feet on the steep, boulder-strewn slopes with the sureness of enormous mountain goats. Often, the path forward required wading through the cold, rapid water of the small river coursing down the canyon.
Was this technically a canyon? Booker didn’t know the answer, and doubted it made much difference what he called the geographical feature either way. He resolved to table the question until he had to write up his report. It was the least of the unanswered questions he would have to address for higher command and posterity. Not that many would actually read that report, being top secret. Only the people who held his career in their hands. That’s all.
Lieutenant Booker, why did you run off on this crazy excursion to this native shrine? How did it justify dividing your command in two?
The possibility of learning more about other visitors to this universe was looking a bit foolish in light of the fight at the river ford.
Lieutenant Booker, why didn’t you admonish Mr. Muñoz when he exhibited insubordinate behavior?
Lieutenant Booker, did you or did you not engage in sexual activity with an indigenous female while on this mission?
Did he? Booker tried to assure himself that being unconscious at the time was an adequate excuse. Would higher command see things that way?
Maybe it would be more productive to concentrate on the terrain, and the path right in front of him, instead of some hypothetical report which might never get written, or read. The best way to counter questions about his judgment was to find something well worth the risks he was running. Tumbling off of his mount and down the mountainside was definitely counterproductive, in that regard.
“Boy, we’d never get Fred up this trail.” Pinsky commented, clinging to Tiffany’s neck behind and bellow Booker.
“You’re right about that.” Booker found himself grateful for an excuse to not think about how badly he’d screwed things up.
His eyes strayed beyond Pinsky, to take in the line of riders struggling up the steep, narrow valley/canyon. The small river tumbled over rapids and miniature water falls below. The trees on the slopes to either side were mainly pine now. They’d been a mixture of conifers and large-leafed deciduous species lower down. Through occasional gaps in the foliage, the caldera walls of Bedrock could still be glimpsed now and then. They seemed to be on a level with the tops of those walls.
Zoop brought up the rear of the party. Then, Olmer, and DeWiess. Hudson and Coffman rode behind Muñoz, who was behind Pinsky. Nohfa rode behind Zunta, at the front, immediately ahead of Booker. Sandwiched right in the middle, between Lumfa and Krilno, traveled Bunzo. It was obvious that the witch doctor was being monitored. Nobody wanted him to slip away into the surrounding forest.
“So.” Pinsky asked. “How far ahead is this mountain place we’re going?”
Muñoz spoke up. “Zunta mentioned that we’ll be spending the night in a secure spot, then continuing on in the morning.”
It annoyed Booker that Muñoz hadn’t communicated this detail to him before now. It annoyed him even more that he hadn’t thought to ask about the overnight arrangements. That was the type of thing he was supposed to know, and it’s slipped his mind to ask, in all of the excitement.
Booker eyed the position of the sun. “How far ahead is this spot? It’s going to be dark before all that long.”
“I’m not exactly sure.” Muñoz admitted. “There’s apparently a longer, easier path farther downstream of the river running by Bedrock. But we lost time at the ford, so Zunta is leading us right over this mountain, instead of around it. To get to the secure spot before dark.”
Booker’s swahldet chose that moment to tumble on a loose boulder, and slid back a few feet before regaining footing. The brief skid put Boker’s heart in his mouth for an instant.
“Good to know.” Booker growled.
“Good girl.” Pinsky patted Tiffany’s neck. She swanned her nock around to regard Pinsky, and crooned an enigmatic reply.
Another half hour of effort brought the party to the top of the slope. A broad plateau opened up before them, scattered clumps of pine trees straggling off into the distance. Taller peaks surrounded the plateau. Some smoked with understated, volcanic malice. One distant cone oozed lava in a fiery, orange river. The lava was too far away to pose a danger, but the fact that it could be observed caused Pinsky some concern.
By unspoken understanding, Lumfa and Krilno ranged out to either flank, eyes scanning the trees for threats. Booker glanced back at Olmer, then at Bunzo. Olmer nodded, and directed the dismounted/mounted scouts to discreetly guard the witch doctor. Carbines were shifted to cover Bunzo. Bullets may not be of much use against dinos. But they’d do an adequate job of perforating the shaman, if need be. Bunzo ignored his de facto prisoner status, with grudging dignity.
