A.N: As a note, if you're curious, I was inspired to start this story because in all the many Girl-Goes-To-Tortal fic's I've read I've never come across one where language is a problem. It's always either they speak English in Tortal, the gods give them the ability to understand or they're given some sort of translation object or spell to fix things. In my fic there'll be none of that junk and she'll have to actually learn things the real way!
The fall sun shone through the ripped curtains in glaringly bright lines. A few years ago they'd taught stained glass making in the classroom and whatever machine they used to heat things up, cooked the fireproof curtains as well. When the curtains cooled they cracked, and no drawing student since could sit nicely at the window without squinting at their paper crisscrossed with hot lines of sunlight. Unfortunately, period seven was a very crowded class, and Emma and Katie found themselves stuck at said unlucky table trying to find a spot of shade large enough for a full piece of paper. The search was fruitless.
The paper in front of Katie was already covered in a sketch. Perfectly proportioned people ran around in bubble-part forms like the moveable people all art folk seemed to own that were stuck upon a metal stick and ridiculously hard to move into a reasonable position unless, of course, said mover-person was an art genius who really didn't need one of the movable people in the first place. Emma's paper, on the other hand, was smudged with eraser marks and fade black lines where her darkly drawn mistakes refused to completely go away. Still, she seemed unaffected by the difference.
The table behind her was full of giggling white girls, well four of them, with dyed hair and piercing talking casually about drinking and possibly well-camouflaged sex. They kept sneaking glances at a certain hispanic boy who ignored them very well as he chatted with his dread-locked friend and one who had glasses like a nerd. Katie just rolled her eyes in there direction and Emma chuckled. Art was certainly a different class. Their teacher, Mrs. Gilmond, didn't care much about what was talked about. So it was like a whole class period of free time. The only thing she really reminded them of was to not take too much acrylic paint and not leave the brushes in the sink. Emma glanced at the slutty girls just in time to see one draw a line of paint on her arm, the starting of another paint tattoo and project grade F. They didn't even have their paper out.
Not that Emma was doing much better. With a sigh she gave up on the mutilated piece and flipped it over. The project: scenery of her choice, involving three point perspective and at least one person. Okay, scenery. Going for the easy stuff she dotted her paper and got to work on a few buildings. Katie was quiet, fully immersed in the shaping and perfecting of more that a dozen various people who were already quite perfectly drawn. On her second building, Emma realized she'd done it wrong again. With a furious eraser she started over, and over, and over again. Perspective just didn't like her. The points liked to look utterly confusing and mixed up. One building would lean to the right, then the next wouldn't turn out 3D and the following replacement would lean to the left. Setting down her pencil with a frustrated smack she shoved the hated paper aside and pulled out her French book; a subject she could actually say she was good at.
Katie glanced over as she finished final erasing around a punk girl with dread locks. "Brown hair streaked blonde," she told her friend. "Like the chic I saw at Jamba last week." Emma nodded. That'd be cool. Then Katie noticed her choice of work. "French, again??"
A nod answered and she returned to her beautiful drawing. Katie was an amazing best friend, but simply couldn't come to comprehend how anyone could not absolutely love art. Flipping to page 187 Emma got to work on her homework, questions on a small story they'd read together in class. It was about a man who was rich and died. His three grandsons were at the will reading and he had three rings for them to take, starting with the oldest. Turns out the rings were just a camouflage because the picture the will-reader offered each son actually hid the key to a huge fortune in a Canadian bank. Only the youngest man, who lived a humble life as a farmer, wanted the photo because he actually loved his grandfather. He became rich and Emma was left to answer questions on the story that annoyingly contained too many unknown words, three of those that she couldn't find in the dictionary.
