Unheard Voice Chapter 3 and 4

Sue begins school, but thoughts of the book continue to plague her mind.

Chapter 3

                We headed inland following the map. I sweated in the humid air. I stank. There was no word for it. My men and I smelled. Even our horses smelled better in this retched weather. We were blessed that the thick foliage obscured the sun from us. We broke through the canopy and stood overlooking a valley. Running through the middle was a wide river. Richard grabbed my shoulder and pointed me to a place on the river bank. His sharp eyes noticing something I had missed. I squinted for a few heartbeats before seeing it myself. A young woman sat upon the river bank, a clay pot to her side. A few more arrived while we watched. A few of my more roguish men clapped each other in excitement.

                The tapping of my mother brought me back from my book. “We’re here.” I rolled my head to the window. Students were flocking towards the door. Most hung their heads as the trudged forth, but a few chatted with each other. “Ready?” I shrugged and grabbed the handle. Shouldering my bag, I waved goodbye.

                No, I was not ready. I was starting in a new school, with people I neither knew or could speak to. Of course, I was nervous. I shuddered as I stepped inside. I had a crude tour of the school when I registered, but that was of little help today. I barely had time to take in all the information before being whisked off to another part of the building. The place felt like a labyrinth. Luckily, my first class, Mythology, was right next to my locker.

                I tucked into the room and found an empty seat near the back of the room. Mrs. Farris had not yet arrived. A couple of other kids were already here, but they ignored me. I made no gesture as I pulled out my book again. Before I could begin a single passage, some slammed their hand onto the table. I jumped from the shockwave. I looked up to see a large guy in camo leering down at me. His lips flapped pointlessly. Sighing, I pointed to my ear and then my mouth. He made a disgusted face and opened his mouth again. Flustered, I reached for my notebook and a pen.

I quickly scribbled a message: I’m deaf. He looked back and forth between my note and me. I could imagine his verbalizing the question. He leaned in close to my ear. I could feel his hot breath on my face. Shoving him away, I gave myself some distance from him. It was now, that Mrs. Farris finally arrived. The guy back off after seeing what appeared to be a teacher arrive.

“Good morning,” I signed.

“Good morning. Was he bothering you?”

“Just usual stuff that happens when people learn I am deaf.”

“Sorry. I ran a little late.”

“It’s okay. You get used to it.”

Students quickly filed into the room follow by a wisp of a woman came through the door. Her hands waved about as she talked. She eyed the class for a moment before waving at me. I lifted my hand in acknowledgement. She swept over to my side and knelt down to speak on my level.

“Hello, I’m Mrs. Salem. You’re Sue, correct?” Mrs. Farris translated as the teacher introduced her. Her eyes flitted between me and Mrs. Farris.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Is there anything I need to do? Anything to help you?”

“No. Mrs. Farris and I can manage. Just give her a little time to interpret.”

“Okay. We are starting on Gilgamesh and Mesopotamian myths. It starts on page eighty-three,” she explained as she handed me a book with a copy of the syllabus. Nodding, I accepted them. Until class began formally, I perused the handout. I had already missed a few other origin myths, but I was sure I could catch up on them if I needed. The only thing that scared me was a project. I would have to write my own myth and present it to the class. The last was a terrifying concept. That right there was my worst nightmare, even in my school back home. I hated presentations.

I shoved the fear down as I turned my eyes to Mrs. Farris. Throughout class I kept my eyes on Mrs. Farris. Her hands followed Mrs. Salem’s every word.  She first explained the culture which gave birth to such beliefs, before assigning a student to read aloud. I hungrily read along, but Mrs. Salem kept interrupting the reading with anecdotes and explanations of the culture. Mrs. Farris had to tap my desk each time before she could translate. It was slow work and I had to go through it three more times that morning before I could escape for lunch.

I snuck away to a table near the back of the room. Mrs. Farris had to sneak away for a few minutes. This left me alone at the table to munch. My mind was focused on my food and I did not notice as someone joined me at the table. It was not until I lifted my head to take a drink of water, that I noticed him. I nearly dropped my bottle in surprise. It was the boy from the furniture store. He waved his hand at me. He moved his lips, but I could not hear. Exasperated, I pulled a notebook and pen from bag.

“What are you doing here?” I wrote down. I offered him the notebook and pen to respond.

