He put his finger on the paragraph. “It says here that Sir Gawain died at noon on the 10th of May after he was struck once again where he’d been wounded by Lancelot previously. His body was interred at Dover Castle where visitors could see his skull and the evidence of the wound thereupon.”
“Well, that proves it,” she said.
“What? That he existed?”
She shook her head. “That getting up before noon is bad for your health.”
He read the brochure aloud while she browsed.
“To outsiders people seem inexcusably happy on Disproportionate Island. Like us, the Disproportionates are easily incensed by small provocations, but here even meager courtesies evoke jubilant delight. The visitor accustomed to a more misanthropic worldview inevitably perceives the Disproportionates as philosophically askew.
“The Disproportionates call themselves the Gundawdahaypay – the comparatively-proportional – and call outsiders the Bumbadudbogabawump – the-ones-with-long-legs-and-small-heads.
“Early explorers depicted the Disproportionates as large-headed dwarfs who like to show their teeth. Disproportionate records from the same period illustrate our explorers as hunched noodle-men. We are described as ‘traversing continents with gangly strides burdened by small-mindeded apperceptions evidenced by a pitiful absence of heart-joy.'”
He held the brochure out to show her the pictures. She didn’t look.
“Sounds creepy,” she said.
He nodded, but he stuffed the brochure in his pocket.