None the less, she smiled as she snapped her book shut five minutes before the final bell. A long, fifteen sentence paper was safely tucked inside her book. As Mrs. Gilmond called for clean up Katie shot a disapproving look at Emma's blank paper. Katie's paper, Emma saw with deep appreciation, was a completely finished sketch of a busy crown in some downtown of a major city. Huge signs and skyscrapers were accompanied by all sorts of people like an Hispanic woman holding a baby to her chest was walking beside a black man. The dread locked girl was smoking as she called a taxi and a fat baker man was leaning out a shop door angrily while a little boy could just be made out running away in street-worn clothing with a long French bread tucked football like under his arm.
"Looks nice," Emma commented. Katie just smiled with a 'thanks', before sliding it into her portfolio. Somehow Katie managed to worry about adding colored pencil. If she had Emma's talent, such a worry would be justified. Emma rolled her eyes. As if colored pencil could mess up her friends groove. While she did always use pencil or charcoal on her own, she was a more than capable artist. Slinging on her backpack, Emma grabbed her folder and excuse-me'd her way through the crowded classroom. Chairs were up and everyone seemed determined to stand by their friends in path-blocking circles and mass in a portfolio-box blocking crowd. Emma led the way with a loud voice and slight push. The starch blonde haired girl, with black on the bottom half and an eyebrow piercing glared at Emma as she walked through their group. The bell rang before she could say anything though, and Katie and Emma dropped off their portfolios on their way out the door.
Joining the crowd in the hallway Katie laughed. "Rose was so mad at you!" Emma just grinned.
"I know." Turning left they climbed a flight of stairs. "Wanna come over to my house today?"
"Yeah, but Jacob's got a show that we're all going to. He's Huck in Tom Sawyer and it's opening tonight."
"Oh yeah! Forgot. Well, give him good luck from me."
"'Kay," said Katie absently as she fiddled with their locker combo. "5-49-32" she mouthed to herself. It swung open and they yanked out needed books and tossed in others. "Well, see you tomorrow," Katie said as she swung on her pack.
"Yep, have a good evening. I'll be on the computer later, so IM me, 'kay?"
"I will, see ya!" With a wave she hurried off to the student parking lot where Jacob would be waiting to give her a ride. Emma too swung on her pack, heading in the opposite direction for the front doors and a fifteen minute walk home. Cheyenne waved as she walked by in gym shorts, already changed for basketball. Emma smiled.
Outside squishy leaves blanketed the grass and sidewalk, already molding with nighttime rain. Cars were bumper to bumper as Freshmen got picked up, busses tried to leave and car-owning students played around. The security cop man out front stood like stone. Emma ignored the urge to stare. She wondered how many of the stoned, drunk or smoking kids actually got caught. After all, the red headed girl who came every once in a while to art class was definitely on something.
Crossing the street in a long gaggle of students that must annoy the heck out of the drivers, Emma headed down Electric street, a good dozen other teens with her. High bushes lined the sidewalk as she passed number 792, a particularly self-conscious family obviously if the way they hid their house was intentional. She hoped not, it wasn't very pretty. Number 794 was a junkyard though, so perhaps their neighbors just didn't want to have to see that all the time. They had a thick yard of weeds instead of grass, and their closed garage was tagged with red graffiti; the car parked out front looked ready to collapse.
At the bus stop on the next corner, most of her walking-mates stopped to wait. Emma passed the rather quiet group. She knew as many of them as they did, in other words very few. A couple blocks of comfortable quiet later she was walking up a one car drive way and three steps of her porch. Fiddling with her house key she opened the door and kicked off her shoes. The house was small, but it was just her and her mom. Up the stairs she pushed open her door and dumped her backpack. Tossing a dirty shirt off her bed and into the hamper she flopped down on the blue covers and stared up at the opposite wall, which she decorated in awesome posters and stray pictures of her and Katie. The clock ticked in the silence and she sighed. Of course the clock wouldn't let her relax. She had a heck of a lot of math homework.
