“Take Me To Your Leader …”

Close Encounters: The Re-Make.

No plans for the trip up to the plot today. Just a look around, general tidy up maybe. Being especially careful to check the levels of the water butts so frugally placed under newly installed drought-busting guttering and down-pipes last February-ish. Thank you, government for discussing drought measures; predictably it hasn’t stopped raining since then …
Actually not completely correct. The days this year (2013) have been characterised by high temperatures (8 to 10 Celsius) and clear blue skies.
But once there… hey, let’s empty the compost bin, in readiness for starting again. The sunshine always has an energising effect somehow, doesn’t it? Drop the nicely matured contents on the dug soil for top dressing. Ah, slight hitch … dug soil?
Some furious digging later … Ok empty the bin. Drag in some of the bark chippings (mainly shredded Christmas trees by the look and smell of it – does nobody wait until sixth night any more? -)to put in as base.
Dig a few more rows ..
What’s that?
I don’t remember planting anything in this stretch of ground, but there’s something here. Fleshy branching roots … bit like mooli radish, but they are definitely in another spot.
I dig the intruders up, and seem to hear something in my head. A little like language, but deeper, more earthy and other-worldly. I catch something like movement from the pile of roots. The things are trying to communicate with me. I have to concentrate hard.
Seems they are visitors from another planet on the edges of our knowledge. They come in peace, try to disguise themselves by hiding and/or camouflaging their appearance. They are genuinely concerned that, generally we earthlings seem to react so violently to their introductions and with what they believe may be barbaric and ritualised slaughter. They hope it is down to mis-communication rather than hostility and explain to me that their early attempts to mimic our language may be to blame.
“Hello planet dweller, we come in peace …” may well have been taken as “I taste much better covered in honey and placed in a roasting dish” their linguists have postulated. Or “I am a healthy ingredient of winter stews”.
They are now developing their shape-mimicry skills so as to be able to attain the shape of a roughly-humanoid form, in order to overcome this difficulty – they do not believe that advanced species will treat something that has the same shape in such a dreadful fashion. One of their party shows me how close they are getting to reaching their goal.
"Take me To Your Leader"

In discussion with their Chief Officer, whose name is best represented as Pastinaca Salvita in our – to them – clumsy alphabet I suggest that the proportions come from warped data set; that their research team have been too transfixed by the Conan-the-Barbiturate genre of film-making, and possibly, er pornography. At first he seems to fail to understand. Their species has a three-sex reproduction cycle after all. But when he grasps the significance he promises, his whole-body blushes making him glow like a mutant beetroot, an in-depth internal enquiry and, perhaps even dismissal to a lower caste.
In the interests of science and inter-planetary relationships I take some photos.
So deep am I in this telepathic communication I fail to hear Keith, one of the other allottees approaching. I stutter unconvincingly for a moment – but he doesn’t seem to notice. He seems unable to sense the language, but spots the subject of my photos quite quickly.
“Hey up,” he says, smiling broadly, they look weird, but I bet they would taste just great in a goulash, or roasted. Any going spare?”


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