Names have meaning.
Newt's traveled to many places, gotten a taste of many cultures, and in each names were valued differently. He's met monks who've abandoned their in favor of spiritual realization and, in the same continent, a women with an introduction so long it spanned minutes, adding a new title with each passing footnote in her life.
Names comes and go with the girl's people. When the boys make the transition into manhood, they often discard their birth names and become Acinbaai, taking on names after their favorite cattle (in the short period he's remained at the village, he's already learned more ways to say cow than he ever thought possible). The women of the village have unoriginal, common names, but somehow they're all unfitting for the little girl.
Newt would like to call her by a name, so he may stop referring her merely as "the girl." She deserves a name; something wild and different, like her.
"You need a name- a proper name," says Newt one afternoon. "Everyone has one."
They're out in the jungle a little ways from her hut, out of sight of the village. It's become something of a second home, a patch of sun with flat rocks and thick roots where they can lay about, the river only down the way. The warm weather leaves the jungle in a doze, only a few birds flitting about, while Newt sits back and watches the girl dig her fingers into the dirt.
She has a name, he knows, but none of the villagers will tell him and he doesn't think they ever will unless they've drunk a truth serum. A monster does not deserve a name, they say.
Newt's heard her speak, a few noises that resemble words he's heard the villagers say here and there, even some English words that undoubtedly came from him, and yet he can't get a syllable out of her whenever he asks for her name. She understands what he's asking, he knows, so either she doesn't want to tell him or she can't remember it herself.
It makes Newt wonder how long this persecution has been going on.
She's intelligent, far more so than he'd given her credit for when he'd first met her. Not only that, but she's inquisitive. With the years of setback, she's behind on basic learnings, but it has nothing to do with a lack of wanting. He gives her paper and charcoal and soon her drawings turns to copies of his writing, scraggly words that are almost legible. She goes through his suitcase (when it's only just a suitcase, not a hidden menagerie), examining his spying glass and maps, stroking his house scarf and pajamas, even playing with his alarm clock.
"I can give you one if you'd like. How about an English name?"
She looks up at him briefly before going back to her digging. Newt takes this as an affirmative.
"Gertrude?"
He chuckles when she sticks out her tongue. "No? Well, how about Abigail?" Again, he's met with disgust. "What? That's a fine name! Hmm, alright- Tilda? Victoria? Delilah?"
He offers other names that he knows she won't like if only to get a little joy out of her. Thelma. Geraldine. Bertha. Myrtle. Eunice. Winfred.
He rattles them off until his list of proper English names runs dry and, still, the girl hasn't found one she likes. It's clear they won't be going far with this selection, so his best bet is to change tactics. "I've heard some names while traveling…"
He plays around with Rukhayma, disregarding it with Aamira and Awek. She ignores him when he offers Aliya, turning away at Kazima.
"Marjani? Aluel? Imani?" She perks up. "Imani? No- not Imani? Aluel? That's the one you like? Aluel?"
She smiles and Newt returns it, just as bright.
"Wonderful." Chuckling, he pulls out a daisy from his sleeve and offers it to her. "Aluel it is."