Hoping to ignore the clock for a little while longer, she went down stairs to fix herself a snack. Tossing a hot pocket in the microwave Emma sat up on the counter and waited. Three minutes… bored she tried to count down in French. Failing and a good ten seconds behind, the effort was quickly ditched. The buzzer rang, and she hopped down. As she reached for the food the world suddenly spun. That was weird. She'd been feeling fine all day. Stars popped before her eyes for a moment and she stood stock still, clutching the edge of the counter. As her vision began to clear she slid down against the counter. Her stomach was feeling particularly iffy. Her light headedness returned. What was causing it? She wondered in a panic. Franticly her mind raced through last years health class. She'd never heard of something so unexpectedly random. It wasn't like she'd even eaten anything wrong. No, she'd just had the normal PB + J sandwich at lunch and Cheerio's for breakfast. Her vision went out and a roaring filled her ears. She knew she was going to throw up…
She opened her eyes to find a large black nose staring back at her. Scrambling to get away, she saw it was just a curious dog. It was owned by a curious looking man. He was dressed like a history picture. Emma stared. She was obviously asleep because she wasn't in her house anymore. The man looked very surprised to see her. Emma stood up, and immediately regretted that decision as her world began to spin again. She didn't know that people could get sick in a dream. When she stopped seeing doubles, she looked around. She was in a house. It was old fashioned - a lot of stone, a fireplace, a few basic wood things, but no sofa, armchair, oven or TV. The man said something in a foreign language and Emma grinned. She was finally dreaming in French like Mrs. Jamison said she would! That meant she was getting really good. He did not grin back. Actually, the man began shouting at her and she couldn't understand a thing. She frowned. Normally she could at least pick out basic things. Maybe he was cussing her out. After all, she just appeared in his house. Still, it was a dream and how would she hear words she never knew, in a dream? In fact, as she listened more, it sounded much harsher than French. Was it German? She hardly knew any so it seemed highly unlikely. Still, she gave it a shot.
"Ich bin der Wagon." she said, meshing together the only German words she knew into a completely strange sentence. He stared at her, obviously not understanding. What language was he speaking? "Tu parles francais?" she asked him. Nope. "Uh, Commo estas?" Not Spanish either. For the direct approach, "What in the world are you speaking?!" Not English either, but by the renewed shouting, he hadn't liked her tone of voice.
She was broken out of her thoughts when he starting gesturing about wildly. Then he grabbed her arm in a vice grip. Emma yanked away. A huge red hand print marred her skin and she could still feel his painful touch. This was not a dream. Emma turned on her heel and ran.
However, outside was no better. There were HORSES in the street - no cars, no bikes, and everyone was dressed in those historical outfits. The women al wore dressed, the kids had no shoes, the street was dirt, the houses were strange and they were staring. She was suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious of her blue jeans and black Tokio Hotel tee shirt. Even her All Stars were out of place. She was very glad she didn't have a hair tie, because these people had obviously never heard of one. The street was slowly coming to a stop as everyone stared at her. What? Had they seriously never heard of jeans? What type of Amish town was it?
A woman said something in a foreign tongue. Did they all speak that? She had to get out of there. They didn't seem particularly hostile. Emma walked slowly near the talking woman. She had a basket of food under an arm.
"I want to leave." Emma tried. The woman didn't get it. Okay, hand motions. "I. Leave." The woman looked at her, her brow furrowed and head slightly to the side, but nodded in slight understanding. Shrug, "Where. Leave? What. Direction?" The woman nodded slowly again and pointed left. With a smile of relief, Emma waved and jogged off, eager to get away. The street stared after.
It was not far to the edge of the village, and a dry dirt road led her away. It was a long road and as Emma walked she was surprised not to see many farmers. The occasional house in the distance and large clump of one tall plant was the only thing to give them away. There were no fences, no proper roads and no cars. How far was this place? And, how the heck did she get there. That, she decided as she walked and walked, was the biggest question. She was not at her home. She was not even in her city, and the last thing she recalled was getting suddenly sick at home after school. Her stomach growled and she wished she'd thought to grab the hot pocket. Focus, she told herself.
