The Gaming Outpost

In the square room, surrounded by hundreds of non-singing songsters, you face the soft-voiced old man who speaks English to you by way of miracle he claims. Its enough to have your mouth open, stop, close, open, and stop again.

Another man begins speaking, and you sense an authority about him. Everyone turns to listen to this fellow with the rusty beard on the far side of the auditorium. With the room’s excellent acoustics, you can hear the words very clear, but again the language means nought to you.

But the soft-voiced man who comes into the open space with you and the big-bellied song leader, perhaps that is the significance of his bright, blue belt?…this ‘friend’ serves as a translator.

Ute mas sheik…

“Let me speak the words I hear. The word of the Lord to you.”

The hair on the back of your neck rises, and suddenly you realize this man is claiming to be a direct conduit for God to you. Is that even possible? Is it not better for God to speak to each man in his heart?

“I do as I will, Walker, Verser, Man of Two Lives. If in one life I spoke in a still, small voice, and in another I command, what is that to you?”

In other words, who are you little punk to tell me how to run my shop?

Of course, this all could be a fake. A guy with a lot of charisma, and some very moving and exceptionally loud music to put you in the mood might do something you think. You brace yourself for some high-flown rhetoric that amounted to ‘give the church all your cash’.

The man with the beard laughed. And your translater raised an eyebrow.

“You are hard, but I am harder still. Listen to the song of the words, and hear them as if spoken by Scotty imitation McCoy.” The translater blinked and everyone stared at the rusty bearded man who threw up his hands in bafflement, and smiled and sat down. A rustle ran through the crowd.

This was not what you expected. It was almost as if your conversationalist were responding to what you were thinking you decide as the crowd rests their eyes on you with the patient look you sneer, of cows. That was ridiculous, but well, they did have psionic receiving devices. Perhaps you could program one to do a language…

Aargh. You slap the side of your head. Although an interesting idea, that was not what the clue meant.

Speak as Scotty imitating McCoy. Obviously a Star Trek reference. Experimentally, you hum a few bits of the Star Trek theme song which should be recognizable to nearly everyone in your home world. No response except for nods that seemed to say it was a pleasant music line, but what praise song should they sing to the tune of it?

Song of the words? You gesture to the man next to you to speak, and don’t listen to the words as such, but to the music of them.

And then you hear it.

A Scottish brogue with a deep Southern drawl laid right over the top of it in a hideous amalgram of accents with something else down below.

You remember a friend of yours moving South, and how he had come back changed. He had talked of no more snow, and laughed when his old friends hhad asked him about the whitesheeted Klan, and described his house which was twice as large as the one he had rented up North, but with half the price. His only complaint had been the drawl.

“It took me a good solid month before I could understand the waitresses.”

“So you starved for a month?” A girl had asked him.

He grinned back and mimed pointing at a menu.

“Its why Southerners sneer at Yankees.” He explained with a grin. “Completely rational. Its a hatred of mimes which is a feature of all civilized cultures.”

You smiled in distant memory of his jokes, and listened more. With a feelling of relief, you thought you understood at least one word in thirty now.

You gave everyone a thumbs up and an exzaggerated smile which had them uncertainly attempting to copy your ‘thumbs up’ as if it were a new symbol.

Still a long way to go on the language barrier you decide, but then they sweep up to you and begin hugging you.