by Lily Velez
This didn’t work either.
Finally, he brought the matter to his father one day, saying that if his work output had noticeably decreased in any way as of late, it was only due to Jeremie’s unrelenting company. His father was a dedicated worker, the backbone of their family. Noah didn’t know where they’d be without him. He was their compass, their foundation. Most of all, he was someone Noah admired, someone Noah never wished to disappoint. Perhaps if he advised Jeremie to limit his visits or even stay away altogether, Noah would be able to excel at his own work once more and continue making a worthy contribution to the family.
His father only laughed. His laughter was like the sun fracturing into a thousand fragments of breathtaking light, like diamonds falling from the sky right into a person’s waiting hands. Normally, it was a contagious sound, enough to rouse any man’s joy no matter how long it’d slept in his soul. That afternoon, it only made Noah frown.
“There’s no need to slave-drive yourself,” he said. “Your mother and I see how hard you work. It doesn’t bother us for you to have company.”
It didn’t help when Jeremie started to assist Noah with his tasks, thus nullifying the argument. If Noah was feeding the animals, Jeremie would fetch a pail to feed them as well. If he was carrying tools from one side of the farm to another, Jeremie would join him to half the chore. If Noah was shepherding the horses in from the pasture, sure enough, Jeremie would round up the animals right alongside him.
And all the while he talked, talked, talked.
As time passed, Camilla exerted her best efforts at appearing unaffected by Jeremie’s preference in company. She’d batted her lashes and toyed with her hair and executed any number of tricks, but if Jeremie noticed, he said nothing, did nothing. (Admittedly, such inattention won Noah’s admiration. It was rare for a young man to not succumb to Camilla’s silly posturing and thereafter fawn over her. Clearly Jeremie had some sense about him.)
Camilla, however, couldn’t understand such immunity. Eventually, her patience waned, and when it did, she went on the attack. Following every one of Jeremie’s visits, she’d badger Noah with questions.
“Did Jeremie ask after me?”
That was the most common one.
When Noah told her he hadn’t, she’d purse her lips. “Surely he has and you’re only telling me otherwise. Besides, he doesn’t have a wife.”
It sounded more like a question, but Noah purposed not to respond. Mostly because he didn’t know.
“Well does he?”
Leave me alone, he wanted to say. Never before had his solitude been so intruded upon. Was this the price of kindness then? He’d made the mistake of humoring Camilla all those weeks ago and had only ended up acquiring a second shadow for himself that he had yet to shake. Camilla’s added interrogations only worsened the torment.
Camilla crossed her arms. “It’s absolutely beyond me how he makes conversation with you. What do you two even talk about?”
It sounded more like, what could he possibly derive from a friendship with you?
Noah wanted to confess he’d ask himself the same question more than once.
As for what they talked about—or rather, what Jeremie monologued about—what else?
Books.
Books, books, and more books. To say Jeremie was an aficionado of the written word was a gross understatement. He adored books. He worshipped books. He lived for books. They were his first love. They were his passion. Perennials, perfumes—their fragrances were to be praised, yes, but it was the smell of an ancient book’s pages that stirred Jeremie’s heart.
Once, he’d told Noah of his dream to one day embark upon a pilgrimage to all the great libraries of the world: the Clementinum in Prague—“legend says the Jesuits possessed but a single book when construction began in 1622; by the time construction finished, they were 20,000 volumes richer”; St. Mark’s Library in Venice—“surmounted by some of Alessandro Vittoria’s breathtaking, full-length sculptures”; the Trinity College Old Library in Ireland—“most people go to see the Book of Kells, a manuscript of extravagant ornamentation which contains the four gospels”; and the Joanina Library of Portugal—“perhaps the only library with its own colony of bats, who feast on paper-eating insects by night and thus preserve the books.”
There were others, too. From all over the world and in places Noah had never even heard of before. He spoke of these libraries as if they were holy temples. Perhaps, to him, they were, with every last volume existing as nothing short of a sacred relic.
