Notte Snippet
I haven’t done a snippet in a while. Here you go - a brief section of frustration from Notte.
One kind of man is comfortable around weeping women, and the other kind is not. I, being unaware of both, simply wanted her to regain happiness. I knelt and wrapped my arms around her, vaguely aware that my white cloth was hopelessly lost behind us, and more than willing to forgive the small offense in the light of her sorrow. She leaned into me, looked up in my face, scowled, and began to babble.
I suppose she was telling me what I did wrong. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand a word.
This finally seemed to dawn on her. She asked a question; waited. Asked it again, more emphatically. And there I sat, soulful in expression but utterly confused, giving her no response at all.
Again, I must emphasize that she was not a stupid woman. She assumed I was a demon, remember? She still had some fear of me, in spite of being made like me - an entire lifetime of beliefs is difficult to overthrow. It seems that until this point in time, she assumed that I understood her and simply chose not to reply or do as she asked. Now, she could not put the realization off any further. I - her maker, her lover - was damaged.
She did not sleep well that day.
I held her, of course, though I was still perplexed. When she rose, she and I hunted in silence - animals, since there were no towns nearby - and she seemed to be deep in thought.
That night, she began trying to teach me to speak.
She would say a word, slowly, pointing at an object. Then she would give the object to me and try to encourage me to say it. I did try, my friend. I did try. But my mutilated brain would not allow it. I simply could not grasp the technique of moving my tongue and lips to produce particular sounds, other than my occasional yowls or mewls or whimpers.
My child was very patient. When it was clear this method would not work, she tried to teach me written symbols instead.
She had several tools for this: rocks, which she would use to scratch things on our cave walls or in the dirt, and sticks, which she used slightly differently. No, she did not hit me with them. She put one in my hand, put her hand over mine, and then helped me to draw.
I retained nothing.
I tried. I tried so hard. She showed me, and I tried to mimic, but I could not force my hand to be that precise. I tore holes in the ground. I made great curved canyons in the dirt. After a time, I wept, and that made her weep again, and we clung to one another and shared comfort as we could.
Originally published at Ruthanne Reid. Please leave any comments there.