Finding a Voice by sol_luna_estrella | |
I was a wanderer; nights after nights I traveled, most
of the time to places always unseen. I longed not for companionship, love, or
petty material things, for I was a Draik at the mercy of his own will and freedom.
Yes, I am a Draik — a green Draik, and for that, everyone would have given me
second glances, but I stayed away from all others. The reason for this is simple:
I was mute.
I could not speak. I couldn’t ever feel words,
music, or cries bubble in my throat, and I could only express myself through
the words flowing freely out of my pen. And since I was and still am a wanderer,
I know not the date or time that I exist, for that is petty and insignificant
— and so I title my entries of my journal with what feels right to me. What
does matter is that I am here and now, and I am sharing my soul with you? I
am sharing my story.
***
The Dance of Cerulean
The forest is a deep, velvet green that haunts me as it casts a cloak of emerald
light over my shy, tentative presence. The firmament, slightly visible through
the gown of jade leaves, seems to swirl in dazzling, tangy colors of ginger,
cherry, and just the slightest hint of a pastel azure tantalizing in the distance.
My hungry eyes take it in.
The sun is peering into the world of slumber,
and I am about to awaken. My heart will sing as I dance through the forest —
a forest transformed by wild, demonic sprites, and I -- I, inspired by all that
is dark and lovely, will gladly dance with them.
I dropped my pen — twig, rather. My paper — which
was, in truth, a mere leaf — was smudged with nearly illegible swirls of the
colors of the berries I had used to create my ink. Perhaps it was the importance
— the grip on my destiny that that particular night had — that makes me still
remember every detail: the precise blends of the sunset, the exact angles of
the shafts of emerald light, even the particular feeling that overcame me as
I wrote that night — the sense that something significant was about to happen.
Something significant did.
I was wandering about the strong, wise trees
as I wondered about my life. I had scrawled about prancing about with the invisible
impish faeries, but I found that my heart was too heavy — or maybe not too heavy
exactly, but it was still weighted with thoughts serious, curious, and wistful.
Tiredly, I sat on the earth and picked up my twig.
The Ways of my Spirit
My earliest memory is the memory of my birth:
when I first hatched from that fragile, lacy Draik egg. I peered out into the
Nest; I had been the only one there at the time. The air was frigid, musty,
and thick; but the Nest was ever so warm and desolately friendly…the only friend
I’ve ever had, and the only friend I’ll ever really get to know. I do not know
who hatched me; no one’s face, radiating with joy, love, or even utter disgust
ever rained down upon me. I wanted to cry; I did cry, but only my tears ever
were born, and the shrieks, moans, and sobs that tried to burst forth from my
lips are still today trying in vain.
As I cuddled down into the scratchy Nest, I knew
I couldn’t stay there forever. I had to leave and evade the tight grasp that
the evil atmosphere had on me, but that meant that I had to do the only brave
thing that I’ve ever done: leave my friend, the Draik Nest. And so I did. And
now, I don’t know what to think about it…the pure awfulness of it all… yet now
the freedom I enjoy… how should I know how it all factors in? Ah, well, it was
the past--the past that I will never again know, and so I have no use for it.
But now it seems like I am chained to my freedom like a slave, for I can know
no other life than that of a wanderer and wonderer—but it’s the happiest way
I’ll ever know.
I paused, and I suddenly heard a rustling in
the trees. With somewhat of a start, I turned; and suddenly, a Spardel burst
forth from behind a bush.
Wondering what it was doing so far from any of
the main populated areas, I cautiously approached it. It cocked its head at
me, it’s bulging eyes focused toward me. I knelt.
I wanted to say something to it; I wanted to
ask it something, to beckon it, to pet it, even. My voice disabled me, though,
and I again stood and approached it carefully.
Suddenly, it opened its mouth as if to yap, but
no sound came out. My heart froze; could it be that this little Petpet had something
in common with me? My heart melting, I leaned forward a little more, and the
Spardel sped toward me. I reached out a tentative claw, and its eyes clouded
over. It’s head started to droop more, and its tongue slid out of its mouth
further.
What is this doing here? I asked myself.
Tiredly, I stood and repositioned myself so that
I sat upon a rock. It suddenly gave a hop toward me and promptly vomited on
my lap.
I wanted to chide it; I wanted to reprimand it.
My voice, however, disabled me yet again. I merely shot eye-daggers at it, stood
up haughtily, and swiftly marched away.
When I seemed to be a safe distance away, I sat
on another silvery rock to clean myself up. Being a wanderer, I knew much about
places unseen. This particular wood, I knew, had a river flowing to the west
of it. As it entered the wood, I knew that it narrowed and became shallow until
it was, eventually, a small, clean stream running right by the rock that I was
sitting on. I immersed my soiled self in the creek carefully.
Suddenly, I heard the cracking of twigs and the
rustling of slippery leaves, fallen from dying trees, and I turned. There, I
saw the Spardel. In a nauseatingly cute manner, it trotted toward me and tumbled
into the rivulet, which was just deep enough so that only the Spardel’s nose
and every part of its anatomy above it was clearly visible. I inhaled deeply
and softly and let it out in a loud burst of air.
Bubbles sprouted, clouding up my view of the
Spardel. I promptly lifted it out of the water, and silent coughs erupted from
its small body.