“Don’t deaf people start with ‘Hi?’ My name is Roger.” I furled my brow as I read his hand writing. I read as fast as he could write.

“Hi,” I scribbled down hastily then I circled my first question.

“I saw you alone and joined you. I remember you from the store and your mom said you just moved to town when my dad check you out. It’s your first day? How’s it going?”

“It’s class. Just a pain having Mrs. Farris translate everything. It’s slow.”

“Because your deaf?”

“Yes.”

“Can you lipread?” He questioned. All I did was circle his own question before returning the pen to him. “No. Just wondered.”

“Why come to Green River?”

“Parents moved here. I came with them.”

“I grew up here. Where did you come from?”

“New York.”

“Big city!” he underlined. “I’ve never been to a place like there. Just this little town. Must seem dull here compared to New York.”

“I have only been to your store and the library.”

“The boring places. You should come to the bonfire this weekend. It’s homecoming.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not? Other plans?” He asked.

I flipped to another page and continued, “No. Just those aren’t my kind of place. I can’t talk to people and writing doesn’t work in groups.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” I shrugged my response. I knew what would happen at such a party. All night, I would stand around while others talked. The same thing always occurred whenever I was dragged to any of Joe’s games or my parents’ meetings. Back then I could always drag a friend along, but I had yet to meet any who knew my own language. No, I knew Mrs. Farris, but I could never drag an adult to something like that. No, there was nothing there for me.

Roger reached for my notebook to write once more. He covered his work with his other hand. Before I got the chance to read it, Mrs. Farris returned. The two waved at each other and exchanged quick words with one another. Roger wrote a final note at the bottom of the page for me. “Nice writing with you. Think about it.” After that he underlined what he wrote earlier before excusing himself.

“New friend?” Mrs. Farris asked. She looked down at the notebook for a moment.

“Just saying ‘Hello’. I sort of met him on Saturday when my mom and I went shopping.”

“Did he say anything interesting?”

“He asked if I wanted to come to their Homecoming Bonfire.”

“Are you going?”

“No,” I snapped my fingers together.

“Why?” she wiggled her hands.

“Don’t want to,” I put it simply. She did not press the matter through the rest of lunch, or the rest the day. Mrs. Farris allow me to go the rest of the day without mentioning of Homecoming. In fact, I had not even given it a second thought until after I was home. I had plunged my arm into my back to retrieve my Mythology book. I pulled out my notebook to find the pages I was to read. Flipping between my frantic scribbles, I stumbled over a page with mismatched handwriting. My own handwriting was easy to recognize, but it took me a moment to remember the heavily slanted scribble of Roger. For the first time, I read his final note.

It was not a question or a comment, but a series of seven numbers. I stared at the scribble for a moment. I jumped as someone slapped their hand on my desk. Staring over my shoulder was my brother.

“What?” I waved my hands before me. He brought his fingers to his mouth to tell me of dinner. “Okay,” I replied and closed my notes for now.

As soon as I sat down at the table, my father asked the single most obvious question, “How was your first day at school?”

I almost had to bang my head against the table at his question. Of course, he already knew what answer I would give, but I gave it anyways, “So-so. First day. Can’t really get a feel of the place.” I had to place my fork down to avoid stabbing someone with it while I spoke. I could hardly get another mouthful before my father continued his interrogation.

“Mrs. Farris? How is she? Any problems?” He gestured to a spot around the table to signify the interrupter.

“She has an accent, but I expected that. I needed her to clarify a few signs, but not too much.”

“Your neck hurting?” he questioned as I rubbed it.”

“Just had it craned in a weird position and switching between the teacher and her,” I pointed between the place my father marked earlier and another point.

“You might need to find a different way to sit then. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Okay,” I promised with my fingers.

“Your classes?”

“Boring. Like I thought.”

“Meet anyone? Any new friends?”

“No,” I told him, but my brother began to drum on the table.

“Then who was that boy I saw you at lunch?” Joe teased me.

“Roger,” I spelled out. “He was the boy at the furniture store. He just stopped to introduce himself.”

“Then what was the number on that note I saw. He gave you his number?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “He invited me to a bonfire this weekend.”

“You going?” my mother jumped in. A smile was on her face.

“No.”