After a few minutes Muñoz rode side-by-side with Booker.
“At least we can see if any T-Rexes are nearby in this terrain.” Booker scanned the plateau.
“Zunta told me that any T-Rexes in the area are likely down at the fringes of the klesuf migration, trying to pick off any stragglers.”
It took Booker a moment to remember that klesuf was the local word for triceratops. “What’s the local word for T-Rex, anyway?”
“Well, there is a word for them, their true name. But you’re not supposed to say it out loud.”
“Why not?”
“It’s bad luck to utter an animal’s true name. Especially a big predator. The locals think it draws them.”
“That’s superstitious nonsense.”
Muñoz shrugged. “Yeah. But if you say it, and something bad happens, anything bad, you’ll get the blame for tempting fate.”
Booker was about to scoff. Then he remembered he didn’t have Fred’s steel wrapped around him at the moment. So, maybe he shouldn’t be so arrogant.
“What do they call T-Rexes then? If they can’t call them T-Rexes?”
“They dance around it, verbally. A T-Rex is called the-blue-feathered-one.”
Booker tilted his head. “Other dino’s have blue feathers too.”
“Yeah, but none that they have to avoid naming outright. Those crocks back at the river are called water-shadows. You won’t get Zunta to say the true names of T-Rexes or crocks in anything louder than a whisper. And, he’ll be nervous doing that.”
Booker glanced at the hulking, red-haired giant, puzzled at the fellow being frightened to say an animal’s name. “That’s bizarre.”
“Not really. It’s a feature of the Indo-European languages.”
“The what, now?”
Muñoz grinned. “Thousands of years ago, there was a tribe or ethnic group who lived on the Eurasian steppes north of the Black Sea. And they migrated, west into Europe and south into the Indian subcontinent. The language they spoke is the mother tongue for almost all of the languages spoken in Europe and India today. Everything from English to Latin, to Sanskrit evolved from it. linguists call the original language proto-Indo-European.”
“And the locals here speak this proto lingo?”
“Well, something close to it, as far as I can tell. It’s a dead language. Has been for thousands of years. That’s how I picked up the local language so quickly.”
“Where did you learn to speak this proto-eese?”
“Uh, I didn’t actually. Proto-Indo-European is reconstructed. That is, linguists applied what thy know about how languages evolve, and rewound that to come up with what they think proto sounds like. Up to now, it’s all been an academic exercise. One of the instructors I had back at the Army Language School was nuts about this subject. I guess I picked up a lot of it from him.”
“Good thing you did.” Booker said. “At least we can talk to them.”
“Hah! You know, in all of the rush to put this op together, I completely forgot to mention the language origin detail in the hurry-up debrief we did.”
Booker rode in silence for a minute. “How long ago was this proto spoken, as a language?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Linguists argue about that type of thing. Maybe five thousand or three thousand BC.”
Booker whistled, softly. “So, maybe these people have been here for five thousand or seven thousand years.”
“I... I guess that would be the case. Wow! How is that possible?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.” Booker narrowed his eyes. “What’s that?”
Krilno spurred his mount to a run. After a moment a small dino, perhaps the size of a large turkey dashed from behind a pine tree and sprinted away. Krilno held his lance with both hands, lowering the weapon to bear upon his prey. He leaned forward and deftly impaled the animal, twisting the lance shaft expertly pinning the kill to the earth as his charge took him past the squalling small dino.
“Wow!” Pinsky gasped. “That was amazing.”
Zunta shouted triumphantly. A call that was taken up by the other locals, except for Bunzo. Krilno slid to the ground, and dispatched the dying animal with a quick slash of a flint knife across its throat. He held the carcass up, grinning and calling something in his language.
“Dinner!” Muñoz translated. “How do you like your famp cooked?”
Booker recognized the species of small dino, apparently called famp, as the same which had nearly had him when he couldn’t bring his machine gun to bear, yesterday. Was that only yesterday. Nohfa had saved him with a machete stroke. The memory of her standing over him astride Fred’s turret top came unbidden to his mind. The wild image stirred something within Booker he’d rather not be there. The woman just wanted a brown brown baby from him, Booker told himself. Nothing more.