Patting it gently, I awkwardly decided to set
it down on my rock. I was slightly worried; but I shrugged it off as I saw the
little Spardel rattle the last of the water that had seeped into it and joyfully
hop onto the ground to sit and stare at me as I reflected.
A smile played at my lips; the evening was purpling,
and I knew that the gloaming would soon morph into a shadowy, dramatic night,
contrasting with the lightness of my day. I still could not run with invisible
faeries, but my heart was no longer feeling weighty with profundity. It was
a small, complex sort of satisfaction and contentment that I felt, akin to my
previous intensity but an entirely different branch on its family tree.
The Spardel was panting rather heavily, and I
smiled a little wryly at it as it hopped up at me eagerly. Deciding to put a
last effort on setting myself free of the Spardel, I stood and walked calmly
and collectedly away, veering dangerously off my small, intimate path, worn
with the occasional faint use by myself.
***
I thought that the little Spardel was gone. I hadn’t heard any noise other
than my own footfalls for a few hours; and the dark was setting down upon my
heart. I was thirsty, and I decided that it would be safe by now to creep stealthily
back toward the pool for a quick quenching of the dryness of my throat. Oh,
how wrong I thought I was when I arrived!
Yes, the little Spardel was in a curled up position
by a nearby tree. Its body was popping with small pants and what might have
been whines. As I approached, it swiftly sprang up, whirled around, and dashed
madly toward me. The end result was a sore head for the Spardel and what would
later be a bruise on the leg for me.
Oh, stop, you, I chided inwardly as if
thinking the words would have the same effect as speaking them. It was then
rubbing against me somewhat affectionately, its crooked periwinkle eyes staring
up at me without their usual blank look. They had lost some of their glaze.
I figured that it was time to accept that the
little Spardel was not going to leave me. With something akin to a sigh, I found
my leaf and berries to write.
Giving In
I’m not going to like this—but what else can
I do? This Spardel surely needs someone to take care of it. I suppose — oh,
I shudder in fear of doing it — but shouldn’t it have a name? Names are worldly
things, and it’s not as if I’ll be able to call to it — but... oh, every Petpet
needs a name — so I hear.
It was then I realized that the Spardel wore
a collar. When I looked at the tag, I saw that the Spardel had been owned before;
rather than “noname,” “Mookie” was the name that occupied the tag.
Mookie? Mookie? It was an interesting
name — but... no, that would never do. I thought for a deep, long minute and
wrote:
Freckle.
The Spardel did not have freckles nor did it
look like one; but Freckle it was. No—Freckle he was, for I suddenly
started to think of the little Petpet as something real, alive.
And suddenly, as the black, liquid sky started
to blue, I was content again.
Freckle seemed to sense something of this satisfaction,
and he started to attempt to yap happily. Although no sound burst into the air,
the music that was supposed to be there came through. I still wasn’t happy about
that little Spardel, but I was glad that he was glad.
I was tired and hungry then, and I wanted to
bathe; the brook there was too shallow. I led Freckle to a section of the stream
that was wide and just deep enough so that I was able to immerse myself in it
thoroughly. I dove in, swimming beneath the surface for a few seconds. Then,
I turned around to face Freckle, and I beheld one of the strangest sights that
I have yet seen. His tongue was drawn into his mouth, head pulled up and eyes
squinted. He was skipping forward and then started to trot — then, he started
chasing his tail and rushing around in furious circles. I was completely puzzled
and immensely frightened, and I hoisted myself out of the water with more of
a splash than I had made when I had jumped in, and the tumbling Freckle came
crashing into the steel water, and a small yelp — a sound!— thrust from his
throat to pierce my ear with its message.
Freckle had made a sound.
And that frightened me further. I had to plunge
in after him then, after that sound whispered its importance to me. I already
knew of Freckle’s lack of skills around water.
Then, the magic kicked in.
It was as if there was intensity rising, expanding,
blowing against my throat. It burned; it scratched; it sloshed and pinched;
and it finally exploded in a yell, in something that met my own ears in an expecting
surprise.
"FRECKLE!”
As I felt the subtle cold of the water swallow
me, bubbles popped into my mouth; I couldn’t breathe — how it stung! Groping
blindly for Freckle, I flung myself within my envelope of water. I swung around
and felt a furry, sharp claw dig into my arm. Freckle!
I threw myself onto land, Freckle still hanging
tightly onto my arm. Real coughs and whimpers were escaping us both. I chattered
and shivered as water poured out with each cough; the Spardel was shaking violently
as I watched him. I was afraid, but I needn’t have been: recovery was quick
for both of us, and both our voices remained —and still remain— comfortably
within us.
Mine is a clear voice, deep and high at the same
time. For days after Freck’s rescue, it was raspy and clammy, but it healed,
and now—it is not a beautiful voice. It is not musical; it ignores the element
of pitch when it sings. But it is my voice; I can speak.
I can speak.
Freckle’s bark is high and acute. He is certainly
not a quiet Spardel, and, at the time of his ability’s birth, there were few
things that he would quiet for. One of them, however, was my recently developed
speech. I would speak, and Freck would silence immediately to listen. Perhaps
the little thing was sent to me to give me this gift of speech and to give me
an opportunity to use it; but maybe that was only part of it. You see, while
it may sound cliché, well-worn, and petty, I would rather believe that
Freck was sent to me for a companion, for something to love. And, through that
love, I found my voice.
The End
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