“Why?” she pressed.

“I’m going to try and go,” Joe smiled. “I met a guy who could give us a lift. Shame, I don’t have a car yet,” he emphasis with both sign and word. He’d been dropping hints about needing a car. More so with college on the horizon. We had been able to use public transportation back home, but here… there was nothing. It was odd to not see taxis on the streets, instead they were filled with mud covered trucks and dusty cars. This really was a strange place.

There was something that lingered in the air. It was as if all the secrets of this land hand remained untainted by the wiles of men and women. I had a strange feeling that the magics of this land have never been tapped.

 

 

Chapter 4

                We were running late home. My mother had come up with a handful or random errands that had to wait until she picked us up from school. Joe had joined the football team and was lingering behind for practice. This left me alone with my mother. I had been avoiding her questions about homecoming and Roger for the past two days. It was easy when I could escape to my room and claim to be doing homework. That was not an option in the car.

                Cutting the topic off, I made a request, “Can we stop by the Library? I finished the books I got. I’d like another.”

                “Already? You aren’t forgetting your homework while you are reading, are you?”

                “No. I am not neglecting my schoolwork,” I promised. “Please.”

                “Okay, after that we’ll stop and grab dinner. We’ll just go through the drive-thru. Something easy.”

                “Did you forget to lay out food again?”

                “Don’t tell Dad.”

                “I won’t.”

                The library was still cold when we entered. I rubbed my arms to ward it off. The place was empty again, save for the old librarian. My mother moved to speak with her, leaving me unpressured to graze the shelves. For the first time, I noticed how uneven the floors were. The shelves seemed to rock with my every step. I am sure the floor would creak, if I could hear it.

                I found myself a pair of new books to replace those I was returning. Stepping around a corner, I sprang to the side as something struck my shoulder. My eyes spun locking for the culprit. I looked left, and right; and found nothing. Turning my gaze to my feet, I found a familiar leather bound book. It had fallen open. I picked it up and examined it once more. The pages were folded opened to a new message.

                You came back. I was afraid that you left me.

                I stared at the yellowed page for several moments. My mind sputtered with a thought. I read the words over and over again. Did it know it was me? How? It was just a book? Right? I turned the page and read again. Was it reading my mind or something? No, it could never be. It was just a book.

                I can read your thoughts as you read mine. That’s how I knew it was you again.

                Read my thoughts? No, that is impossible. Vacantly, I continued.

                I know it is strange, but yes, I can. Please help me get free.

                Free? How? No, what was I thinking? This book could not be a person. I flipped back a few pages. Miranda Warren… Was she in the book, really? No, no. that was impossible.

                I was sealed in here by a witch. A nasty woman, Harriet, who was smitten with my Henry. We were both hired as tempts to sort and shelf the books in 1956. She ambushed me one night. It has been silent ever since then, until you touched the book.

                No. This was not possible, I repeated to myself. This is a trick.

                I was pulled out of my thoughts as my mother, suddenly tapped me on the shoulder. She quickly pointed at her watch and I understood. A strange impulse took over and I quickly snuck the small leather book into my bag before going up to the counter. While I exchanged the books, I watched the aged librarian. She was old. Eighty years or so, I wagered. But something else caught my eye. It was her name tag.

                M. Harriet.

                Miranda Warren said that the witch who cursed her was named Harriet. Could this be the witch? What was I thinking? That was fanciful thinking and nothing more. But it was still there. The same name. That could not be coincidence. Could it?

                That thought plagued me back in the car. Though I made no gesture, my hands shifted about ceaselessly. I caught my mom’s eye a few times, but she kept her hands on the wheel while as we pulled up to a little fast food joint. A strong stench of French fries wafted into the car while my mom ordered. I looked up at the foreign sigh: Artic Circle. It was someplace I had never heard of. Despite the new name, the menu was the same as any other hamburger joint and we soon pulled up to the window.

                My mouth fell open as I watched the person ahead of us. The sight of cars in the drive-thru was nothing new. I had also seen a few people on motorcycles and street bikes, but this was none of that. The server was handing the paper bag out to a couple who were sitting astride horses. Horses… in the drive-thru. No wagon or carriage behind them. Just two people on horseback. My mom looked at me in as much surprise.

