Author's Note:
Well, my trip to Chicago starts Saturday morning, so this is probably the last update you'll see for about a week. I'll be writing this story through the rest of the month, along with my Tsubasa drabbles, and then I'll continue the rest in April, when I(hopefully) have more time to write.
2. Learning the Language
Fujitaka wiped the sweat from his brow and returned his attention to the etchings in the wall. "These are the same runes that were inscribed above the doorway," he told his colleague, holding up a photograph of the etchings he'd examined this morning.
Kentaro nodded, adjusting the strap on his forehead so the flashlight illuminated the runes. His boyish smile was visible even in the dim light. "What do you think it means?"
Tracing his finger over the stone—lightly, so as not to damage the markings—Fujitaka repeated the question to himself. A few of the symbols were vaguely familiar, probably derived from the object they were intended to describe, but not enough for him to comprehend the meaning. "I don't know. I've never seen writing quite like this." He moved his index finger over one symbol. This one was symmetrical, two right triangles facing away from each other. Thinner lines had been carved from the hypotenuse, stretching toward the center. A pair of wings, he guessed. But that could mean anything, from a literal pair of wings to an abstract concept like freedom or heaven. Until the research team deciphered more of the letters, he wouldn't know.
He recorded these in his notebook, being careful to note even the minor details. Then, he took a picture. Something to back up his drawings, in case anyone ever questioned their validity.
Someone called for them from the top of the steps. "It's dusk. Time to head back."
Fujitaka smiled to Kentaro, tucking his notebook away in his bag. "I've got to get going," he said quickly. "There's someone I need to go see."
One of Kentaro's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Oh? Has the great Fujitaka found a woman to settle down with at last?"
He chuckled. "No, nothing like that. I met a lost child yesterday. I wanted to check back with the police to see if they've found his parents yet."
"Yesterday? But it was storming all afternoon! You shouldn't be out in those conditions."
Fujitaka slung his bag over his shoulder and started up the stairs, moving over them as if each step was a priceless artifact. Until it could be concluded otherwise, they were. These wing-shaped ruins were a discovery on par with the pyramids he'd investigated in the desert south of here. "Exactly. And if I shouldn't be out in that weather, neither should a seven-year-old."
"So . . . Was he lost, or abandoned, or . . . ?"
"I don't know. He didn't speak."
Kentaro's lips curled down in an uncharacteristic frown. "If he was mute, his parents might have decided to abandon him. If they were poor, and couldn't afford water . . ."
Fujitaka looked over to his colleague, shaken. But he had to admit, even in this peaceful country, it was possible. In the desert, water was more precious than gold. Having an ample supply of water to bathe or cultivate fields was a mark of wealth. Though their team of archaologists had secured a promise of water from the royal family for the duration of their stay, the impact of the sullen faces of those who stared at the inaccessible fountains had not been lost on him.
The storm had brought temporary relief to the desert, but if the boy's family couldn't supply themselves with water during the rainy season, what hope did they have for the rest of the year? And if the boy really was mute, that would only make the choice easier for them.
No, he thought. That can't be true. No one can deny a child such basic needs. Surely, if his family was in such a dire situation, someone would help. Surely.
They reached the top of the stairs, where the corridor opened up into a vast, circular room supported by stone pillars. A massive decoration marked the floor here, the only adornment in the otherwise empty room. This mark, carved of lighter stone than the rest of the floor, was symmetrical, like the image Fujitaka had identified before. Unlike that tiny image, however, this one was carved with graceful lines and great care, spreading out in a defined shape clearly meant to suggest wings. Wing-shaped ruins, wing-shaped floor patterns, wing-shaped letters . . . It has to mean something. But what?
He sighed, lifting his arm to stave off the gust of chilly wind that pierced his light shirt. The desert turned unbearably hot during the day, but as soon as the sun set, the temperature declined sharply. The thin sheen of sweat he'd accumulated after a day of examining the ruins now stripped away his body heat as reliably as ice water. He hurried over to the trough where the team stored their water and refilled his canteen to the top, suddenly anxious that the water wouldn't be there tomorrow.