Well, she knew it was not a dream; the red mark was still on her arm. The only answer was magic, but that was hardly an answer. Kidnap… highly unlikely. Amnesia… unlikely. Everything else… didn't fit. Dropping the question for the time being she reverted back to the annoying one of: How friggin' far is the next darn place?! Her walking speed dropped steadily until she simply sat down on the side of the road. It was hopeless. What ever was going on, and she really didn't want to ponder that 'cause it only led to the questioning of her sanity, it was not good for her. Plucking grass out of boredom she wished Katie was with her. It'd be much more fun. By the time the sunset was just tinting the horizon Emma had a whole yard of braided grass and three daisy chains. She'd braided her hair into thirteen separate braids and stuck little purple flowers into all them. Wrapping the grass around her head like a princess' headband - the silver ones that go across the forehead an' all - she put on the daisy bracelets and necklace. As she begun making a purple flower chain she saw movement. Far away on her left something, it looked like a vehicle of some sort, was approaching. Discarding the purple flowers in a heartbeat, Emma excitedly rushed to the edge of the road. Finally some help! Maybe they'd even drive her to the next town!
Sticking out her thumb she waited for the car to approach. Only, she quickly saw it was no car. Rather, it was a wooden wagon like those on the Oregon Trail pulled by a brown horse. She dropped her hand. It was probably another Amish person who didn't speak English.
The driver was an old man. There was farm stuff in his wagon but he didn't wear a flannel shirt. He dressed, as she'd feared, like the Amish. There was a woman beside him, also very historically dressed. They slowed as they approached. He stopped beside her and leaned around his wife. He spoke in the weird language.
Emma went strait to the hand motions. "Me. In. Wagon. You. Go?" He narrowed his eyes in contemplation. His wife said something. He replied. Then he nodded. Thank the lord for universal motions, like the smile. They had a cool saying during the '08 Olympics that she couldn't remember about smiles being universal. Emma clambered in the back of the wagon beside a basket of carrots. As hungry as she was, she didn't dare risk losing her ride. Her stomach growled as the wagon jostled her around.
Night fell, and her rear went numb and her legs fell asleep while he nose ran with the cold. Stars popped out above her, but she couldn't drift off because of all the bumps in the road. The wife, hover seemed more than capable of relaxing on the cart. Her soft snores hovered in the still air amidst the quiet clank and creak of the bouncy wagon. Later, the man woke his wife and he fell asleep while she drove. As the sun rose, her husband took back the reigns. Emma looked tiredly around. In the distance, she could see buildings. Excited she foolishly hoped for English. As they got steadily neared her heart sank. It was worse than she'd ever imagined. In the distance was a huge wall around a city. The city was huge. And above the city was a castle. Either she was in a completely Amish country, which could be sort of possible since she knew nothing of Amish people beside the fact that they lived a couple centuries behind the rest of the world, or something was horribly wrong with her sanity because these days few dressed like medieval English and certainly not as many as the gigantic city guaranteed.
When, an hour or so later, they finally approached the gates Emma sank as low down as possible. Guards holding spears and wearing swords at their waists looked over the wagon. They stared at her. Thankfully they didn't seem to have a dress code they could enforce, so the wagon was let through the gaits with minimal delay. Just inside the husband turned and gestured at her to get off. She did so and waved, a weak sort of thank you, but all that she could think of on such quick notice. People stared and Emma started to get frustrated. She was in a place she'd never ever imagined, where everyone stared at her for perfectly normal clothes and she had absolutely no money to buy their type of clothes because she could hardly explain to someone her situation or ask for a small job to earn the money. It was not fair.
Ignoring the stares as well as she could, Emma walked through the crowed in a social bubble. At a brisk pace she franticly searched for a nice place to hide. Everyone was staring. Forcing her way into the first small place she could see, Emma found herself in a tiny kitchen supply shop. They had bowls and spoons and forks and all sorts of carved items. There were no price tags and even the owner seemed to be mysteriously absent. Emma quickly found the most hidden nitch of the small room and pretended to be interested in an intricately carved type of utensil that she'd never seen before. Really, she just wanted to keep from crying. She had no clue where she was, how she got there, had no way of communicating with others and was stared at! She didn't notice the return of the shopkeeper until a deep voice spoke to her. Whirling around she came face to face with a elderly gentle man. His hair was all white and his brown eyes were hooded with wrinkled.