“It’s fascinating,” he once said. “Books transport us so easily to another time. Simple words inscribed on simple paper bound into a simple book can tell me about the hearts of men who lived centuries ago. In that moment, I’m connected to them, and it’s as if they’re alive once more.”
He spoke of other things as well. He marveled out loud over Avignon and interviewed Noah on its history and people. He spoke about his travels, recounting short-lived friendships with strangers and sights that had all but stolen the breath from his lungs. He shared his fondest memories as a child and lessons learned on the path to adulthood. And always, always, he asked Noah about himself, if he enjoyed his life on the farm (he did), if he’d ever dreamt of living elsewhere (he hadn’t), who he thought he might be in ten, twenty, or thirty years (Noah didn’t know).
And so, as May gave way to June, Jeremie would come with his stories and memories and legends and myths, and color Noah’s grayscale silence with a brilliant tapestry of narratives, and though he never appeared fazed by Noah’s great quietness, Noah nonetheless couldn’t help but feel out of place in his company.
He believed Jeremie mistook his silence for shyness, that Jeremie assumed that with enough prodding, Noah would speak openly and at length about any number of topics. How wrong he was. In time, though, he’d realize his mistake. He’d grow weary of the silence, of the halting responses, of the holes in Noah’s sentences. He’d move on. He’d find company elsewhere.
It’s what everyone eventually did.
Noah needed only be patient.
7
Camilla, as it were, would not be patient. Days later, Noah was returning to the farmhouse to collect washcloths when, from a few paces away, he heard through the open kitchen windows the name “Jeremie” in Camilla’s voice.
He crept through the vegetable garden, carefully stepping over the basil, parsley, and sage his mother used in her restorative teas and poultices. Yesterday, his father’s dog had trampled over them while in pursuit of a squirrel, much to his mother’s displeasure, and they’d all had to be replanted. Once he cleared the soft soil of freshly-dug rows, each like a gash in the black earth, he drew closer to the nearest window.
Inside, his mother, father, and sisters sat with Jeremie, a spread of fruit, cheese, and biscuits before them, the aroma of the warm bread wafting from inside and filling Noah’s nose. He nearly salivated. At the table, Genevieve was quietly sewing, and his sister Margaux, a few months his junior, hummed to herself as she kneaded and braided dough. The others ate as they spoke. What miracle was this, that Jeremie had come to the farm and hadn’t immediately sought out Noah?
“I found the poems to be incredibly lovely,” Camilla was saying. She rested her hand upon a small book, and that’s when Noah saw it to be the one Jeremie had given him. He didn’t like the idea of her pawing through his belongings. She’d shriek like a creature from hell if someone returned the favor in kind.
“Is this what you speak with Noah about all day?” she asked. “Poetry?”
“Sometimes, yes. He’s a most gracious listener.” Jeremie raised a tin cup to his mouth to drink. At the center of the table stood a carafe of water. Slices of lemon and lime swam in the liquid with mint leaves.
“A listener indeed,” Camilla said, laughing. “That must be all he does. If it’s a conversation partner you seek, I’m afraid you won’t find it in Noah. It’s a pity you should waste your words on one who hardly uses his own.”
“Camilla,” Noah’s mother scolded gently. Her back was to him, but Noah imagined she wore a frown. She didn’t appreciate it when her children spoke ill of each other.
He wanted to tell her it was all well and good. Camilla, hard as it was to admit, was right. It was a waste, and it was time Jeremie recognize that. He rested a hand on the boxed flowers hanging from the windowsill and waited for Jeremie’s response. He didn’t realize how much he was bracing himself until the words came.
“I don’t consider it a pity at all actually.”
He paused, then blinked, then knitted his brow. No, that couldn’t be right. He moved even closer to the window and studied Jeremie closely, as if to catch the first trace of a lie.
“But it must be frustrating,” Camilla said.
“I assure you, it’s no trouble really.”
