Wake the Dead: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel (Gwen's Ghosts Book 6) by J.R. Rain & H.P. Mallory

Author:J.R. Rain & H.P. Mallory [Rain, J.R. & Mallory, H.P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rain Press
Published: 2023-10-05T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The Tsong Family (Acrobats)

Nothing is ever easy, nor even as easy as it ought to be.

I quickly got the impression that the acrobats had not specifically wanted to talk to me, though I couldn’t be sure. I also got the impression that Bastian had no idea what they wanted to say, and was only guessing that they had anything to say at all.

“They don’t speak English?” I repeated.

“No,” Bastian confirmed. “Not a word.”

“None of them.”

“Not a one. It’s actually quite surprising that they’re here in the circus to begin with.”

“Why is that?”

He shrugged. “How have they conducted contract negotiations? Or just managed to live in this country on a day-to-day basis?”

“Hello.” I introduced myself and was met with blank faces. “Not even that?”

“Not even that,” nodded Bastian. “But I have faith that you will find a way, Gwen, as you always do. Anyway, these are the Tsongs. Lovely family, we enjoyed a drink and a laugh together a few nights ago before all this nasty business went down.”

“You enjoyed a drink and a laugh?” I repeated, frowning as I tried to understand how that could be when neither understood the other.

He nodded. “They didn’t know what I was laughing about, and I didn’t know what they were laughing about, but laughing was had by all as were drinks. They gave me some manner of clear liquor—no idea what it was, but the hangover was spectacular.”

It was something else to like about Bastian that, in contrast to the tired stereotype of the English upper class, he was happy and comfortable in every company and not remotely bigoted or condescending. There was none of the talking loudly and slowly to foreigners which characterizes that stereotype—he would drink with anyone, call any man ‘brother’, as long as they had clear liquor that kicked like a mule.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said to the row of blank faces.

“You’d think they could at least guess from context,” said Petra.

“There must be someone in the circus who speaks their language?” I asked Bastian.

“Why must there be?”

“Well, how else do they ask for a red spotlight or where the bathroom is?”

“I think they just make themselves understood,” said Bastian with a shrug. “From what I can gather, there’s a lot of mime involved.”

I gave the assembled troupe a tentative wave. Instantly the blank expressions were replaced by smiles and I got a round of waves back, accompanied by a polite bow (which I hastily answered) and a chorus of what seemed too long to be ‘hello’ but was presumably a greeting of some sort.

“There we go,” nodded Bastian. “We’re off to a roaring start.”

That relentless optimism was another reason Bastian was an easy companion.

“Where are they from?” I asked. It would be a lot easier to find an interpreter if I could narrow the language down to a country.

“No idea,” answered Bastian. “Asked the same question myself of a few others about the campfire, passing the clear liquor around (it was a good night—most convivial), but no one seems to have any idea where they’re from.

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