"See you later, Fujitaka-san," Kentaro called, waving as Fujitaka abandoned the cluster of people.
Fujitaka hurried through the bazaar, pushing through the evening rush of people. He paused at one stall to buy bread, then decided to purchase an extra loaf in case the boy he'd found yesterday was still waiting at the police station.
He walked quickly, hoping to get out of the rapidly cooling air as soon as possible. When he arrived at the station, the man behind the counter glanced up. "Hey, I remember you," he said, though Fujitaka only had vague recollection of the man's face from their encounter yesterday.
He bowed. "Did that boy's parents ever show up?" he asked.
"Nope. Haven't even gotten a bird from the nearby village. No one seems to be looking for him."
A lump rose in Fujitaka's throat, part pity and part concern. Kentaro can't be right, he told himself, trying to reason that the other man's youth contributed to his cynical view. Barely in his twenties, Kentaro was likely still focused on the obstacles in his life, not the moments of warmth. The boy's family will come. They must.
Fujitaka found himself asking, "May I see him?"
The officer shrugged and strolled over to the door behind the desk. He whistled twice, then propped the door open wider.
The boy stepped across the threshold, eyeing the hinges warily as he passed. The pale brown cloak Fujitaka had swaddled him in yesterday trailed behind him like a cape.
"There's someone here to see you," the officer said. For the first time, the boy looked up. The eye that wasn't covered by bandages widened, pupil dilating slightly. After the briefest hesitation, the boy hurried up to him.
"I brought you something," Fujitaka said, kneeling down so his face was level with the boy's eye. He held up the small loaf he'd purchased at the bazaar in silent offering.
Two tiny hands reached out and wrapped around the sides of the loaf. The boy clutched the pastry to his chest, holding it like it might be taken away at any moment. The action forced the boy to let go of the edges of the cloak, displaying his clothes and arms for the first time since walking out of the back room. Fresh bandages ringed both arms, though some of the less severe scrapes had been left uncovered, making his condition look a bit less abused. The bandages around his left eye, sodden after the rain yesterday, had also been replaced. He wore a new shirt, the damp one from yesterday replaced by someone here at the station. The only thing that wasn't new was the cloak.
The boy stared at the bread a moment longer, his expression quizzical. Finally, he lifted the loaf to his face, sniffing it before deciding it was fit for consumption.
His hesitation was rather . . . endearing.
After the first bite, the child looked up at him. His expression was blank, his gaze unnaturally direct for a child. From what Fujitaka had observed of children, they were generally inquisitive creatures, prone to rapid mood swings as well as unquestioning acceptance. But as those dark eyes stared back at him, Fujitaka saw something haunted in them, as if some fragment of darkness, unknown to the boy, had embedded itself deep in his psyche.
The boy went back to eating his bread, silently accepting the offering. Fujitaka pulled his glasses from his face and wiped the sand from the lenses with a piece of cloth he'd tucked away in his pocket. When he put his glasses back on, the boy was staring at him.
Experimentally, he removed his glasses again, then replaced them. The boy's eyes were wide now, shocked. Does he think these were permanently attached to my face? Fujitaka wondered. If the boy didn't understand such a simple fact at this stage in his life, that either indicated he had some underlying mental problem, or amnesia.
The boy reached out and plucked the glasses from Fujitaka's face. Even with his now-blurred vision, he could see the boy lift the spectacles to his own face, manipulating them with one hand while the other clutched the loaf of bread. As the lenses covered the boy's eyes, his head twitched to the side.
Fujitaka extended one hand, palm up. "Can I have those back?" he asked, keeping his voice soft since he doubted the boy understood him. Perhaps there would be time to teach the boy a bit of the language, if his parents didn't return.
Of course not, he berated himself. His family will come looking for him soon and take him away from here.
He felt the cool metal of his glasses brush against the palm of his hand and brought them up to his face. As his vision was restored, he spoke. "Thank you."
