Lingua Franca
Carole McDonnell
Mist removed two large coins from the blue money box on the counter and walked outside her shop. Closing the door, she reached for the ideograph placard which read, “Closed, but unlocked. Take what you need and leave your payment in the coin box.” The signboard in place, she stuffed the “D” volume of her interplanetary Webster’s Dictionary into her quilted backpack, strapped it on her back, and walked into the dusty bustle of the open-air market.
The market still basked in the heat although First Dusk had already come and Second Dusk had begun rolling across the sky. Using her marriage scarf to shield her face from the dusty streets, Mist headed towards the fruit stands where the Federation-approved traders sold exotic foods gathered from across the galaxy.
In the distance, near an ormat tree, four Federation off-worlders with ear-caps on their heads talked among themselves. One man carried something long and metallic on his shoulders. Another had a metallic box with a glass tube on one side. The only woman among them was looking through a metallic tube at the reddening sky. For several seconds, Mist studied the movement of their lips, but could decipher nothing.
The purple warning lights of the market flashed: three slow blinks, then two long ones. Mist felt a cold chill run down her back. A dread unsettled her mind and she glanced nervously at the Town Square stage. Two women with children strapped in chest-sacks raced past her.
I’m getting old, Mist thought as they rushed past. Fifty. Even with children on their chests, they fly past me. But age comes to all of us. The Creator was hard on me. But, at last, I had my child. Only one. And at forty, when most women are past their prime. That child, though, is a true blessing. Worth a million others. Flowers-in-the-Sun has extended my youth. Before her birth, I was a “ghost” – a childless woman.
Two more women raced past Mist. She caught a bit of their signed conversation. Their hands spoke of the cutting, about mouth-speech. To her left, two young mothers with small children strapped to their chests were also signing about the implanted children and the encroachment of the mouth-speaking Federation.
“These Earthers are not like the other off-worlders,” one woman signed. “They do not accept us as they find us. Look at them. Not content with fixing our ‘problem,’ now they say they’re ‘fixing’ our air. As if anything was ever wrong with our air. Why do the elders allow it?”
The other pointed in the direction of the Town Square stage and signed, “Today and tomorrow a News Carrier will bring us troubling stories about these meddlers.”
Mist looked up at the wallaou tree where the nearest lights were strung. The pattern of the warning lights had changed. Now three slow flashes followed one long beam. The News Carrier was already here and would begin soon.
I’m not too old to keep up with news, Mist thought. But Flowers-inthe-Sun has looked sad lately. News will have to wait. Something from the fruit stand will cheer her up.
When she stopped at the fruit stand of her favourite vendor, something orange caught her eye. The name of the fruit was written in the three regional ideographic dialects in addition to the lingua franca of the Federation: the English language. The “English” letters O-R-A-N-G-E took up more space than all the ideographs combined.
“Brother,” she addressed the old vendor, “the Earthers actually named a fruit after its colour?”
The grey-haired old man whose name was Smoothed Stone smiled back.
“Try it, Sister,” he signed. “It’s good. Your Sweet One has a sweet tooth. She might like it.”
Mist smiled. “Yes, Flowers-in-the-Sun does like these foreign sweets.”
“Only three coins each. Not a lot to pay for fruit from the far side of the universe.”
“She’s probably home from school by now, being spoiled by Ion’s unmarried sisters, or by his brothers’ wives,” Mist answered with fake petulance. “From the day of her birth, Flowers-in-the-Sun has been the family favourite. The girl is too spoiled. Why should I spoil her even more by bringing her expensive foreign fruits?”
Smoothed Stone smiled. “Perhaps because she expects it. And because she still plays and jokes with her elders.”
Mist raised her right eyebrow and clasped her hands in front of her mouth. The old man placed his clasped hands to his mouth too, but signed nothing. The old man obviously knew about recent events in her mother-in-law’s house where all the children, except Flowers-in-the-Sun, had been given the ear and throat implants. Lately, her implanted nieces and nephews had stopped signing. Now all they did was mouth-talk among themselves, indulging in “sounds” which the rest could neither hear nor understand.
Mist made a quick mental assessment of all the servants in her mother-in-law’s household and tried to figure out which was the old man’s liaison. She would have liked to know. An ally – even a servant – was always helpful. She would also have liked to gossip with him about the situation at home. But Ion’s family was extensive and prominent. To sign the family’s dirty laundry in public would not help her already troubled reputation. Nevertheless, Mist knew she had an ally and that the old man understood her.
She picked up two oranges and tried to fit them both in her backpack, but the dictionary filled the bag and only a small space remained. Mist was not about to be seen walking through the town square carrying something in her hand, like those women one couldn’t converse with in the streets because they had no servants to carry their ling-carts on shopping days. “I’ll take this fruit with a colour as a name,” she said. “Tomorrow I’ll get another.”
“The fruit is segmented,” he signed, as if reading her mind. “It will serve many.” Then he smiled and stretched out his hand for the payment.
Mist felt around in her dress pocket. Then she winked and smiling, gave Smoothed Stone two small coins instead of the three he had asked for.
