“The life of parrots is long.  We’re birds, we’re observers.  And we, as birds of memories and foresight, collect information like no other.  My mother was one among many: she was special.”

“Was she bird or mystic?” the King asks.

“What kind of King are you?” the Captain asks.

“She collected the memories and rituals in her head and heart,” Labaguette continues, “she was eccentric, she knew so much that when she spoke, it was difficult for the lay parrot, unlearned and unaware of the ways of the mystic parrot to decipher her banter into anything that made sense except to the initiated, such was her knowledge.”

“Are you initiated?” the Commander asks.

“That would be pushing mysticism a little too far,” the Captain retorts.

The King can’t help laughing, “a bird of spirit?  Labaguette?  He of the soaked rum beans?  He of the utmost uselessness?  HA!”

“Rumours, lost words that found their way out of Belchiore revealed the stories of all those caught.  The Librarians kept the stories in secret books because, put simply, there are words and secrets that belong to books only.  A word that finds its way out of Belchiore’s entrails is a word that remains undigested.  It is suspected that Belchiore’s brain isn’t configured to handle certain words because her subconscious isn’t bred for every word that comes her way and there are many such words.”

“Yet she can handle hearing stories of unbearable and unspeakable horror.  How can this be? The Captain asks.

“She may be large but there’s only so much she can digest at any one time.  Words aren’t thoughts.  Likewise, thoughts aren’t words.”

“Fuck, Labaguette.  You’re confused,” the Captain says.

“Words transmit thoughts, don’t they?” the King asks, losing his confidence.

“Not quite,” the Commander continues, “thoughts may transmit through words.”

To be continued…


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