Brown eyes stared back at him, asking a thousand unspoken questions: who are you? Why are you being kind to me? What do those words mean?
Might as well start at square one, Fujitaka thought, shifting so he was sitting cross-legged in front of the boy. The officer had returned to his desk, but was watching them with a look of challenge in his eyes, as if daring Fujitaka to try and make the boy speak. I could teach him the basics, at least, he thought. That might make it easier for the boy to find his parents.
He decided to start on the simple things. He pointed to his chest, making sure the child was watching. The one-eyed gaze never wavered. "Fujitaka," he said, drawing the word out.
The boy's eyebrows slanted down. No flicker of comprehension.
Patience. Try it again. He tapped his chest with his index finger and repeated his name. "Fujitaka."
The boy blinked.
He tried again several times, hoping for the boy to parrot the word back to him. After a while, it occurred to him that, in the long run, it would do the boy little good to remember the name of an unremarkable archeologist.
He pointed to the boy, hoping to elicit a name from him. The boy stood silent, his head tilting a few degrees to the side. The furrow in his brow deepened.
Maybe something more tangible. Fujitaka reached forward and held up a section of his cloak. The boy's hand snaked out to capture the edge of the garment, tugging it as if he was afraid to lose it. "Cloak," Fujitaka explained, holding the fabric up, then letting it drift harmlessly back into place.
"I already tried that," the officer behind the counter said. "If he can speak, he's incredibly shy."
"Even so, if I can teach him a few words, he might be able to understand some of what's going on."
The brief conversation removed the dip in the boy's eyebrows, making his face turn from intensity to pondering. Fujitaka could almost see the gears turning away in the child's brain as he tried to make the connection between language and communication. It was that look, so thoughtful and contemplative, that made Fujitaka think it was not a mental problem holding him back, but some missing detail that he'd never had cause to know.
He would teach the boy, he decided. Just until his parents showed up.
Fujitaka spent the better part of the next few hours naming different things in the police station. When two officers walked through the front door, returning from their daily patrols, they gave him quizzical looks and murmured in low voices about his peculiar interest in the child. Though they could probably guess from the subject matter that this was a lesson in the language of Clow, they didn't seem to understand his intent. They've already written this boy off as mute, Fujitaka thought. But it doesn't matter. What's important is that he learns some way of communicating. And for that, he needs to understand this language.
When dusk deepened to night, Fujitaka stood up and addressed the officer. The other man had been working on paperwork since his arrival, burying himself in his work once the lessons lost interest for him. "I'll be going now," Fujitaka said, bowing. "Thank you for taking care of the boy."
The other man shrugged. "Have to. Can't abandon him in the desert to die of dehydration."
The words struck him after his brief chat with Kentaro earlier today. What if he was abandoned? Who will take care of him when nobody shows up to claim him? He'd seen the community center a few blocks away, but it had always seemed an ominous place to him, the kind of place where people went when they had nowhere else to go. Would he go there, young as he is? Or would they eventually have to release him to the streets?
Troubled, he did his best to smile at the boy before turning toward the door.
Like yesterday, he felt the tug of fabric by his knee and looked down. The child stared up at him with a gaze that was a thousand years old. Slowly, the boy removed the beige cloak and held it out to him.
Fujitaka stared back, startled by the fact that the boy had released the cloak for the first time since he'd donned it. For a moment, he couldn't move.
The boy shifted the cloak slightly, as if urging him to take it.
Fujitaka knelt down in front of the boy and took the cloak in his hands. The boy stepped back and wrapped his arms around his torso, like he was cold. Fujitaka spread the thick fabric out and waved it through the air to straighten it. Then, he rested it over the boy's shoulders and head, wrapping it around his torso. "You can keep this until your parents come to get you."
The boy drew the garment tighter around his frame, so it covered all his other clothes. Then he nodded—the clearest response Fujitaka had seen out of him yet.
He lifted one hand to tousle the boy's brown hair, then swept out of the station, ready to get back to his bed after a long day at the ruins.
The man understood.