Smoothed Stone took the coins and smiled conspiratorially. “You always were a girl with an eye for a bargain, Sister.”
Mist shrugged. “I might be married to someone outside the trader caste, but I haven’t lost my skills.”
When she returned home to Ion’s family’s compound, she was greeted by Ion’s mother and Flowers-in-the-Sun.
“Daughter Mine,” Ion’s mother, Shadow-of-Light-Turning said, “Flowers-in-the-Sun has been telling me about her day.”
“What about your other grandchildren?” Mist asked. “Don’t they have news also?”
“They keep to themselves,” Shadow-of-Light-Turning responded. “They’re practicing mouth-to-ear.”
“I don’t see why they have to practice mouth-to-ear,” Mist answered. “We can’t hear them anyway. Are they hiding things from each other now?”
Shadow-of-Light-Turning made the gesture which meant Mist was being argumentative and unreasonable as usual. “My dying wish is that my granddaughter will not be poor and isolated as her mother is,” she signed, casting a disgusted glance at Mist’s blue marriage scarf. “Can’t you wear the scarf of our caste?” Shadow-of-Light-Turning asked. Although Mist had used the green embroidery thread of the science cast throughout the scarf, her husband’s mother was still not appeased. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for being so strong-willed? And look at your daughter! The girl has no bracelets on her arms, no caste-cap, no jewellry around her calves, no gems around her neck and ankles. When I see her coming home from school capless, like an outcaste child, I cannot bear the shame.”
This woman has nothing else on her mind, Mist thought and signed, “She has not decided yet what caste-cap to wear.”
Her husband’s mother didn’t say the obvious, that a child should not have to choose her caste.
Ninety-eight people lived in the family compound, including servants – none of whom belonged to Ion. As a mere superintendent of standards and weights in the agricultural department, and that only because of his mother’s influence, Ion was not well paid. His family had tolerated his love-match marriage to a woman not of his work caste, but his c
o-workers had not. Neither the traders nor the scientists he worked with considered Ion truly qualified for the inter-caste job – in this case, a position which was both scientific and trade-related. And neither did the sub-caste of regulators consider him part of their network. He found peace and acceptance, however, among his family.
Mist, on the other hand, was accepted by the other traders. (Traders, being expedient, valued networks and friendships.) But she was grudgingly tolerated by her mother-in-law’s household who continually reminded her that Ion had given up an advantageous marriage to a woman of the science caste to marry her.
It didn’t help matters that because of the initial upheaval in both families, Ion and Mist flatly refused to accept monies or gifts from their relatives. Such were the dangers of love-matches.
Shadow-of-Light-Turning finished listing Mist’s many flaws and walked away without the requisite gesture of respect. Mist and Flowers-in-the-Sun exchanged knowing glances and Mist thought to herself, My little sunshine. My only female ally among my enemies. A minute later, the green entry lights of the family compound gates flashed: three long beams, two quick ones, then six quick ones. Ion’s pattern: he was home. Waiting to surprise him when he entered their area of the house, Mist stood by the door of their family apartment holding the orange in her outstretched hands.
But Ion did not immediately come up to their apartment. When he finally arrived upstairs, he told Mist his mother had intercepted him.
“She believes Flowers-in-the Sun should get the implants,” he signed. After a pause, he added, “And I agree with her.”
Mist could not answer him: the orange was in her hand. But she glared into his dark eyes until he turned his face away.
Mist put the orange in the food closet and walked over to her husband, slowly and deliberately. She forced him to look at her by raising her hands directly in front of his face. They were so close they almost touched his nose. Then she made the signs which meant, “No. Once again, my opinion does not matter.”
“Your mother has taught you many things,” Ion signed. “Chief of all is how to be an alarmist. The operation will not harm our daughter. Already she is alone, even among her cousins.”
“Because I worry about our daughter, I’m an alarmist?” Mist exclaimed. “Isn’t our heritage important to you?”
Ion made a gesture with his right hand that took in the entire house. “Compare,” he signed, “Mother’s house and Mother-in-Law’s house. Do not the compartments of our siblings overflow with riches? Have not both families gotten even richer since their implants? The universe is getting smaller. English is the common language of the Federation universe. And it’s ‘mouth-spoken,’ not signed. Of what use are traders who do not speak the lingua franca? Shouldn’t the thing be done?”
“You sound like your mother.”
“It is the only time I have ever sounded like her.”
Mist nodded. Ion had always stood by her in family quarrels. “But why agree with her now?” she asked.
“My agreement is not with her,” he signed, raising his eyebrow.
It dawned on Mist what Ion was saying. “Flowers-in-the-Sun requested the implants?”
Ion held his wife’s hands tightly and gently pulled them away from his face, towards the ground. He then released them, kissed her, and signed, “Children come of age.”
Mist pulled her hands from his. “But when she was here with your mother,” she told him, “she smiled at me as if she agreed with me. How could she change her mind so quickly?”
“Obviously, she’s been thinking about it for a while. You know how she is. She’s like us and yet not like us. She thinks as we do, but she likes fitting in.” He grinned. “Should not traders learn to ‘accept change’?”
