Being Dead Part Four

Is this prehistory?

I needed to say something, to maybe introduce myself to the hairy stranger who gave the impression of being comfortable with the rough land where we were, and do it before he decided there was something wrong with me, so in my head I formulated the sentence hi there, I’m called Peter and someone just shot me…

But when I came to utter the words what sounded like complete gibberish came out of my mouth. And it wasn’t just any old gibberish either, but contained a disproportionate number of consonants that my mouth should have struggled producing, but for some reason didn’t.

“He’s rather special, Peter,” whispered Megan who was lying on the rough earth right next to me and gazing at his leather skirt, and there were two things that confused me about her simple sentence. One was her words sounded totally alien to me and the second was they made perfect sense to me. It was as if she was speaking in a language I had no knowledge of whatsoever but some kind of automatic instant translation device was making those words into complete sense when I heard them.

Then Cro Magnon or whatever his name was chose to join in the conversation.

“I say old fellow, where have you and your bird here come from out of the blue?”

I understand his guttural grunting to, and without pausing I replied with the words in my head which were “an evil old friend shot us… I’m sorry if we’re in the way…” which he nodded at as I spoke, clearly understanding me.

And there began a conversation I can’t even begin to relate because the sense of what was being said was clear as day but the sounds that the three of us made whilst speaking were not. Maybe, I wondered, we were reading the thoughts behind the words and the sounds of actual speech had become redundant

“Ggryppngdo,” he said with a smile, along with another string of unpronounceable words, and I heard “Old boy, welcome then and would you like a wee dram to warm your cockles…? And what shall I call you? I mean, you’re not really called old boy are you? That would be too daft for words!”

So I introduced myself as Peter and the love of my life as Megan, and he helped us to our feet more courteously than a twenty-first century politician out for my vote would have when the polls told against him..

“Peter and Megan,” he murmured, though the words sounded nothing like either Peter or Megan, “unusual names, old thing, but quite charming. Tell me: are you from beyond yon mountains?” And he indicated the hazy purple shape of a distant mountain range which was almost hidden in the mists.

“We come from another world,” I told him, simplifying what was much too complex for my own inadequate understanding, and I was quite certain his too.

“Ah, Peter, I have heard of such places,” he nodded, “now come with me, my new friends, and we will toast your arrival from beyond the stars!”

We had little choice. True, there was nothing threatening about his invitation, but, looking around, there was nobody else in sight. The land around was bland and clearly inhospitable, and didn’t seem to offer either Megan or myself much of an alternative. So I glanced at Megan and muttered that we’d best follow Cro (that was my name for him, based on memories of pre-history lessons from my school days) to wherever he wanted to lead us, and she smiled her agreement.

The terrain was far from easy and Cro made it look a great deal easier than it really was, but then he was a burly and well built individual and clearly knew the dodgy landscape quite well. So whilst he strode along, his short leather skirt (an animal hide by the look of it, but one that had received very little in the way of fashioning) swaying and revealing that he wore absolutely nothing against his skin under it. I would barely have noticed, but Megan’s eyes were obviously quite attracted to his every movement.

It might have been a mile of struggling over the rocky terrain when we eventually saw out destination ahead.

At first I had hoped that he lived in a cave because there’s something quite romantic to me of life in the bowels of the Earth, but he was heading for what looked like a lean-to affair resting against quite a low cliff. And, as if to confirm that was the kind of place he lived in, there were three or four others, one of them with a female sitting outside fussing over a young child’s hair, gently moving her fingers though it while the child seemed to sleep on her lap.

Cro saw me looking at that particular domestic scene and grinned, showing remarkably well kept teeth.

“That is Sallikins,” he told me, “a sweet young woman with good legs, but the child, as you can see, has nits.”

Then we arrived at the lean-to affair that he had obviously been making for.

“Be quiet, old thing, Peter,” he murmured. “Emmakins is heavy with child and needs her rest, the precious woman…”

He pushed a hanging drape to one side. It was quite dark the other side of it, and clearly comfortably furnished. Cro led the way past a few obstacles, furniture I was to discover when my eyes became accustomed to the near darkness, but not the sort availabke from shops where I came from.

Then he leaned over one of them and gently touched the woman lying on it, stroking her hair with a gentility that contrasted with his apparent strength.

“Emmakins, my angel,” he whispered, and a rustle told us that whoever was lying there had stirred.

“What is it?” asked a weary female voice, and the woman lying there sat up and stared for a moment at us.

“There’s no need to wake yourself, precious, but we have guests, my honey,” he said quietly. “They are from beyond the far reaches of the sky, which means they are dead. We must treat them, darling, with true affection and hear their story before any decisions are made…”

© Peter Rogerson, 26.08.24

xxx