She Who Writes Fiction

Chapters Translated:

Part One: oet escriti (The writer)

Chapter One: kis le escrii girati (She Who Writes Fiction)

Chapter Two: w'Jha sw'le y' naqw'a'lo (there was a church)

Chapter Three: esi a c'e (he and I)

Chapter Four: ?sudirha akta? (do you understand how?)

Chapter Five: mashana (You've got it)

Chapter Six: mou raffalyuan (most puzzling)

Chapter Seven: t'hwi'ca'ay te (It's sort of like "speak formal with me, I hate you")

Chapter Eight: a'k'twina'hweltii…pood (you're alright…maybe)

Chapter Nine: lo w'ohii lo (we're here together)

Chapter Ten: peq c'e seh escrii (teach me to write)

Chapter Eleven: oet io'heva (the alphabet)

Chapter Twelve: ?ka hwetho s'caro? (what's your name?)

Chapter Thirteen: w'uqati le c'ho b'we (this is my story)

pre- Hello! The tenses may be messed up. English is not my first language so there might be mistakes.

end-Thank you so much for reading and critiquing! I hope you like it.

Part One : oet escriti

Chapter One: kis le escrii girati

I came into this world through stories. The ones my mother whispered while holding her belly. Or the kind my father sang me to sleep. Or the true ones. The stories Grandpa would tell me from his rocking chair.

"The whole world is made of stories," he said. "Don't you forget."

And I didn't forget. The words were always around me. I only wished I could grab them as they passed. Wished I could hold onto them in my hand. But, I could always picture the words in my heart.

The orange of the leaves and the shine when the sun hit the branches. The glisten of dew drops falling to the ground in the morning. The trees were a painting in my mind, something I could always imagine. Something I would always have.

I knew the sounds they made. The rustle of leaf on leaf. The soft woosh of the wind pushing trees from side to side, forever dancing, forever singing.

I knew trees. The words in my stories were familiar. So when the new church came to town, with the new priest, and that strange man who babbled about books, I had no idea what to do.

Chapter Two: w'Jha sw'le y' naqw'a'lo

He set up camp on the far side of town, next to the new church. It wasn't far from the grassy field where I would tell stories to the younger kids. I was older, already in my teen years, and it was my job to watch them. It was all of us sitting in a circle. He would lean on a nearby tree and listen. I got a sense he had grown up with stories too. I knew he had sat on the ground and listened to his grandfather remember. I knew he had fallen asleep at night to the sound of his mother's song.

I made sure to tell all of my favorite stories when he was around. I wanted to tell about the shine on the trees and the flutter of the leaves as they fell to the ground. I told the scarier stories too. The ones about bears and wolves. The kind that made the little girls cling to each other and kept the young boys awake at night, although they'd never admit it.

I wanted to be brave. I let each word whisper,

"I'm not afraid."

I didn't want him to be without stories. That to me was scarier than any animal.

I looked up. The sun glinted off the leaves. I smiled. He looked at me, the orange in his eye shone like rain in fall, he smiled back.

Chapter Three: esi a c'e

When he wasn't at the church or listening to my stories you could find him on a bench in the center of town. Always the same bench and always the same activity. He would sit down and pull out an odd-looking knife. He would place it down next to him and then reach back into the bag to grab the final item. This one was my favorite. He had dropped one once and, without realizing, he left it there. Once he was out of view I picked it up. It was ruff to the touch and smelled like oak. I tried to carve it like he did but I supposed I didn't have the right kind of knife.

So, I took to watching him work. There was something about him that was so much like me. I was so quiet. So hidden. There was no way he would ever find me out. I thought he was so focused on his work that he didn't have time to notice me. But, he looked up. His eyes caught the sun.

"Come and sit with me."

Chapter Four: ?sudirha akta?

Ever since that day when he sat on that bench to carve that special wood with his special knife, I sat there too. Sometimes he'd talk to me. I never listened and, I never responded. I stared out into those trees. The first time I worked up enough courage to look away from those trees and down to his work I was amazed. I didn't think it was ever a knife he used, and he wasn't carving the wood. He was burning it.

I knew wood burning. My mother had burned me a wooden necklace once. It was a berry bush for a good harvest. She stained it with real berries from a bush.

"Dark as your hair," she always told me.

I was wearing that necklace now. But, this necklace had taken at least a few hours. These pieces of wood were so much larger. But, he could make piece after piece. What kind of magic tool did he have? Once I had looked, I couldn't look away.

"It's called a pencil," he said, holding up his tool. He must have caught me looking. "And this," he pointed at the thin wood in his lap, "this is called paper."

If you told me that day that pencil and paper would become of the most important things in my life. I would've thought you were a liar. But, even on that day, they called to me.

Chapter Five: mashana

I sat next to him on that bench each day. He told me things. He taught me. Taught me about the pencil. How there was coal inside that marked the paper but, never actually burned it.

Or sometimes he'd tell me about the paper. About how it was made in a way, of wood. According to him I probably wouldn't get it. That was because he didn't entirely understand so he couldn't tell me anyway. That one confused me but, I found for everything I didn't understand there was a beautiful explanation to follow it.

I listened but, I didn't dare say a word. Not yet.

Chapter Six: mou raffalyuan

Every day we sat on that bench. He drew small marks on his paper. I could never understand the purpose of this task. Some of the marks were the same. Some were different. Some were tall, some long. My eyes blurred if I stared for too long and I thought he was drawing the sky.