For a moment, Mist was confused. Ion had used the Aqueduct sign which meant “coin” instead of the one which meant “alteration.” Then she remembered the various meanings of the English word ‘change.’ It was an effective bilingual pun which only a student of English would understand. And the joke only proved her point. The Aqueduct people, to whom Ion and Mist belonged, were linguists par excellence.
“You see,” she signed. “Look at your joke. ‘Change’ and ‘change.’ Does this not show that we are good at adapting, that we are an intelligent people, that it’s not necessary to implant and mouth-speak? Has not our culture taught us how to survive in a world of sound-speakers?”
Ion kissed her fingertips. Then he signed, “What can be done? I have given up my birth-livelihood. We have lived by integrity and we have been happy. But we have not been successful in our financial lives. Let our child live her life. Mist, my love, think: Don’t you want Flowers-in-the-Sun to find her place in the world?”
“Our world, yes. Not theirs. Flowers-in-the-Sun was born here, not on Earth.”
“She’s a smart child. She says she wants to show the Federation our knowledge. She says she will use their ways to show them our ways. Can you not see her wisdom in this?”
“But why should she cut her throat?”
With one dismissive gesture, Ion indicated that his wife was being unduly worried. He signed that he had seen enough implanted people. The cutting was a small thing, nothing for her to get so worked up about. He repeated again that he and Mist had been dreamers, that they had sacrificed their lives to love. But the child wanted what the child wanted and shouldn’t children receive what they ask for?
“Dreamers should not sacrifice their children,” he signed. “If we do the cutting now, when she becomes a young woman she will have great skill in mouth-speaking. She will truly be multilingual. Be reasonable, my love. Mother Mine says that if you insist on doing things your way, Flowers-inthe-Sun won’t even fit in with her own family, much less with the rest of our world. Already, the other children leave her out of their mouth-to-ear practice. And yes, she wears no gems, no jewels. We should not harm her any more than we already have.”
Mist threw her arms in the air. “So it’s all about fitting in, is it? These children, mouthing and mouthing and no one can hear them.”
“It’s a new language. Like a new toy. Let them experiment.”
“It makes my heart boil to hear you talk like the others in this house. Don’t you see how strange it is for us, the people on our planet, to laugh-talk-sing through the mouth? In our world, mouths were made for eating only.”
“And for kissing too, I hope,” Ion signed, giving her a coy look. “Or are we going to bed angry?”
“Be serious. For millennia, we have known that other humans in the universe understood ‘sounds.’ But we accepted it. It was what made us unique to the creator. We never thought there was anything wrong with us until Earthers came along. Why should we change to please these upstarts? Why must, from this day to that forever day, our children, our grandchildren be cutthroats? And simply for money and to fit in?” She headed towards the door. “I will speak to the council about this.”
“Mother Mine will not like it if you speak to the elders. She speaks for our family, not you. Know your place, Wife Mine.”
Mist stopped in her tracks. Ion was right. It would not look good at all for her to go over her mother-in-law’s head and talk to the elders. It would only make her seem even stranger than she already seemed, a woman without gem anklets, in a mixed-caste marriage without servants to carry her ling-carts, who allowed her daughter to go capless.
“Don’t you trust your mothering skills?” Ion asked. “Do you not believe our daughter loves us? Mouth-to-ear in front of her parents is not something Flowers-in-the-Sun would do.”
“Who knows what people will do?” Mist signed back. “Look at you: disobeying our Creator’s laws against flesh cutting.”
Ion smiled. “You’re using the more literal interpretation.”
“Since when did you consider that interpretation ‘literal’? ‘No cutting into flesh!’ Period. The ideograph is clear enough. And don’t give me any talk about it meaning no meat and no murder. It says what it say
s.”
“The Creator understands expedience,” Ion responded.
Mist glared at him. Then she walked downstairs to the family garden.
In the farthest corner near the wall, the implanted nieces and nephews huddled together speaking mouth-to-ear. Sitting near her aunts, Flowers-in-the-Sun looked on.
When her mother entered the garden, she said, “Mother Mine, my cousins cover their mouths to hide their thoughts from us.”
“They’re practicing to control their new voices,” Mist answered. “So they don’t offend the Earthers when they speak.”
“I know what is on your mind,” Flowers-in-the-Sun said. “You have been talking to Father Mine.”
Mist nodded.
“The Earthers don’t speak to us unless they are contracting business,” Flowers-in-the-Sun explained. “They think our life-knowledge is not equal to theirs.”
“They’re right. We don’t know how to kill cultures or cut throats. May we never learn.”
“I want to show them how smart we are,” Flowers-in-the-Sun signed. “I will be a great scientist when I grow up and I will show them how high our knowledge really is. I will –” She stopped short. Across the garden, some of her cousins were laughing at her. She pulled her mother inside the house. “They think it’s funny that everyone knows what I’m saying.”
“They won’t think it’s so funny when they get infections from getting their throats cut,” Mist answered. “I hear people never really heal from that.” Mist had not really heard that, but she felt no qualms in saying that she had. “So,” she continued, “you want to work in the sciences like your grandmother’s family?”
So Long Been Dreaming Page 25