Broken English
There is a new Sheriff in the Area, is the going word.
Bill's heard of them, bits and pieces acquired secondhand. Notoriety is possible now where it wasn't mere decades ago, and the newcomers like to gossip. Ships coming from the Continent have become floating banquets; your choice of crewman, staff, first class, third class. White Russian for dessert, Slav for a chewy early morning snack. With most of Europe still in recovery, everyone wants a piece of America.
The lovely blonde vampire in the lilac sheath, standing beside the Northman with her arms folded across her chest, turns her head. 'Compton,' she says, flatly, to her sire, accent a haughty British. And on the tail of that introduction, a string of words in a foreign language. Somewhere in the middle of it, Bill catches another name: Louisiana.
Eric the Viking barely looks at Bill. He replies with equal impenetrability, pausing at the end of each sentence. The female dutifully translates:
'Pamela tells me, Mister Compton, that you are originally from this part of the Americas,' she says. 'That is not something you can say for many of us now. I hope I can rely on your friendship and local expertise while we're settling in,' Pamela finishes, sounding non too enthused herself at the idea.
There are elders, supposedly, who stubbornly refuse to learn vulgate. They cling to the dying tongues of fallen empires, wrecked civilisations, but most of them never rise to positions of authority among the free.
Bill wonders where all this is going. He says, 'Of course, Sheriff -'
'Call me Eric, please.' His English is perfect. The Northman's light-coloured eyes are suddenly trained on Bill, their focus hypnotic. Pitiless, so the stories say. Bill thinks for a moment that this must be what it feels like to be the prey of some impulsive, unpredictable creature that likes to play.
THE END
24 September 2009