The Weekly Muse #32

How Not To Do a Dialect

Last week in our read-through of Chapter Twelve of my Very First Novel, our heroes had defeated the even larger patrol of Tara Raiders, after which they’d realized that the evil Lord Taradash knew about their attempt to find and retrieve the rightful prince from the Lost Island! We rejoin them in progress as they run away from the city of Mirk in their escape from Taradash’s forces….

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­­"Awrite, y'all kin stop runnin' now, Ah thank we're in the cleah,” Dwayne announced. The three kids slumped down on the grass, exhausted after their hard run. Shenan and Alexan were faring better, thanks to their superb physical condition, and Luther had barely broken a sweat, not because he was exceptionally athletic or anything like that, but simply because he had been able to fly most of the way, which was a lot easier than walking, even if he had to fly low and keep a constant lookout for trees and low branches.

“Well, what now?” asked Conrad. “If we can’t go to Mirk, how are we going to get a boat ride down the Sapphire River?”

“We could just follow the river on shore,” Sean suggested. “That way we wouldn’t have to get a boat. We could just follow the river on foot!”

“Excuse me, but haven't we already discussed this?” Alexan asked. “If I have to go on this quest of yours, I am not walking, if I can help it. If there is any possible way that we can get ourselves a good craft, than we must get one. If not, than I refuse to walk a single inch further. Fm afraid I must insist on it.”  

"Well, that's all very well and good, but that still brings us back to my question. How are we supposed to get a boat?" Conrad stated bluntly.

There was a moment's pause, then a thick, deep voice spoke out. of the bushes nearby. "Burrrrrrr, if yurr wurrnted a gurrd crrrrurrft, thurrn oi surrrpose oi currd perrrrvoide yurr wurrth wurrn, urrrrr!"

The seven companions started with surprise. Dwayne and Shenan were immediately on their feet, weapons ready. "Who's there? Show yourself!" Shenan called out fearlessly.

The bushes rustled for a moment, than out popped a short, husky, dark-furred beaver, with the wide, flat tail and big yellow-orange teeth typical of his kind. "Burrrrrr, oi urrn't a thrurt to yurrrrr, surrrrs, and murrrrm," making a polite bow to Lucy, "Oi’m beurrr cullered, urrrrr, Burrtail. Anywurr, urrrrr, oi wurrs purssin boi, urnd oi hurrd yurr wurrnted a bourrt, so oi thourrt oi currd gurrve yurr wurrn, urrrrrrr," The beaver said this in the broad, rustic dialect common to Sirian beavers. He appeared friendly, and when he had finished speaking, he stepped back and patiently waited while the seven questors discussed his offer.

"Do you think he's a good beaver?" Conrad asked. "I mean, he looks okay, but we kinda need to be sure, right?"

“Ah thank he's okay," Dwayne assured them. "Ah've met a lotta beavahs and Ah've nevah met one who wuzn't fer Lawrence,"

"Yes, according to my extensive research, the members of the Castor cartadensis species were very allegiant to King Lawrence, and after Lord Taradash took over, many of them publicly expressed their disapproval. Taradash has oft expressed his dislike. of the beavers, so, on the whole, l believe that it would not be hazardous for us to have confidence in this Sirian." Luther stated.

"Um, that's all right and everything, but, um, could you maybe translate for my what it said?" Lucy asked. "Cause I didn't understand a word."

“Whah, that's aisah!” Dwayne exclaimed. "All he sehd wuz that he wuzn't an enemah to us. He sehs his name is Burrtail, an' he wuz passin' bah and heard weh naided boat, an' he thought of one 'e could give us. Now, ain’t that nahce?”

The beaver, who had been listening to the conversation, blushed with pleasure mid shuffled his footpaws in the ground. "Burrrrrurrrrr, ur’m jurrst a purrr beavurrrr, urt beeuur moi dutyurrrr turr hurrlp purr trrurvurlurrrs in needur urv bourrt. Urrrr, dur yurr wurnt turr seeur yurnder bourrt naowurr?"

