Inroads, Evelyn J. Steward [i wanna iguana read aloud .TXT] 📗

Inroads


It was a gig. Isn't that what they called them? A performance! A set piece!
He had the costume. It wasn't much of a costume, but he had to look the part or they would not send him back to learn 'how things used to be'. So he could make a new 'vocation' out of it.
Then there was a different language to learn too. That is what the manual implied!
"Whatcher Gov!" and "Mornin' Mate!" Late 20th century West European. More colloquially - English/London. It is what the text book hinted at. That ancient archive scrupulously preserved from the ruin where it was rescued a few decades after the Unholy War (discovered and rescued by one of our early travellers). They were lucky to have found such a work of art. Most were destroyed. The volume was now treasured as a blueprint of the era.
Its written language contained strange sounds to get his tongue around. References to joint words that meant something else entirely - in vogue (it said) from 20 to 60 turnings previous to his 'set' date. Often quite inarticulate by comparison with current speech techniques, contemporary shortened terms learned over generations. His intent to study this language as part of his Course had proved efficacious (as far as his instructors were concerned). He would need to be fluent if spoken to.
Would they speak to him? Would he be able to understand them? His knowledge was somewhat basic, but then his was a first excursion to this time zone. So far back that no one else was clear on why he chose it!
He had favoured one of the more colourful characterisations in this early time section, (that of a road-sweeper), because he thought the characters were more vibrant than those of later eras. Everyone had travelled back a short way. But in the earlier history, many occupations (that is what they were called then. Nota: Must ask what an occupation was:) Road-sweepers must have been the elite of their day for there were several mentions in the latter chapters (?) of the tramps of the road.
When he was restored to the dimension, he would be tramping the 'road', hefting a trusty yardstick. A Chorlton Wheelie by his side. They had had trouble getting the Brussels sprouts with which to fill the 'wheelie'. In the end, they had to make a rendition based on old prints of the city. It was too large at first, so, in the end it was halved and rammed into the 'wheelie' as far as it would go. His acolyte was helpful in this respect. Jarra would remain and oversee his journey to the past, press the 'return' pad on the console at the given time. He relied on Jarra, but also Jarra would benefit from his research; gain credits.
Once ready, there was nothing for it but for Jarra to scan the co-ordinates.

The journey ended in a blackout. It always did. When he came to, he was in deep shadow. Sounds swirled in the air, drowning his ears. He had come from silence and presumed the journey had affected his hearing in some way. A strange gurgling assaulted his senses. He felt tremendous heat close by. Scrabbling backward, he found a recess in which to hide. This did not feel safe!

"Hey Dad, there's something behind the teapot!"
Huge eyes bore down on his position.
He scrabbled backwards but only succeeded in falling further into the light. The floor was white with criss-crossing lines in a faded colour. It wrinkled as he ran for cover.
“It isn’t a mouse,” screamed a woman. He could actually understand what they were saying.
“I’ll get it,” another yelled. Something huge and pink jousted in his direction. It had extensions that wiggled as it sped towards him.
Petrified, he fumbled for his contact console hidden in his jacket. He jammed his thumb into the recess. His voice was harsh as fear numbed his mind.
"Hit the pad Jarra! Hit the pad!"

© Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. March, 2002.
(Edited May, 2012)
Words 612

Publication Date: 05-09-2012

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