Chapter Seven: t'hwi'ca'ay te

It took me a week to build up the confidence to ask, "What are you doing?" I whisper the words, my voice barely lifting above the wind.

He lifted his face from his work. I stared at him, a shocked expression stared back. I was shocked too. My first words to him. His face changed to a smile, "Well, I'm writing."

I nodded even though, I had no idea what that could mean. He answered my question before I could ever ask it.

"I'm telling stories," he said, "do you want to know how?"

I stared intently at the paper. I did want to know. I just couldn't look at him again, not today.

"These marks here are called words," he paused. "Have you ever heard of writing?"

I didn't shake my head. I don't answer him in any way. I don't even let him continue. I stand up. I can't stay here any longer.

How could someone put stories into such insufficient marks? How could something so small tell a story? Stories are important. Our lives are stories. And here is a man who marks this page and calls it a story. Who does he think he is? I couldn't sit on the same bench as a man who disregarded life. Who takes stories and destroys them?

Chapter Eight: a'k'twina'hweltii...pood

I didn't sit on that bench for a whole week. Every day I wasn't learning I grew more and more curious. One day as he was working I gave in. I sat down on that bench and I looked straight on. I didn't acknowledge him at all. I acted like I was the only one in the world.

"Missed you," he said.

I knew he was just trying to be nice. I didn't know why. There wasn't any point. I certainly hadn't missed him. And I had not missed his "writing". All those fake stories. Not a chance. He didn't say another word.

I didn't take my eyes off the trees.

But, I came back the next day.

Chapter Nine: lo w'ohii lo

I didn't speak to him for the rest of the week. I didn't dare say a word but, by the end of the week, I took my eyes off the trees. At first, I just looked at the ground. Then I turned my eyes to the sky, small steps. I promised myself I didn't want anymore. Although, I'd never been very good at keeping my promises.

I remembered when I had told the new priest I would love God till the end. I didn't want to flat-out lie so I never specified what end I meant. He thought I was talking about my end, my life. I was talking about the end of Sunday.

I had always had a bit of a complicated relationship with this new God. I could never tell anyone just how big my questions grew. The man beside me, the "writer", had come with the new church. If I asked him the questions I had, would he stand and leave like I had? Did I want him to?

Chapter Ten: peq c'e seh escrii

I hadn't looked him in the eye since that moment he told me about writing. I looked at the paper, or the pencil, or sometimes I still watched the trees. But, I could still remember those eyes.

He had the same eyes I do. They were a different color than mine, brown with that little hint of gold. They matched his hair. My eyes were blue, and didn't go at all with the black of my hair but, they both had that shine. The shine of stories. The stories gave them life. I needed to remember that. His life was built upon stories just like mine.

Maybe I should give his writing a chance. Maybe I should break my promise.

"Teach me to write."

Chapter Eleven: oet io'heva

We started slow. I knew nothing he hadn't told me. For a while, I didn't even hold the pencil. He just taught me.

He told me about the alphabet and, how each word was made from it. About each letter that made it up. That's what the marks were called, letters, heva. But I spoke it the way he spoke it or at least to him I did.

Then he taught me about the words we spoke. You could write all the letters on the page and make a story.

He told me how letters didn't make the stories any less powerful. They let more people see the stories. As long as you could read them.

But, new words brought other words. So many words I didn't know. So I had to be taught more and more. An endless cycle of words, and I had so many questions. He answered each one with a big smile.

I could read. I could sound out the words. I knew what sounds the letters made. The words were easy enough to translate in my head.

I supposed he only knew how to write it in one language. That was okay, I hadn't known how to right at all. Now I could know what the page had to say.

I understood the words but, the expanse of it scared me. With every new word I understood there were so many more I was yet to learn.

Then there was that smile, and each word he said brightened the darkness. Just a little bit brighter.

Chapter Twelve: ?ka hwetho s'caro?

After I learned everything he thought I needed he handed me his pencil.

"Before I teach you to write there's just one more thing we need to learn," he said.

It caught me off guard. We? Do we need to learn? Shared, but he knew so much.

I nodded waiting for the question.

He smiled, "What's your name?"

It was an important question. One I hadn't noticed was absent.

"Chal," I tell him.

"That's beautiful," he says in reply and, the honesty in his voice makes me smile.

"You can call me Ove," he says

I can't help but laugh, "That's not your name."

"He feigns a hurt expression, "How'd you know?"

"You're British and, Ove's a girl's name."

He smiles, "So give me a boy's one."

I roll my eyes. It wasn't that difficult to do. Ole had a girl's and a boy's version. It was his resistance to telling me his real name. Maybe he thought I wouldn't be able to pronounce it. p'qui.

"Oue," I said, "If you want a name I'll call you Oue."

He smiles, I know what he's thinking but, I also know he's wrong. Whatever his real name is I don't really care.

Chapter Thirteen: w'uqati le c'ho b'we

After that I started writing, just short words at first. Since I knew the sound each letter made and how to guess how a word was spelled, it was easy enough to write a word. But, the shape of the letters was strange, and the pencil was hard to hold.

Once I got it understood, I could write a story into a page. But, my favorite word was my name. I spelled it over and over, filling half a page before Oue told me to stop. C-H-A-L. I loved how each letter fit together so I could spell out me.

But, I wasn't a word. Just because my name was down on a page that didn't mean that I was trapped. That I was stuck. No matter how many times I wrote it down I was free. More free with each word I knew. I am not a word. I am a story. And this is my story.