Blue Hills by Steve Shilstone

silver blue stairs. While I struggled to know what I was doing, Kar got to her feet.
    â€œAll right, strange Bek, you got us in here, whatever here is,” she said. “Did you see what I saw? Red tentacle? Do you think it might be a garl?”
    Not trusting my mouth, I nodded yes.
    â€œI’ve always liked silver blue light the few times I’ve been bathed in it. Enchanting. Magical. So such. That garl probably wants us to go down the stairs, don’t you think?” mused Kar.
    I nodded yes and stood. I shrugged. Kar shrugged. We descended the stairs. There were a lot of ‘em and they plunged deep down until they made a turn which led us into a great cavern arena. Such was amazingly so. Silver blue light. Tiers of benches rose in circles around a so said sort of a stage. And the benches teemed with babbling red tentacled, one-eyed, bulbous headed creatures. They silenced and turned to greet our appearance with a tentacle salute. I counted four tentacles to each creature -so such not enough for a garl, at least not any garl I knew. One of the creatures posed alone on the stage.
    â€œJelly and toasted vines,” it shouted from its wide smile of a mouth. “And when I say ‘Jelly and toasted vines’, I mean ‘Welcome to our theater. You’re in luck. The performance is about to begin. We are the snaves of Annek.’”

Chapter Twenty-One
    The Pageant of the Snaves
    â€œSnaves of Annek!” Kar hissed into my ear.
    I stopped myself from blurting ‘I know!’ because I felt certain it would come out all wrong. Instead, I wobbled my head in a nod and fixed my mouth with a grin. The snave down on the central circle slithered its way to a latch-lidded trunk sitting at the edge of the stage. With one red tentacle it lifted the lid and held it up open. A second tentacle snaked inside and pulled out a red floppy velvety cap. Slam shut went the lid while the snave arranged the cap at a jaunty angle on its bulby red head. Blinking its eye and smiling a wide smile, the snave left the stage with a neat slither down some two or three stairs. Eye on us, it moved to the aisle and stopped at the first tier of benches. It plucked the cap from its head and tentacled it to the closest snave. While all of this so such activity took place, a blanket of silence hung over the masses of snaves in the cavernous bowl. Kar nudged me with her elbow. I nudged her harder in return.
    â€œThe bread is spoken with custard,” said the snave receiving the cap. It turned to face us and added, “By which I mean ‘Let the pageant unfold’.”
    The newly capped snave slithered to take the stage, and the first rushed up the aisle with alarming swiftness directly at Kar and me. We both stepped back in some goodly level of fright in spite of the snave’s wide smile. Truth, a snave is twice the size of any bendo dreen. One great round eye. Four writhing tentacles. So said. Alarming.
    â€œI will dip you in honey!” said the snave in urgent hush, looming above two cowering bendo dreen, one so such me and one so such really a shapeshifting jrabe jroon. “And when I say ‘I will dip you in honey’, I mean ‘I will narrate and explain’.”
    My mind was eased, and so was Kar’s. I felt her rigid arm relax. The snave slithered left, unblocking our view of the stage. What happened for the next unknown number of hours was a numbing jumble of confusing gibberish. Each snave in turn advanced to the round platform stage when given the floppy red velvet cap. Some wore it pushed back, some low over the eye, some jaunted left, some right. And after each snave surrendered the cap, it moved to the top of the cavernous bowl and took the last spot on the highest tier’s bench. The masses of snaves moved in orderly procession, one space at a time along the benches, winding back and then forth, descending the bowl, until reaching the first seat on the lowest bench