He smiled at her, seemingly unfazed by her clothes. "I don't speak your language," she told him quickly. He just kept smiling. Then he said something and pointed to himself. She frowned and he repeated.
"Alden," he said pointing to himself. Was it his is name, or perhaps the word 'I'? She tested it.
"Alden," she said, pointing to herself. He shook his head and she smiled. "Alden," she pointed at him. Then at herself, "Emma."
But, as nice as it was to have even such a brief period of understanding, it had really accomplished nothing. She needed clothes, food, shelter, knowledge… and how could she even begin to convey that? Still, he seemed a wise old man and took the initiative to ask her.
Where are you from? He wanted to ask her, but he settled for the more conveyable questions. "You follow," he said with gestures. He led walked to the back. She followed cautiously; he seemed harmless… There was a small kitchen in back. He had a bed in the corner. He led her up a ladder. It was a small room; an attic might better describe it. Very dusty, it had a small shuttered window and an old cot in the corner. It was probably less that 3 by 3 yards, but she was already catching on when he said, "Do you need to stay here?" Her eyes widened at his generosity and she eagerly accepted. Complete stranger though he was, so was everyone else and the necessities of life needed to be filled. Shelter was one of those.
The man stared for a moment at her clothes. What is that? He wanted to ask her. Instead he said, "You need different clothes. I can buy you some." He could tell that she didn't fully understand. What she did get would have to do. He had many questions, but the good fisher is one who knows how to wait and the answers he longed to catch were a long time in coming.
He went back down and she followed him. For a while she shadowed him in silence as he wondered what to do. It was while he was cooking dinner much later that that it dawned on him. He himself had learned a second language when he was just a boy. Of course, by now he had completely forgotten every painfully learned word of Scaran, but the classes with a strict man speaking only the harsh, unknown language stuck in his mind. Complete immersion. Theoretically, she could pick it up if he spoke enough of it. So, deciding she might as well be useful as well, he placed the carrots beside him and handed her a knife. "You can dice the carrots," he told her. She got the gist of it. "I normally do this all myself. I have lived alone for many years,' he told her pointlessly, just to speak of something. She gazed at him, trying to understand what he wanted her to do. Finally she seemed to realize he was just talking.
He continued, "I have run this shop for many years, since King Jonathan's father took the throne, yes I am that old. I hand carve everything in this simple shop. I have always loved the feel of wood and seen the pictures hidden inside it. Though you have not seen any customers and you probably feel I don't sell much, the King himself buys my creations for his dining hall. That is really how I survive. He is willing to pay quite a sum for my simple works for he knows that without his purchases I wouldn't be able to keep up my trade because silverware is hardly a common necessity." Emma chopped as she listened to him chat. It was pleasant, a refreshing break from stress as she let her mind wander over his strange sounding words trying to pick out them individually. Yawning she slipped the carrots into the stew as he continued to talk. His voice was deep and soothing.
Emma sat at the table and picked at her wilted daisy chains as he stirred dinner. All she wanted was to fall asleep. He seemed to notice her exhaustion so when he placed the soup in front of her he asked her no questions, simply continued the slow monologue. And, when she was finished, he didn't even ask her to help clean up. Emma noted that vaguely as she climbed the ladder and fell into bed. She'd have to make it up to him.
Below her attic room Alden slowly finished his out stew, staring thoughtfully at the empty bowl across from him. He did not yet regret taking the strange child in and doubted he ever would, but the questions… they were better left for another time. Standing he did the dishes, drying them and placing them gently onto their shelf before shedding all but his loincloth, lying them carefully on the back of a chair before settling into bed. Hopefully the girl had enough sense not to come downstairs too early.
Please review, I'm working on the next chapter and reviews are motivating!