This time Shenan translated. Most Sirians could easily understand the thick beaver dialect, being around it most of their lives. "He asks if we want to see the good craft,-"

“Sure!” Conrad replied, "We'd love to see it!"

They followed Burrtail farther down the bank to a small sidestream, which branched off from the Sapphire River. Moored in the crystal-clear water of the sidestream was a small boat, beautifully crafted and wonderfully decorated. The boat had a little mast and sail, a short piece of wood at the stern that served as a tiller, and several flat wooden seats. It was not an immensely large vessel, but it was adequate for the seven companions.

Sean liked the little vessel so much, he immediately forgot he had ever suggested walking to the Southern Forest. "This'll be great!" he exclaimed happily, admiring the neatly carved designs on the sides of the vessel. "Oh, what are all these little markings on the front here?" he asked, pointing to several curious scratches on the sides that vaguely resembled Viking runes.

"Urrrrrr," Burrtail answered, "thurrs scrurrtchins beurrr the nurrm of thurr bourt. It beurrr cullered Clurrstrurrm. Oi nurrmed it murself, oi did, urrrr."

"He says those scratchings are the boat's name," Shenan translated, although the three kids were beginning to pick up the odd dialect. "It's called Clearstream„ and he said he named it himself.”

"Cool name," Conrad said. "So, how much do you want for it?"

Burrtail looked a little uncomfortable. "Burrrrurrrrr, b'furr oi turrl yurrr, urrr, wudd yurr murnd turrlin oi whurrt beurr durrin wurr hurr?"

Conrad looked at the others. Dwayne gave a slight nod. Conrad decided that he would trust Dwayne's judgment, He told Burrtail everything about the quest. Bun-tail's eyes went wide. "Burrrrrrr! Urz it rurlly true, surrz? And murm? Urr yurr rurrlly surrchin furr the lurrst urrland? Wurll.yurr rurrly fourrnd thurrr prurrnce?”

"Yes," Lucy said. "It's true. That's why we need a boat, so we can follow the Sapphire River to the Lost Island!”

Burrtail's homely face fit up with joy. "Urrrrrr! Urn thurrt currze, urrrr, yurr currn hurve thurr bourrt furr freeurr! Oi urways wurrnted to seeurr thurr lurrst prurrnce furrnd agurn, urnd thurt grurrt vurrmint lurrrd Turradursh durrfeaturred! Yurr currn turrk thurrr bourrt, urnd furrnd thurr urriand urs qurrck urs yurr currn!"

The seven thanked him profusely, and Conrad offered him some of their provisions. Eventually they prevailed upon the simple beaver to accept some of their supplies, but only as a friendly gift. Burrtail adamantly maintained that he would accept nothing as payment for the Clearstream.

 The seven companions loaded up their new boat with their supplies and weapons. As they boarded, Dwayne told Burrtail, “Now, ya know not ta tell anahwun ya sold us this boat, raht?”

Burrtail nodded emphatically. “Burrr, oi’d nurrvurr turrl urnurrwurrn urburrt yurrr. Oi jurrst say, urrrr, the Clurrstruurm gurrt lurrst urn the rivurrr, burr!”

Alexan unfurled the small sail, Shenan readied the tiller, and the others took light oars and prepared to paddle. As the seven questors sailed away, they waved goodbye to the kind beaver. Burrtail smacked his tail on the ground, producing a thumping noise in farewell. He waved his paws and called out, “Burrrrrr, surf jurrrneyurs turr yurrrr! And turrrk currr urv Clurrrsturrrm, shurr wurrr ur gurrrd bourrrt, urrrrr!”

In the center of the city of Mirk, there was a palatial building that towered over all the rest. It was made of white marble, with several high towers and wide, ornate windows. This building was the Town Hall of Mirk. It was used as the council chambers for Mirk’s Council of Elders, a group of wise Sirians who governed the city.

Deep in the heart of the budding, an ancient, decrepit wooden door opened into a dark stairwell. The dingy stairwell led down, down, deep into the depths of the Town Hall until it reached a heavy stone door. Beyond this lay a dismal room, faintly lit up by a few guttering torches,  and heavy with a thick, musty smell of old age. Another stone door in the opposite wall opened up into a wide, dimly lighted corridor, lined with solid metal doors, with barred apertures set in the top. This was the dungeon of the Town Hall of Mirk.

