English/Methanian/Barnyardian Translation (for Evelyn dear Fender)

Language is a method of communication, either spoken or written, consisting of the use of words in an agreed upon structure.

A group of scholarly Englishmen once got together and agreed that a fury little creature that wags its tail and goes “arf, arf!” is a dog. “From henceforth,” one of the esteemed Englishmen had said, “everyone must call this critter a dog.”

A group of scholarly Frenchmen wrongly agreed that a dog should be called a “chien.” Not even close! A chien, as we all know, is that bony structure below our mouths. And here England and France, while right next door to one another, could not agree on a clear and simple word such as dog.

On the planet, Bufadu, everyone happily speaks the same language, which they call “language.” There has never been but one, or so the people of Fraidland have always assumed. They also assumed they were the only people on the planet, just as the people living on the mythological continent of Methania, on the opposite side of Bufadu, believed.

Like Britain and France, two unique languages evolved on the two oblivious land masses of Bufadu. But by some outrageous chance, the two continents came up with precisely the same vocabulary, the exact same set of words. However, a group of scholarly Methanians once got together and agreed that a wooden vessel that floats upon water should be called a “town.” So, what became of the word, “boat?” Boat, as defined in the Methanian dictionary is: a greater or additional amount or degree. What we here on Earth might refer to as “more.”

When creating Fender’s language (Methanian) I swapped words based upon their length (rhythm and aesthetics), with little or no regard to their meaning. I figured the concept was already bordering on too complicated. Taking meaning into account added unnecessary complications.

I had to create a dictionary with two sets of translations, based on who is speaking. Fender sees a boat; he says, “town.” When Evelyn says the word, boat, Fender hears, “more.”

When Fender sees a face, he says, “wind.” When Evelyn uses the word, face, Fender hears “high.” Face means: of great vertical extent… or what Evelyn might refer to as “high.”

Can you see the logic behind my using two different translations for the same word? If you are one of those who require congruency and order in your gibberish, I am providing you the use of my translator. CLICK HERE: alien dictionary

Evelyn dear Fender

(From chapter 17 – Evelyn meets Bobo while trying to enjoy her first sunset in no-man’s land.)

The sun is low off the bow, nearly touching the sea. Behind me, Armoon is up forty-five degrees from the horizon. Opbliss, I believe, will be appearing a little later. I kick back, make myself comfortable, and watch as the sun is absorbed by the sea. As it sinks and its light begins to fade, so does the breeze. Pinks, yellows, violets and greens, dance about on the water like blobs of paint on a dark, undulating canvas.

My god, here I am! Definitely an occasion for a toast.

I go below, fling open a cabinet door, dig through a mountain of canned artichokes, find the bottle of Blue Mountain at the back corner, pour myself a healthy shot, and then return above. Stepping up to the bow, I hold my glass straight out to the west, where a fingernail of pink marks the spot I last saw the sun.

“Methania,” I shout, “behold your discoverer!”

I take a sip—a bit more than I should’ve. It burns. I hold it, waiting for the fire to die, but it only grows in intensity. My eyes water. I swallow, then choke and cough as the flames spread up and down my insides.

“Not bad,” I whisper through a scorched gasp. “Not bad at all.”

It’s not so much because I made it this far that I want to honor myself tonight. No—making it this far?—anyone with a boat of any kind could’ve done this. I’m aware I still have the option of turning back, as I was seriously tempted to do this morning. I want to honor myself because I’m now dead certain I’m not turning back.

Holding my glass out at arm’s length, I say, “To Captain Kick-butt Hatfield!” then spin around at a noise behind me—whiskey sloshes from my glass. A dark creature, like a giant spider, skitters across the transom gunwale. I freeze. The thing leaps for the aft stay, swings from there to the main boom, then scrambles up the mast. It’s up there over my head, swinging its shoulders and little black head from side to side, barking.

“A monkey! Shit! A bloody monkey!” I wave a hand about and bark back, “Git! Scram! Get off my boat!” It then occurs to me the beast has no place to scram to. The stupid thing must’ve snuck onboard while I was docked to that dead tree last night. “Jimmy Frakkin’ Crust! Now what?”

It cusses me—a threatening string of chatter and short sharp barks.

Do I capture it and dump it overboard? How am I going to accomplish that? What if it bites? What if it’s poisonous… or diseased?

“Frackin’ crapola!”

I could shoot it. Yes, with the flare pistol. But suppose I hit it and it explodes into flames—and catches the boat on fire?

The smelly little beast chatters on, senselessly.

“This is my boat, buddy! You don’t cuss me on my boat!” I shake a finger at the monkey. “And you don’t touch my crackers!”

It quiets.

I cannot kill a monkey, but I will not have it in the cabin eating my food and making a mess. I slide by, keeping an eye on it, close the cabin door, then take a seat on the stern bench. What the crump am I going to do with that thing? Return it to its home? It would cost me two days’ time and two days’ rations. No, I’m not doing that. The stupid critter made a bad decision, for which I am in no way responsible.