STRANGE CASE OF A LINQUISTIC TIME WARP

“Happy BIRTHDAY to Mollleeee, Happy Birthday to you!”

Okay, maybe they can’t sing but that’s not why I consider them my BFF’s. They’ve always been there for me, ever since I became a ward of the state – at 15. I don’t remember anything before that; no childhood memories to speak of. So when these two girls took me in as their pseudo little sister, my gratitude was overwhelming. 

“Smile. Make a wish. And blow out your candles,” yelled Tiffany. She started recording the momentous occasion on her cell phone. “You only turn 25 once!” chimed in Cas.

I closed my eyes, made a wish, and took a deep breath.

 
“Caid os w’sha?”  asked the waiter.  “Nika dtichnah blaghe,”  I replied, without missing a beat.  His gaze, oddly familiar, penetrated me as he stated, “Ista sé ama tohaginnen.”
 

He turned and disappeared into the crowded restaurant. 

“Whoa!” blurted Cas. “I think your wish came true! Tall, dark AND handsome! What did he say? What did you say?”

“I don’t know,” I replied with total honesty.

“What!?” Both Cas & Tiffany weren’t buying it.

“Really. I don’t know what just happened. I just know I need another drink.”

The truth was that this was not my first déjà vu experience. However, it was the first time I had actually participated. And it was the first time I had witnesses…and proof…that something mysterious was happening to me.

“The video! Play it back,” I shouted. Tiffany complied, hitting the play button on her cell phone. There I was, about to blow out the candles when, in spite of the incessant din of the popular brew house, that distinct, lilting voice interjected. He was not in frame but the phone caught every word he and I had uttered; words from a language as foreign as . . . as what?

“Forward me that video, will you Tif?” While texting a message I added, “I hope to have a date tomorrow with Professor ‘enry iggins’.”

Both friends knew exactly to whom I was referring.   Doctor “Harry Higgins” got his nickname because he shared many traits with the fictional phonetics professor from Pygmalion and My Fair Lady. As a History major I had become friends with some of the teachers in and around the Language Arts Department within the College of Arts & Sciences.   

The small university in the smaller Midwestern town was the life-blood of every student, faculty member, and townie. It was the closest thing to family I had ever known. I couldn’t believe my good fortune; earning a full ride removed an incredible financial burden.  Being able to study history was a dream come true.  And participating in a class led by Harry Higgins was like resurrecting the past.  Doc Higgins had a passion for languages…especially those that had become extinct years, and sometimes centuries, earlier.

The following morning couldn’t come soon enough. Upon my arrival at his campus office, Harry, the epitome of a perfectly cast college professor, complete with a tweed jacket sporting patches on the elbows and the ever present bow tie, offered me a cup of steaming Earl Gray. “Lemon, sugar, cream?” he asked.  I declined all three and took the tea ‘neat.’

“So Miss Flynn,” he began, removing his wire rim spectacles to give them a shine. I expected him to stoke his pipe, next, were it not for the school’s no smoking policy.

“I understand you had an interesting conversation last night. What did you talk about?” “That’s just it,” I began. “I have absolutely no idea what he said; what I said; or how it was that I could even respond to him.” Higgins lowered his head and peered at me over his glasses. I was hoping to get more than just a, “Hmmmm.”

“Here. Listen!” I demanded as I plopped down my cell phone to play the clip recorded by Tiffany. The professor listened intently. I played it a second time and again he demonstrated the same intense reaction.  “Wait,” he said. Let me get a copy of it.” Harry produced a small recording device and I played the interchange for a third time.

Then he hit the rewind button on his recorder, cut the speed in half, and played back the eerie, deeper sounding voices. At the same time he made notes of what he believed to be the translation. The process was repeated a number of times at varying speeds and with different phonetic spellings of the words he was hearing. He then turned to his computer and typed in a short phrase: Seehd Oswasha.

Google returned some pages referring to the International Molders and Founders Union. Not exactly what he was hoping for. He tried again, mixing up the spelling. This time he was offered advice on how to remove stubborn stains. A third attempt resulted in a Wikipedia hit exploring extinct Celtic languages. “Bingo,” he declared as he clicked on the link to scan the article.

The piece did not provide any type of direct translation but it was enough to convince Higgins that he was on the right track. He removed his glasses and rubbed the area between his eyes before changing his focus from the computer screen to a shelf of old reference books. Slowly, deliberately, he walked toward the bookshelf and reached for an ancient looking volume.

“Are you ever going to fill me in!?” I implored in exasperation.

“Tell me about your recurring dream,” was his response.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I answered. But I knew. I knew it had everything to do with the strange boy and the short conversation we had exchanged the night before.  And I knew that the man in front of me might be the only person who could help me understand what was transpiring.

Henry Higgins was somewhat of an enigma. In addition to his expertise in Linguistics, he had earned a 2^nd doctorate in Psychology. His curriculum vitae could have extended for pages, had he not been so modest.  But word of his work with the Language Continuum had traveled all over the globe. He was sought after by medical doctors, parents, teachers, priests, even members of paranormal societies.   Each presented with his own version of a situation where a recurring dream preceded the dreamer’s new found ability to speak in a different language – or, as became known to the research community: The Linguistic Time Warp.

Yes. I did … do have a recurring dream. I thought everybody had them so I didn’t pay it much attention. It went something like this: 

I am outside in some type of town square. The crowd, getting bigger by the moment, is very boisterous. Everyone seems to be titillated by what is happening ahead of us…on a wooden scaffold. I don’t understand what is going on until I see a young girl, bound at the wrists, being led to the center of the makeshift stage.  Suddenly, a large man wearing a dark mask reaches up and pulls something into view. It is a noose. I stare in horror as he roughly yanks the girl by the hair and tightens the rope around her small, delicate neck. She looks straight ahead and locks eyes with me. The hangman pulls a lever and … I wake up… terrified.

“How old would you say the girl was?” asked Higgins. “About 15,” I replied. “If you had to put a date on the scene; this dream of yours, could you?” he continued. “Well,” I started, “It’s the olden days.” “Could you be more specific? After all, you are a history major,” he reminded me. “I’m not an expert on period pieces but the clothes reminded me of the Middle Ages, you know, pointed hats and pointed shoes. Things like that.”

With that Higgins retrieved the large, tattered reference book he had removed earlier.  He flipped to the index, checked the translation notes from the recording, turned to a page somewhere in the middle of the book, then checked his notes again. As he repeated this process a few more times he made notations and corrections to the sheet of foreign words. Finally he set down the book, looked at Molly, and began talking.

“This first line, I think he is asking you what you want. Then you say something about it being bad luck. Does any of that make sense to you?”

“No,” I stated firmly. We were just three friends celebrating my birthday and this guy…”

“Your birthday,” said Higgins. “You never blew out the candles.”

“I started to but that guy interrupted me. Wait. You said the translation was ‘What do you want.’ Could it instead have been, ‘What was your wish’?” For a split second I was beginning to recall a part of the conversation.

“It absolutely could have been that,” responded Higgins. “And a typical response would have been something like, ‘My wish won’t come true if I tell you.’ Or, in some cultures, it’s bad luck to tell a wish or a secret.”

“But then the waiter, or whoever he was, made one more comment…almost like an order,” I told him. “I can’t remember what it was.”

Higgins glanced at the piece of paper and read his translation. “The young man said, ‘It’s time to come home’.  Miss Flynn, did you recognize her; the girl on the scaffold?” he pressed.

“I think so,” I said, reflexively touching a scar on the side of my neck. “I think I was looking at myself.”