In the dismal room just beyond the stairwell, the commander of the Tara Raider company was being questioned thoroughly by Rakkla, the Fox Captain. The commander had told the fox everything he knew about the bungled ambush, even Barty's desertion. He had tried to keep concealed the fact that he had strongly advised the former patrol officer to get away, but after over an hour of hard interrogation, the commander had finally confessed.

Rakkla had chastised the unfortunate commander severely for letting Barty get away. Now he turned from the commander in disgust. Ile barked a harsh order at a guard standing by the stairwell door. “Take this pitiful wretch and throw him into the dungeon. I never want to see his miserable face again."

The former Tara Raider commander was dragged away, screaming and crying hysterically for mercy, forgetting that he had shown no mercy to any of the Sirian captives he himself had imprisoned.

Rakkla called another guard, “Go! Find Lieutenant Skentu. Tell him to report to me here, immediately!"

Shortly after, Skentu, a thin weasel, slipped into the interrogation room. He could not suppress a faint shudder as he stood before the Fox Captain. Rakkla lost no time in pouring forth a stream of orders, "Post guards on the banks of the Sapphire River. I want every single inch between here and the Southern Forest watched, so that a gnat could not get through without your knowing it. Also, take as many soldiers as you need and scour thoroughly the land around the river. See if you can root out some beavers and other Sirians who live near water. They may have information about those seven rebels. Also, I want seven light ships, big enough to carry fifty Raiders and twoscore Feline Legionnaires down the Sapphire. I want them fully supplied and provisioned, and I want them ready for travel by dawn tomorrow. Round up enough beavers for seven full crews. There is to be no argument. If any resist, you know what to do.” Skentu saluted, than marched out of the interrogation room to complete his tasks.

The sidestream in which the Clearstream had been moored flowed onward for about half a mile before it opened out into a small pond. On the other side of the pond, a dam had been build of sticks, branches and rocks, held together by layers of mud and earth. Beyond the dam, a dried-up streambed ran on towards the east.

On the top of the dam was built a little wooden hut, made of the same materials as the darn. A thin curl of smoke wafted up into the pale blue sky. Just inside the hut, Burrtail the beaver was busily packing his last few possessions into a rough burlap sack "Burrrrrr, oi’m nurrrt sturrrin urround heurrr urnymurrr. Oi dourrrn’t wurrnt turrr heurrrr, when lurrrd Turradursh currrrms, burrrr no!”

The simple beaver looked fondly around at his little home. He snuffled, and wiped a rough paw across his eyes. "Urrrrr, gurrrboi, urrrrld homurrr, oi hurrp thurrm Turra Rurrdurrs dourrrn’t murrs yurr urrp turr murrrch, burrrrrr!” He turned,walked outside, made his way across the dam, and set off westward, towards the Twin Islands of Sirilan, where he knew a large colony of beavers had settled, safe from Lord Taradash’s evil whims. "Urrrrr, oi’m gurm turr gurrrt ourrrt urv Surrilurrrn urrntil thurrs surrvurn furrnd thurr lurrst prurrnce, burrrrrrurrrr!”

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2024 me’s notes: Well. Yes. That was Burrtail.

So I grew up reading Redwall, as you’ve probably realized by now, and of course every Redwall fan loves the moles, and I suppose my young novel-writing self thought ‘let’s take the moles and ratchet that up to eleven!’ except with a beaver! If this week’s part of the story is incomprehensible to you, dear reader, or if it comes off like my story has suddenly been invaded by the Swedish Chef, my apologies once again.

Looking back, I see that I apparently neglected the difference between than and then, and even worse, that I forwent the Oxford comma in describing the dam. Well, one lives and learns. What I learn from this is if I ever try to write a sentient animal species again, it’s probably not going to be beavers.

Next week, our heroes go sailing, and we meet mice! If you thought I was finished borrowing from Redwall, you, my friend, underestimated my eager young writer self.

Until next time,

Michael