Noah stared at the scene before him as if taking in a tableau, like the ones traveling players posed for during the Advent season, costumed magi and shepherds surrounding a manger. No trouble? But how could that be? Jeremie was maddeningly loquacious. Didn’t it stand to follow that he’d prefer the company of those of like nature?
“I only hope I haven’t offended him somehow,” Jeremie went on. “Does he always speak so little? I wondered if perhaps there was a method by which you typically draw conversation out of him. Or is he only shy?”
“It’s simply his way,” Noah’s father said. He sat at the head of the table so that Noah saw him in profile. He had the look of a king entertaining his guests, his posture self-assured but welcoming.
He shared a look with Noah’s mother before proceeding. “Over a decade ago, I was in Paris to visit a relation of ours. Chaos erupted during my time there when certain protests suddenly escalated. Given my experience with the militia, I felt compelled to restore order in any way I could. I took to the streets to help the injured and bring them to safety.
“That’s when I found Noah. He was only a small child. It was night, and he was curled up beside two bodies along the curb of an avenue. His parents, I later learned. I obviously couldn’t leave him there. After much coaxing, I took him with me, and when I finally left Paris to return here to Avignon, I brought him along.
“It soon became apparent, however, that Noah was a bit unique. Try as we did to learn more about him and his family, we were only ever met with silence. Days passed. Weeks. Then even months. Still, not a word. We only learned his name by going through the entire alphabet with him over and over. By that point, we’d concluded that he was perhaps mute.
“Imagine my shock, then, when he came running up to me in the fields one day, pulling at my shirt, pointing toward the forest with such urgency. I thought perhaps he was trying to show me something he’d seen. A hawk making loops in the sky. Then I thought it was something more—a wild animal that might prey on the sheep. I started for the barn for a weapon, but Noah just wouldn’t let me go. And I suppose it was out of desperation that he finally uttered his first word. Or name, rather: ‘Colin!’
“As it turned out, Colin and Noah had gone for a walk in the forest when Colin had suddenly fallen into an abandoned well. He lay unconscious at the well’s bottom. My first reaction was pure shock, of course. ‘My God, you can speak!’ I exclaimed.” He laughed gently at the memory. “And then once I understood his meaning, he led me to the well and we were able to bring Colin to safety.”
“How extraordinary,” Jeremie said. “After so many months of silence, you must’ve been thrilled to learn you could speak with him after all.”
“We were,” Noah’s father said. “Except that Noah wasn’t particularly keen on changing the way of things even then. We certainly made every attempt at prying words from him. We must’ve driven him mad, plaguing him with questions like that. We only served to send him right back into his silence.”
“It wasn’t until the ducks that we truly got to know who he was,” Noah’s mother said.
Outside the window, Noah closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against a shutter, the wood cool under his skin. Not the ducks. He sighed with his whole body as his mother recalled the story.
He’d first discovered the nest in the reeds by the lake. It was fashioned from dry grass, moss, and bark chips and lined with down feathers. It contained seven eggs. After three days and many an unsuccessful attempt to locate a mother duck, Noah had snuck the eggs into the farmhouse, fabricating a makeshift nest under his bed out of his siblings’ socks, shirts, blankets, and aprons. (They’d go on to complain about the mysteriously missing laundry for weeks). His mother was the one to discover the nest, and only because the ducklings had begun to hatch out and make small sounds while Noah fed the chickens outside—the only chore his mother and father had the heart to give him while he was yet frail.
“Noah, come quickly!” she’d called out from the porch, and he worried that he’d done something wrong. But she only smoothed his hair and delivered him to the boys’ room. She told him his ducklings had arrived.
“There are some still hatching out. Would you like to see?” He nodded, of course, and so she gently slid out the would-be nest from under his bed. “Go on, it's all right,” she said, putting a tender hand to his back to guide him closer to the ducklings.
There were two ducklings fully out of their shells, huddled close to each other. Two additional ducklings had only managed to break the top half of their shell so far, and their fuzzy heads calmly stuck out as they wriggled their bodies every few seconds in an attempt to free themselves from their eggs. The remaining three eggs stayed at rest.