After a few minutes to secure the meat to Krilno’s saddle, the group moved on. Within a couple of miles over the relatively flat, tree lined plateau, Booker perceived they were approaching an open area. Passing through a final stand of pines, the party came out at the top of a sheer cliff. Three hundred feet below was a sea. The water stretched to a flat, nautical horizon, the sun almost touching the water.
“Is that an ocean?” Booker asked Muñoz.
“I don’t know. First I’ve seen of this place.” Muñoz inhaled deeply. “Don’t smell any brine. Maybe it’s fresh water, like the great lakes. But then, we are a long ways up.”
Zunta turned to the right, and led along the cliff tops, the setting sun painting the scene in stark, red-orange relief. Within a half-mile, the trail ended abruptly. The cliff turned inland at almost a right angle. Below, a sea-side valley cut across their path.
Booker barely noticed the valley. Dead ahead, at eye level, were trees. Enormous trees. He would’ve called them sequoias. But these trees towered over the cliff top. Which meant that the trees were at least three hundred feet tall, plus whatever grew above the cliff top. Booker leaned back, and looked up. And up. How tall were these crazy, prehistoric trees? Four hundred, five hundred feet? Did redwoods get that tall? The grove of giants stretched hundreds of yards to left and right along the cliff.
The soldiers gaped at the monstrous trees.
“Holy smoke!” Pinsky marveled. “This alone is worth the trip.”
“I agree with you, for once, Pinsky.” Booker conceded. ‘Get some photos. Other wise, nobody will believe us.”
“Yes sir!” Pinsky reached for the camera.
Nohfa guided her mount up next to Booker. She pointed at the trees. “We...stay here... tonight.”
Booker and Muñoz shared a look.
“Are we camping at the feet of these trees?” Booker asked.
Nohfa laughed, and spoke to Muñoz. Muñoz appeared puzzled. “She said we’ll see.”
Zoop slid off of his mount, and pulled a long coil of thin rope from his saddle. He laughed and said something, then strode to the edge of the cliff. Zoop eyed the branches of the nearest giant tree. Which grew within a dozen yards of the cliff top, maybe twenty feet higher. Zoop paid out the weighted end of the rope, spinning it around his head, feet braced, arm swinging the rope faster and faster. With a snap, he loosed the rope, which sailed across the gap and wrapped around a horizontal branch about a foot in diameter.
Zoop pulled at the rope, testing its purchase. Before Booker could wonder what was going to happen, the tribesman leaped off the edge. He swung across and found purchase on another, lower branch. Everyone was watching.
“What the heck is he doing?” Pinsky muttered.
Zoop clambered up onto the top of the limb, and ran lightly along it toward the trunk of the big tree. He noticed the soldiers watching, and smirked mischievously. He windmilled his arms, shrieking comically and acting as though he’d lost his balance. A few of the soldiers cried out.
Zoop cackled at the reaction. Zunta shouted at the man, probably the equivalent of. Stop crewing around before you fall for real!”
Zoop sighed, and moved out of sight amid the dense foliage. A couple of minutes passed, then the man appeared again, dragging a thick rope over one shoulder. The rope ran back toward the trunk. Retrieving the thinner rope he swung over on, then made it fast to the larger rope. Repeating the spinning toss, Zoop threw the thin rope back, where Zunta caught the weighted end, and tied it securely to his saddle horn.
Booker watched this procedure, wondering what it was all for.
Zunta spurred his swahldet away from the cliff edge, drawing the thick rope across the gap. He then pulled around a thick tree on the cliff top, and kept going. There was a rustling sound from the giant trees. Booker looked back in time to see a stout, flat wooden bridge pivot across the gap, and thud onto the soil of the clifftop.
“Holy crap!” Pinsky said. “It’s a stone-age drawbridge!”
END.
Find the rest of the Containment Protocol tale here: https://raytabler.substack.com/s/containment-protocol-serial
Part 1 (the beginning), ... Part 20 (last episode), Part 22
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Another fun installment. What happens next?
Jungle rope bridge over a massive drop. What could possibly go wrong in this scenario?
Proto Indo European language? Ok now I have a theory about this strange land…