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Lingua Morta
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An Original Short Story
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When M woke up, the world around him exhaled.
It whispered Sahalò. He whispered it back.
He rose, the scratchy fabric of his kamise reddening his rusty skin stitched with brittle hair that tangled in the shirt’s buttons.
It was early; his alarm glowed in praise. His journal, his accordion of ink-stained paper-bound dreams, awaited him. It spoke to him: it promised a date between his mind and body – his thoughts and his life. It was bound by leather, by hope. By Haenim. Today, he chose a blue-beaked quill.
Hello; also, Goodbye
Robe
The Lampholder: a crucible of life, love; a “soul”, adjacently. Also, Epiphany
Stained hands reached for the sky. He was outside; the cold air rushed to his face, kissing his cheeks red. His fingers found, at the bosom of an orange tree, a ripe fruit, and he peeled it on his way to the station. The street brimmed with life. Heat, in waves, melted the street – the orange tasted sweet – the ground was soft. He stepped into the station and out of the Sun.
The closest word he could ascribe to the train station was Safartè.
The closest word he could voice to the clerk was Freight, then Fright.
The closest word she discerned was a garbled Fare.
She sent him on his way, but he stayed close; he understood no words telling him to do otherwise.
A feeling of loneliness, or trepidation, as a train or bus passes
A mess of language flew through his ears, over his head. His pupils rested on colors: the mustard of the yellow line, the dirty charcoal of the tunnel, the fluorescent orange that carved out the ARRIVALS billboard – his orange wasn’t quite as vivid, and seemed to falter under its light. He unsheathed a map from a lawn-green array and followed the pictures.
By the time he had reached the grand brownstone edifice, the clouds had stolen the Sun away, leaving the canvas above him blank. His wrinkles, a cracked web trenching into his hollow skin, dug deeper away from the harsh light of the white sky. There was a name for this, too – nulia – but nobody to understand it. M had been born, raised, orphaned, and left, to the best of his knowledge, the sole speaker of his language. Travel had been impossible. There was no recognition of his heritage, and he had no passport. He had tried once to obtain one and was laughed out of the airport. He understood laughter; it was the same in all languages. He had found at that moment, with the wrong paperwork in his hands, the wrong “made-up” nationality in his face, and the wrong guessing, unsure smile he gave to the agent, that universality also applied to shame.
Divine emptiness, or the absence of something crucial
The University’s doors, rich and overbearing mahogany slants, hesitantly digressed to the path of the intruder. M stepped inside, gingerly advancing on diamond tile, mindful of the cracks and mindful not to dirty the marble with his soles. He crossed the path of a man, hunched from years of minute micromanagement, with goggles for glasses and a pink nose to rest them upon. Alcohol enveloped him. The man, upon seeing him, extended his hand. M knew enough to place a folder – his invention, a model of the accordion-journal – into his hands. This was what he wanted to study.
The man turned it over. It flailed in his hands. “What is it?”
This was a question. M felt a need to answer. “Hello.”
The Headmaster blinked. “Hello.”
M was quiet.
Hours in the future, he’d return home. The blueprint for his invention would stay at the University, then be tossed – the drawings were beautiful, but no writing could be deciphered. He’d go to sleep at once. In the morning, he’d open his eyes, words no longer touching the life around him. His reality would fly in plumes, the blur of an apartment – insulàra, also meaning island – beaching him in a haze of shapeless, nameless objects, isolating him in a sea of quiet, breathless gray.
Apartment; also, Island
He whispered Sahalò, to no-one in particular. And then there was silence.