                “Well, most the people out here are miners and ranchers, I guess, this is a logical form of transportation.”

                “Horses,” I reminded my mother.

                “The realtor wasn’t kidding. She said a lot of people owned horses out here.” My mother did little to ease my amusement. It was a small thing, but something I would have never expected to see back home. It was just one part of the local majesty. Somewhere deep in my heart, I think I began to understand what my dad had wanted us to learn here.

                My musings remained until after we had returned home. I let my eyes linger on the steep mountains that surrounded the town. The sun’s lights played over the dusty surfaces. My father said that they were carved by cycles of advancing and receding glaciers. With each ice age, more earth was scraped away by the slow-moving ice. It was a powerful image to fill my mind with while we arranged our quick meal.

                “Sue, can you get the door? The door just rang and I am expecting a package,” my mother signed quickly. Grumbling, I made my way. My parents had not yet finished installing lights onto the doorbell. Until then, I was dependent on others to tell me when the door or phone rang. It was a minor frustration now. I was not expecting anyone. I cracked the door open, fully expecting to see a man holding a box. Instead, I found two men in white shirts.

                They mouthed something, but I heard nothing. One of them held up a small book and continued to speak. Taking my hand, I pounded my open hand against the door. My skin stung from the impact. The two men stared at my strange behavior while I looked over my shoulder, awaiting my mother. She arrived a moment later. Her palms where face up and she shook them asking, “What?” I pointed at the two men. She greeted the two men with words while I stood by, curious of them.

                For several minutes, they engaged my mother. Her face grew red as they talked. Even though I could not understand their tongue, I could read their faces. They were urging her to listen, belligerently I felt. I could see the veins in my mother’s neck straining as she politely tried to turn them away. The two men kept trying to force their book to my mother at every chance they had. Finally, my mother slammed the door so hard that I felt it through the floor.

                “What?”

                “Missionaries. LDS,” she explained. “Wouldn’t quit.”

                “Rude?”

                “A little,” she smiled as she brought her thumb and forefinger together. She left a space between the two, one a little larger than usual. “Your brother and father will be home shortly.” Her prophecy came true only a little longer.

                My father barraged us with the usual flurry of questions. Thankfully, my brother faced the brunt of the interrogation. I quickly scarfed down my food. Waving my hands down, I told them, “I’m finished.” Before, anyone could respond, I slipped away.

                I escaped upstairs in a flash. Eagerly, I pulled the leather-bound book from my bag. In my mind, I thought, “Sorry, we got interrupted. Tell me how were you cursed?” My mind strained with the idea. Whether this book was true or not… I had to know.

                The library is built over graveyards. The whole building is haunted. Harriet must have used it. I was sorting books in fiction, when Harriet approached me. I asked what she wanted when she began to chant in a vile tongue. It sounded of Latin. I smelled burning wood before the world went dark and I appeared here.

                My mind filled with a faint memory. On my very first trip to that strange library I found a bookcase which had tasted flames. I racked my memory to recall where. Where? Where? Was it not in Fiction? Yes, of course that’s where it was. Sun had seeped through the window onto the burnt wood. Was Miranda real? No, I was imagining it. Then, why did I take the book? Was I deluding myself? This could not be true.

                But the burn mark and Harriet? Two coincidences? No, that could not be it. I had to find the truth. Was this book real? Was there really a woman sealed inside. But where? Where could I found it?

                You aren’t sure that I am real. Please, go ahead and check it out. The library should still contain files on me. We always kept newspapers and yearbooks in the library. They are in a small room by the stairs to the office. Please, confirm what I am saying. Please.

                The page almost seemed to weep. Blotches of it looked as if tears are dropped upon the page. The writing become lighter with each word. It was as if the writer, as if Miranda Warren, was losing hope…

                She asked me to check the yearbooks and look her up. She recommended the library, but there must be another place… Yes. Of course. The high school would have the old yearbooks. Yes, that’s where I would have to look. I could not trust the public library. No, if this was a prank, then I had to look outside the library. I needed proof.

                My fingers trembled at the page’s end. Should I keep reading? Or hold on a little long? I pulled only the first inch of the page over, but found my will stifled. No, I needed to confirm it first. I had to. Despite, my decision, my eyes stay on the last word written.

Author's Note

Opinion of progression of characters, plot, etc..