Historia, Part V

“What’s the matter with you?” Schrodinger said.

“You can talk?” Clifford stammered, the Swedish Navy knife shaking clumsily in his hand.

“Yeah, well imagine our surprise at finding out humans could talk...” the mouse trailed of and turned his attention back to the cheese sliver before him.

Clifford stared off toward where the constellation Hendrix was crashing into the horizon, “A talking mouse,” he repeated several times, each in a slightly higher pitch of voice than the last.

Schrodinger scampered up onto Clifford’s knee after finishing his cheese, “Look, Cliff, we both know you’re shocked. But the King’s Valley isn’t getting any closer with us sitting here.”

Clifford swallowed and looked down at the mouse, “Yeah... you’re right... so, let’s... oh, for Pete’s sake! For a gall-dang talkin’ mouse!”

Schrodinger sighed (and let me just say that if you’ve never heard a mouse sigh, you have no idea how funny it actually is) and jumped off Clifford’s knee, “Look, I’m getting back in the bundle, mostly ‘cause it’s warm. Now get up! We’ve got ground to cover.”

Clifford Jenkins, sensible as any man of 40 years, forced himself up from his sitting position and gathered his goods. The King’s Valley was a day’s walk if he maintained a reasonable pace.

* * * *

Clifford kept a less-than-reasonable pace, mostly because he was still reeling from the talking mouse episode, but he reached the entrance to the King’s Valley by mid-afternoon. Maybe those Historians were helping him out.

But as he looked out across the valley entrance, and the city of Carnacabidos (Anyone familiar with Egyptian history will know the names Karnak and Abydos, but let’s not kid ourselves, when the crapper-crashing world needed to scapegoat Columbus, they probably invented Egypt out of spite. Honestly, who in their right mind builds an empire in the desert?) Clifford Jenkins realized that it was likely that the Historians were rushing him toward his doom.

The valley wasn’t so much the lush oasis he’d envisioned from the stories of the old timers, of which only his Granpappy had been leery of the inhabitants thereof. The King’s Valley was a desert. Oddly enough, a dark blue ribbon ran through the desert. That’s the river, Clifford thought, Granpappy always said that the river lead to Historia.

Small cubes dotted the valley floor along both sides of the river, and it took Clifford’s brain a moment to work out the scale and realize that these small cubes were actually buildings. Some glittering in the mid-afternoon sun, gold plated if the ancient tales were true. (Who knew if any tales were true in these days.)

Clifford began to climb down the sidewall of the valley entrance. He could see the city of Carnacabidos, or rather what looked like the ruins of the city, below him probably three hundred feet, that would at least get him to the valley floor and further along his journey.

He stopped on a ledge, and just stood admiring the ancient craftsmanship that had built the city of Carnacabidos, and after a moment Clifford realized something that had yet to occur to him: there was no sound.

No people. No animals. No boats on the river. No birds. The King’s Valley was dead.

That’s when he heard the first explosion.