THE TWILIGHT LANGUAGE
Written for the prompt 'the twilight language’ at 31_days.
Series: Original
Characters: a traveller, a customer
Rating/Warnings: G
The traveller tips his skin bag out over the table. Wooden toys spill out, carved in pine and dipped in thick yellow varnish the colour of thirsty piss, blobby and splintery. There are bone dice and bone spools wound with red and black thread, a wide honey-black tortoiseshell comb, a booklet of instructions for a harmonica printed in big blurry letters.
There are soft packets as well, pieces of scrap cloth folded and sewed into rough squares, loosely stuffed.
The customer weighs one of these in his hands.
“Can I open one?” he asks.
The traveller flicks at the little tin charm tags sewn into every corner.
“Not unless you’re sure you want to pay for it,” he says.
The customer shakes his head quickly, takes his hand away from the seam.
“Where are the instructions?” he asks.
“Inside with the hair,” says the traveller. He pinches at the cloth, finds the stiffness of paper and creases it to show that this is true.
“But really,” he says, “just find a broom or a branch or what have you. Put the hair on, tie on your token, say the words, and there you go. You have about half an hour, and she won’t speak, of course. But it’s pretty damn convincing, all the same.”
The customer takes up another packet, done in soft indigo cotton with rings of blurry red bleeding out into purple. He looks at it sideways, seems for a moment as if he means to smell it. Puts it down.
“What about the colour?” he asks.
“Oh,” the traveller says. “All the temple ladies have black hair. It’s just the way they are over there. But it doesn’t make any difference. If her hair is white as milk, once you’ve said the words and if you’ve got her token, that’s what you’ll get.”
He sweeps the packets together, spreads them out again.
“All the same price, of course,” he says. “And more than fair.”
The customer nods. After all, he asked the traveller to come this way. He takes out his purse, makes a neat pile of coins on the table. The traveller fans those out with a brush of his palm, scoops them back up, nods. Hands the customer the package done up in indigo.
“Anything else catch your eye?” he asks, a little perfunctorily.
He rifles in his pack, draws out a row of little wooden doves, stained white and strung together on a string. A square of red silk with cowries at the hem. A box which rattles.
“Pins,” he says. He puts that back.
The customer takes up a leather pouch, almost light enough to be empty but full instead, he sees, of flat white tablets, round, printed with blobby characters. He spills a handful out across the table.
“And these?” he asks. “What do they do?”
The traveller looks up, shrugs.
“Oh,” he says. “Those are just counters for the twilight language. Put one on your tongue and you can speak it.”
He tips a handful of red bead necklaces back into their bag.
“But of course no one will understand a word.”
He rolls up a strip of yellowed paper, studded with old pearl buttons.
There’s no one who remembers, nowadays.”
He scoots a tablet across the table.
“Here. Try one, if you like. On the house.”
The customer puts the dry tablet on his tongue. It is cool and powdery, and then it fizzes into grit against his palate and dissolves.
He thinks of his wife, her hair so sweet, his daughter who would wish to see her one more time.
He opens his mouth and begins to speak.
Sorry, guys: my internet self is now mostly over at dreamwidth: fulselden. Please do comment over there using OpenID.
Series: Original
Characters: a traveller, a customer
Rating/Warnings: G
The traveller tips his skin bag out over the table. Wooden toys spill out, carved in pine and dipped in thick yellow varnish the colour of thirsty piss, blobby and splintery. There are bone dice and bone spools wound with red and black thread, a wide honey-black tortoiseshell comb, a booklet of instructions for a harmonica printed in big blurry letters.
There are soft packets as well, pieces of scrap cloth folded and sewed into rough squares, loosely stuffed.
The customer weighs one of these in his hands.
“Can I open one?” he asks.
The traveller flicks at the little tin charm tags sewn into every corner.
“Not unless you’re sure you want to pay for it,” he says.
The customer shakes his head quickly, takes his hand away from the seam.
“Where are the instructions?” he asks.
“Inside with the hair,” says the traveller. He pinches at the cloth, finds the stiffness of paper and creases it to show that this is true.
“But really,” he says, “just find a broom or a branch or what have you. Put the hair on, tie on your token, say the words, and there you go. You have about half an hour, and she won’t speak, of course. But it’s pretty damn convincing, all the same.”
The customer takes up another packet, done in soft indigo cotton with rings of blurry red bleeding out into purple. He looks at it sideways, seems for a moment as if he means to smell it. Puts it down.
“What about the colour?” he asks.
“Oh,” the traveller says. “All the temple ladies have black hair. It’s just the way they are over there. But it doesn’t make any difference. If her hair is white as milk, once you’ve said the words and if you’ve got her token, that’s what you’ll get.”
He sweeps the packets together, spreads them out again.
“All the same price, of course,” he says. “And more than fair.”
The customer nods. After all, he asked the traveller to come this way. He takes out his purse, makes a neat pile of coins on the table. The traveller fans those out with a brush of his palm, scoops them back up, nods. Hands the customer the package done up in indigo.
“Anything else catch your eye?” he asks, a little perfunctorily.
He rifles in his pack, draws out a row of little wooden doves, stained white and strung together on a string. A square of red silk with cowries at the hem. A box which rattles.
“Pins,” he says. He puts that back.
The customer takes up a leather pouch, almost light enough to be empty but full instead, he sees, of flat white tablets, round, printed with blobby characters. He spills a handful out across the table.
“And these?” he asks. “What do they do?”
The traveller looks up, shrugs.
“Oh,” he says. “Those are just counters for the twilight language. Put one on your tongue and you can speak it.”
He tips a handful of red bead necklaces back into their bag.
“But of course no one will understand a word.”
He rolls up a strip of yellowed paper, studded with old pearl buttons.
There’s no one who remembers, nowadays.”
He scoots a tablet across the table.
“Here. Try one, if you like. On the house.”
The customer puts the dry tablet on his tongue. It is cool and powdery, and then it fizzes into grit against his palate and dissolves.
He thinks of his wife, her hair so sweet, his daughter who would wish to see her one more time.
He opens his mouth and begins to speak.
Sorry, guys: my internet self is now mostly over at dreamwidth: fulselden. Please do comment over there using OpenID.