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The Return of The Triboldies

Part 5

By Dennis List

I think that I am suffering from a fatal and incurable illness, and nobody dares tell me. Perhaps one of the magicians—say Cantilever—recognized my symptoms and took aside all who know me, telling them, making them promise to say nothing to me. I might ask them if it were so. Guilty astonishment would then be shown on their faces and I would know. But they would refuse vehemently to admit to me that I had this disease ... the Splinge, or whatever it may be. Then I should be worried. Therefore I shall not ask, but live in continual dread until I am about to succumb. Perhaps I shall then be forgiven by my many enemies, such as that disgusting old woman Olla Podrida.

This morning I rose at daybreak and rode an onageribex to the summit of this slippery mountain. I peered over the top. Immediately I noticed the vivid green of the valley below. I was obliged to shield my eyes from this bright colour. Blinded, I staggered back to the encampment and told Sparadrap of my discovery. He was as amazed as I and rushed up the hill to see what I had seen.

"My good fellow," he began. "This is truly a wonderful discovery for all of our people." I am overwhelmed "by pleasure in finding such hospitable surroundings at "such a close quarter. I must inform you that ancient "records had led me to suspect we were approaching the "truly notorious valley of Foreboding in which "nothing but blackness grows; however I am exceedingly "sorrowful to inform you that your wishes and hopes may "not be a fully satified as you might wish... . It is "known from the ancient writings that our homeland is "indeed situated in a valley, but is no a peninsula jutting "into a gigantic inland sea."

I deeply understood his true concern and told him gently that I had never for a moment thought that such a close valley could be our homeland; besides, I, too, have not only read but devoutly studied the chronicles of which he spoke. So the camp has risen, and we are now making our way down the verdant slopes of the mountain.

The she-magician, Phenobarbara, has met some people with whom she is able to converse; they speak a tongue known only to themselves and her, Ytinutroppo. Hence they are delighted to see us. As for myself, I refuse to speak their barbarously simple language, fit only for a child, so I am assured. Some of our people, pleased to be made so welcome, are arranging a festival for us. Scintillate and Titillate, in particular, labour under the impression that we have already attained our ancestral home. Others of us have pointed out to them that this valley does not answer to the descriptions in the ancient chronicles (which many have read), but they point eastwards at the vertical black cliffs at the opposite end of the valley, saying. We can travel no further eastward, for this must be the end of the world. Specious argument! I do not think we should stop here more than a year.

A festival was held last night, and was an enormous success among the Troppoes, as they call themselves. They laughed uproariously at childish devices such as fast-growing plants A group of exhibitionistic magicians grew a tree in ten minutes. These people regard as a tremendous joke what is in fact a valuable agricultural technique. They fail to understand the fundamentally serious nature of our people.

I am yet further confirmed in my opinion that the 'Troppoes" are deficient in sobriety. This afternoon as I was taking a stroll through their luscious fields I met two of them. The instant that we passed, they fell to the ground, convulsed with laughter. Impolite fellows! 1 thought, and have since spoken of the matter to Sparadrap. He told me that unfortunate incidents such as these have happened to many of us. It seems to be our apparel that provokes such merriment. I fail to see why: surely, if they find our garb ludicrous then we must find theirs the same, and laugh both at each other. That only they laugh proves that it is themselves who are ludicrous. On the other hand, they are certainly hospitable. They continue to shower us with provender. They have even offered us strange clothes of the type that they wear. I am sad to report that some among our numbers have been so foolish as to accept this alien clothing. It is certainly not practical, though it may appear so at first sight, and to an untutored eye.

I have discussed with several of our elders, including Sparadrap, on the matter of preservingsom e record of the customs and values of this most curious people, for the benefit of posterity. Unfortunately the consensus was that this responsibility does not fall upon us. Why should we record the customs of others? Sparadrap argued. Surely it is up to each to make record of his own. This seems to me a regrettable point of view.

I have had words with Phenobarbara concerning the preservation of identity of the Troppoes and their language. She has informed me that they have no form at all of written language. Shameful! I shall put my case with renewed vigour before Sparadrap. If they have no form of writing, how can they be expected to preserve their history? Phenobarbara tells me that they do so by means of songs, which are taught by one generation to the next. A most unreliable method What if one generation forgets a song? ... Years of history are lost.

I put the matter to Sparadrap; he laughed outright I am most affronted! I am seriously considering resignation from my post as Official Chronicler.

There is to be a festival held by the "Troppoes" next week. They are to sing all their songs to, presenting their history in allegorical form. Sparadrap has suggested that this festival be arranged; be is attempting to show me that the verbal method of preservation of history is entirely adequate.

I have heard a rumour of miscegenation. This afternoon I was speaking with Nenuphar, as is my wont. I asked him a riddle: If there are more trees in the world than there are leaves on any one tree, does it follow that there must be at least two trees with the same number of leaves? An ancient riddle, but he solved it unhesitatingly-Then I asked him the one about the onion; he solved that in a few seconds. Then I asked him where Peccadillo and Cumulonimbus have been during the last few days. Nobody knows, he replied; they were Last seen two days ago disappearing into a thicket with two Troppo maidens. This will never do! We must at all costs preserve our common identity. I spoke of the matter to Sparadrap; he was amused. Sometimes I suspect him of senility.