As he cradled the cloak close to his chest, the boy contemplated that. It was as if the man had picked the thoughts right out of his mind. How could the man have known how much he'd wanted to learn the meanings behind those strange sounds if that wasn't the case?
He clutched the cloak to his chest. The man in blue had required him to remove it in exchange for a pair of soft pajamas, but allowed him to hold onto it while he slept. The soft slab the man had labeled as a "mattress" was too lumpy to provide much comfort. The boy relied on the cloak to soothe himself.
He didn't know what the man had said before he'd left, but he hoped it meant he was coming back.
The man returned the following day, bearing gifts of fruit. This time, he spent some time making long strings of sounds, gesturing with his hands at every opportunity. The boy watched, learning more from the man's body language than the sounds themselves.
There had to be some connection, he knew. Some critical difference between these thirty-syllable words and the simple words the man had connected to objects yesterday. But the boy couldn't figure out what.
Four sunrises came and went, always followed by a long period of light, then a sunset, then a long period of darkness. Only two people interacted with him: the man who'd met him in the rain, and the man in the blue uniform.
Every day, just after the bright orange orb vanished from beyond the window(he could label it as a window, now that he'd learned the word for it) the man returned, bringing him extra food and making sounds. After the first few visits, the boy realized the sounds were much more complex than he'd initially thought. There were words for objects—many, many words, more than he could possibly absorb no matter how long he spent trying to remember them. This was made more difficult by the fact that some of the words were similar, but meant different things.
He tried. The sounds bridged the gap between him and the man, though many of them were nonsensical to his ears. It became more difficult as concepts became more abstract. It took almost a quarter of an hour for him to connect the word "blink" with the action the man was making, instead of the body part he was using to make it. When he finally mimicked the action in understanding, the man's palms slapped together repeatedly, his lips twitching upward again.
Every night, though, the man would stand up, make a long string of sounds, then turn toward the door. Every night, the boy would grab the leg of his pants, hoping to stop him from leaving, or make the man take him away to other places. In response to this, the man's lips would curl down, and he'd shake his head(a gesture the boy somewhat understood, but which contained subtleties he couldn't yet identify). Usually, a few words would follow. But then the man would leave again.
One night, the boy resolved to follow him.
The door clicked shut as the uniformed man retired for the night. The boy curled up on top of the mattress, using the cloak as a cushion for his head as well as a blanket. The rough, heavy fabric wasn't exactly comfortable, but the subtle, familiar smell relaxed him.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, he had a mission.
He waited for the shuffle of feet to subside in the other room. From the moment he'd come into existence, he'd had excellent hearing.
The officer moved around the other room, his footsteps mingling with the occasional rustle of papers. Sometimes, his shoes squeaked when he moved across the floor.
The boy waited. Listened. Watched. When the light peeking under the door went out, he crawled out of bed and draped the cloak around his shoulders. He walked, wincing as his shoes collided with the floor. After a few steps, he sat down on the tiled floor and removed the shoes. They'd be evidence of his escape, but if someone heard him now, it would all be for nothing.
He walked over to the door, resting his ear against the wood. When he heard nothing, he risked turning the knob. When that prompted no response, he slipped out into the front room.
A figure was slumped over in the chair, legs raised high and resting on the edge of the desk. The boy froze. What if they'd stationed someone here to make sure he didn't escape?
But the figure's only movement was the slight rise and fall of his chest. Alive but unconscious.
The boy moved on. There was a bell on door, attached to the top by a small thread. He stared at it a long moment, glancing back at the uniformed man. It was not the one who had grown familiar after days of bringing him meals, but one he knew vaguely from various encounters since he'd been brought here. The boy didn't know whether he slept soundly, or lightly.
He decided to take a risk, pushing the door open in such minute movements, a person's eye wouldn't have been able to track the shift in real time. As soon as it was open wide enough for him to get out, he slipped through, eyes trained on the bell as if it would spontaneously start ringing.
It didn't. As soon as the door closed behind him, he hurried into the silent bazaar, looking for the man.