“They, too, will come in time,” his mother told him. “If you're very gentle, you may touch one ever so lightly on its head. Yes, just like that.”
And Noah, warmed by the sight and feel of the tiny living things, suddenly smiled.
“It was the first time I ever saw him smile,” Noah’s mother shared with the others. “It was a magical moment.”
Noah listened, not realizing how deeply the incident had touched her. She grabbed a cloth and dabbed at her face, no doubt catching tears.
“And did he continue to care for the ducks as they grew?” Jeremie asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “He became their surrogate mother in every practical sense. In the weeks that passed, they followed him everywhere, a line of seven ducklings trailing behind him, their little feet speedily pitter-pattering to keep pace. It was the most precious thing.”
“What ever became of them?”
“Why, those very same ducks live with us still. I’m sure you’ve seen them during your visits. They adore Noah. They rush to greet him and peck at his trousers each time he returns home from town, eager to receive their portion of the baguettes he never fails to bring them.”
“We finally came to understand Noah’s nature,” his father said. “He wasn’t boisterous or talkative like the others, but it wasn’t because there was something wrong with him. It was because he feels most at home with the animals. He’s a gentle soul who enjoys the calm and quiet, who embraces it even. Unfortunately, not everyone who makes his acquaintance understands that. We tend to recoil from those who are unlike us. I suppose that’s why it’s pleased us so much to see how you’ve taken to him. Noah’s never had a friend before, and so we worried about his aloneness at times.”
Jeremie smiled. “I understand completely.”
Camilla’s face, meanwhile, was sour. She sweetened it just before she spoke. “You’re only being kind, Jeremie. Someone like you must thrive on conversation. I’m sure interacting with Noah has been such a difference.”
“Different, yes, but not at all exasperating. In my experience, I’ve found that our differences are what make life fascinating. Imagine, for instance, if all the flowers on your farm looked completely identical from one to the other. What beauty would there be in that? None, I should think. It’s the same with the human race. Our differences shouldn’t divide us. They should be cause to celebrate. They should be something we marvel at. Besides, if everyone i
n the world only talked, then who would be left to listen?”
8
Days later, Noah was in town with his father.
As Elliot and Colin were now preparing for the wheat harvest, Noah’s trading duties had rebounded back to him. Fortunately, Camilla was far too inundated with laundry to join him, which made for the rarity that was a most peaceful and tranquil journey.
He waited beside the horse and dray-cart a distance from the open-air markets, eyes combing the herd of faces for his father. They’d split up earlier to more quickly corral the supplies and foods they needed, agreeing to reconvene where Noah now stood by noon.
Noah referred to the hands on a neighboring clock tower’s giant face.
He was early.
Not for the first time, he dared a glimpse down the dirt avenue to an unassuming storefront with pale blue doors: Jeremie’s bookshop. As he took it in, he became aware of the weight in his pocket, which made him further aware of the weight on his mind.
Again and again, he’d revisited Jeremie’s words from his last visit, turning them over, prodding at them, trying to make sense of them. He was like one of today’s many market-goers, picking up one fruit after another, checking for toughness or softness or bruises or brightness.
He’s a most gracious listener. Noah had half expected Jeremie to be speaking in an ironical sense, but when he’d inspected his face, he’d seen that Jeremie spoke only in earnest. Noah almost felt ashamed he hadn’t listened better.
It’s no trouble, he’d said.
Well, he’d be the first to think that. Noah recalled a great many times when others had been outright roiled by his nature. A man once hailed him as rude for not offering a greeting “like a proper Frenchman” when Noah had come to examine the man’s wares in the market. Noah had only wanted the space to shop. In his experience, engaging merchants had always resulted in their hanging all over a person. Another time, a customer of his family’s grew impatient with Noah’s faltering responses to his unending assault of questions about their hay. Noah had only become overwhelmed by the rapidity at which the questions had come, like bullets shot by a firing squad.