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Author: langbot
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English[en]
“Very well, Captain,” I said. “You’re in charge. I don’t want to have a ten- thousand volt cattle-prod rammed up my arse again. That was absolutely excruciating!” (This, of course, was another lie. No-one had used a cattle-prod on me yet – but the Captain did not know this.) There were three cattle-prods leaning carelessly against the wall on the side of the stage. I pointed to them and fell silent. However, the discontent among the members of the audience was palpable – and audible. The Captain was not so stupid as to ignore the fact that he was rapidly losing the troops’ attention and, along with that, his own credibility. He flashed that creepy smile again. (Yuck!) “Now, now, Mr Zombie’s brother,” said the Captain. (He’d forgotten my name – it was of no importance to him.) “There’s no question of using the cattle- prods on you. You know that, don’t you? Those are just in case your brother gets out of hand.” “Let him speak!” shouted one of the bolder GI’s at the back of the hall. “We want to know what he has to say.” (And thus I had him!) The Captain’s deep sigh was not heard above the general hubbub that had now broken out. “Very well”, he shouted above the din. “I will allow him to take your questions but do remember he is not on our side. He was caught protecting a zombie.” “Caught protecting my only brother!” I corrected, now gaining in confidence. A young GI stepped forward to the microphone, introduced himself (“Private First class Brendan Swooper from Idaho”) and asked: “How come you’re not a zombie yourself when your twin brother is?” The answer to this was obvious to me (I’d not been bitten and David had) but that answer would have been incomplete and so I decided to muddy the waters a little. I guessed that no-one in the hall was in a position to correct me.
Cornish[kw]
“Da lowr, ‘Gapten,” yn-medhav. “An mester osta. Ny vynnav pok-jatel a dheg mil volt bos herdhyes y’m tin unnweyth arta. Diwodhav o an payn na!” (Hemm o gow arall, heb mar. Denvyth re wrussa hwath gul a bok-jatel warnav – mes ny wrug an Kapten y wodhvos.) Yth esa tri fok-jatel ow poesa heb rach erbynn an paros ryb an gwarila. My a boyntyas troha’n tri ha koedha tawesek. Byttegyns, dises yntra’n woslowysi a ylli bos tevys – po ogas – ha klywys. Nyns o an Kapten mar wokki may hylli skonya aswonn koll attendyans an soudoryon ha, gans henna, y grysadewder y honan. Hag ena, y teuth arta an minhwarth skruthus na. (Thukk!) “Do’ way, ‘vester broder zombi,” yn-medh an Kapten. (Ev re ankovsa ow hanow, heb mar – nyns o a vri vyth dhodho.) “Gul pok-jatel warnos jy? Na. Ty a wra godhvos henna, a ny wreta. Yth esons ena rag omwitha yn sempel orth dha vroder, y’n kas bos edhomm dhyn y gontrolya.” “Gas e kewsel!” a armas onan yntra’n hardha soudoryon amerikanek, esedhys yn delergh an hel. “Y fynnyn godhvos pyth eus dhodho leverel.” (Hag, y’n fordh na, my re’n kachsa!) Ny veu klywys hanasans down dhiworth an Kapten drefenn hubbadrylsi re dhallathsa lemmyn. “Da lowr, da lowr,” a armas ev a-ugh an tervans. “My a re kummyas dhodho dhe gemmeres agas govynnow. Byttegyns, gwrewgh perthi kov: nyns yw ev a’gan tu. Kachyes o hag ev gwithys zombi.” “...kachyes hag ev gwithys y vroder - y vroder unnik!” a ewnhis vy, ow tevi ow hardhder. Souder Amerikanek yowynk a gerdhas yn-rag dhe’n mikrogowser hag omgommendya (“Souder keth, kynsa gradh, Brendan Stevyor dhiworth Idaho”) ha govynn: “Prag na dheuthys ha bos zombi dha honan pan dheuth ha bos dha vroder- gevell?” An gorthyp gwir o apert dhymm (ny vien brethys kepar dell via Davydh) mes ny via kowal an gorthyp na – hag ytho my a erviras kemmyska nebes an mater. My a dhesevas nag esa denvyth y’n hel a allsa ow hontradia.