Free Blue Hills by Steve Shilstone Page A

more magnificent introduction. It delivered to me the complete and undivided attention of the snaves. Tier on tier of ‘em, barely wriggling the tips of their tentacles, they stared at me with eyes wide unblinking. I allowed the silence to give weight to the moment. I cleared my throat, determined to let my voice bring forth what words it would, stumbling witchly or other.
    â€œTo carry a brick from floor to ceiling, first dip your head in tar,” I began, and a surge of relief flooded through me. Not witch speak. Nonsense, yes, but witch speak, no. And they understood. They cheered and applauded, tentacles slapping benches.
    I spilled out the tale from start to finish like as I had done for the snaves of Annek. In nonsense speak, I went from awakening in stiff silence and discovering dead dry brown stick Jo Bree to frozen bendo dreen to beeketbird to Janellia Spurl to Kar to waterwizards and Falls of Horn grotto and on and on through everything, including Monuments, Labbimist, Charborr Forest and such until I added our visit to the snaves of Annek and brought my speech to a close with the self and same question I’d called out to the red snaves of Annek. That question, “Striped pantaloons?” which meant, “Can you guide us to the witch?”, I uttered this time not as “Striped pantaloons?”, but so such as “Where is the wig paint?” On hearing this so said, a hush fell over the orange snaves fair matching the hush of the red snaves when confronted by the same, but different, question.
    â€œYou asked the question, didn’t you?” hissed Kar.
    I nodded. The snaves began slithering, each tier of ‘em moving in opposition to the tiers above and below ‘em. Faster and faster. So such familiar.
    â€œReady to fall through the funnel?” asked Kar.
    I had no time to tell her yes or no before the stage floor sagged and disappeared under us and we fell away from the roaring laughter of the snaves. In silver blue light down the slick slide we sped, laughing ourselves to helpless. The slope of the slide gentled, leveled, so such even rose. Our sliding slowed, which was a fortune. Why? The tunnel ended abruptly at a flat face of stone.
    â€œHow ...?” said Kar, who’d managed to shift to bendo dreen.
    She didn’t finish her thought. Why? We slid to a stop at a thin dribbling curtain of blue sand in front of a wall of stone.
    â€œIt’s ...,” I began.
    â€œMoving,” finished Kar.
    So such we the both of us realized at the same moment we’d reached the boundary between the first two tiers of the Blue Hills. We saw the knowledge in each the other’s eyes. No words were needed. We waited for the second tier tunnel to pass by that of the first. Such! It appeared. Kar put a hand on my arm to restrain me. I had tensed to leap.
    â€œWait, Bek. It’ll slice us if we jump too late. Wait until it comes back. Then right away we’ll jump through when first we see a sliver of its appearance. Is that ...?” suggested Kar.
    â€œGood, Kar,” I agreed.
    We crouched at the wall face. It moved left, grinding and groaning. Sand dribbled. The wall face paused and began to move right, grinding steadily once again. Poised ready, we waited. Sliver of tunnel widening. We threw ourselves forward through the thin curtain of blue sand.

Chapter Twenty-Eight
    To the Third Tier
    Straight up into the sky I gazed at a small cloud. Sunk in grass, I stretched out flat on my back. Sopping wet chilled I felt, and yet, and yet, a warmth beamed down from the sun. Kar’s grinning yellow green face of a sudden appeared huge close above me and so such blocked my view of the cloud.
    â€œThat was fun, Bek. Too bad you don’t remember it, do you? Here,” she said, waving a moonplum next to her ear.
    I took the ripe blue globe and sat up. Pale blue grass. Lake. And across the lake, the heights of the Charborr Forest. I nibbled at the moonplum, my