麻豆社事件

L忙rke鈥檚 first word was wing.

She lay cradled between the moss and her mama, watching the branches cut the sky in precise patterns. Her poor ma Suzume had fallen asleep after chasing the child around the farm, trying to keep L忙rke鈥檚 tongue out of the beehive. The city鈥檚 colorful turbine balloons hovered high in the atmosphere, silently harvesting wind鈥攁nd look there, the giggle of a single cumulonimbus in an otherwise blue sky.聽

Little L忙rke鈥檚 developing mind observed the canopy overhead, babbling her wordless song above the comforting thunder of her mother鈥檚 snores. Then the word took shape on her lips and flew. Wing. Out into the world.

Auntie Cade looked up from the sacred text her needle had been working, the folds of fabric bunched in her lap. She鈥檇 been humming the ballad as she stitched those lessons of the living land, quietly harmonizing with the baby鈥檚 joyful yoller, but fell silent when she heard the word. The child鈥檚 first! 

She followed L忙rke鈥檚 gaze up to the sky, expecting to identify which dot in the kaleidoscope of community kites had caught the child鈥檚 attention, then eased herself down beside the babe to see from her perspective. Which of those turbine balloons or spinning kites and whipping dragontails in the skies had teased the first word from the baby鈥檚 lips 鈥�? 

Maybe that one? One of the neighbor鈥檚 blimp turbine designs had dual blades that flashed like hummingbird wings鈥攏ot the most efficient design, but since when has creativity been overly concerned with efficiency? It was certainly eye-catching.

Instead, as Auntie Cade nestled back close to the baby, cheek-to-cheek, L忙rke showed her auntie a butterfly wing swirling dust motes ignited by the sunlight.

鈥淭hat鈥檚 right, wing,鈥� Auntie Cade affirmed, and pulled The Field Guide blanket up over the three of them. They snuggled in under the weight of wisdoms passed from auntie to auntie鈥攚oven, crafted, compiled鈥攚hile L忙rke and her auntie watched the butterfly dance in the golden pollen.

We always say a child鈥檚 first word is a gift.

And look at that.

鈥�

You鈥檙e 鈥� hm. You鈥檙e not watching the butterfly. Look 鈥�

The blue of the butterfly wing is not a pigment, the color is formed by a delicate structure that refracts light itself, much like the blue of the sky. No real surprise that the beauty of chaos has been represented in the motion of鈥�

You seem distracted. What are you looking for? Me? You鈥檙e wondering who this person is, telling you to look here and there. You want to know who鈥檚 telling the story? Fine.

I am a storyteller. The storyteller. This story鈥檚 teller.

There鈥檚 no use scanning the edges of the scene trying to find me. I鈥檓 not perched on a boulder beside these three as they鈥檙e experiencing this intimate, poignant moment on this lovely day. You think I鈥檓 up in a tree looking down on the scene? With these knees? Please.

I鈥檓 omniscient, but I鈥檓 not a creeper.

Some storytellers tailor their tales to what their listeners want. My training taught me to look for the story the listener didn鈥檛 know they needed.

You can most often find me in the Tangle, the place in the city where paths converge. I don鈥檛 have to be present at every moment to know what鈥檚 going on. People tell me things. I have a trustworthy face.

Step closer. Let me get a good look at you. Knowing who we鈥檙e telling the story to is part of the craft: 鈥淭he storyteller assesses their audience.鈥� Watches the people as they mingle in the Tangle. Notes the dress of the passerby, their manner. A storyteller wouldn鈥檛 tell the same story to the lonely child seeking solace in the storyteller鈥檚 lap as they would to the bawdy crowd on their way to a fertility show. 

Or at least, I wouldn鈥檛 tell it in the same way.

Any decent storyteller has this skill, it鈥檚 the same observations about character that we weave into our tales. Is the listener in a rush? Are they looking for escape? Do they need a single golden spiderweb thread to sew together something frayed inside?

Some storytellers tailor their tales to what their listeners want. My training taught me to look for the story the listener didn鈥檛 know they needed.

And you. A reader from the tail end of the blip era, what story do you need from me? Am I even able to tell you a story you will understand? You鈥檙e most likely steeped in the narrative techniques of the settler literatures of the time. Tricky 鈥� but difficult things are not impossible, and I wouldn鈥檛 be a storyteller if I didn鈥檛 like a challenge. Besides, you鈥檙e in luck. Though the story trends popular in the 21^st century have long gone out of style, I just so happen to enjoy experimenting with this outdated form. I鈥檓 afraid that most current storytellers have found that the simplistic structures you鈥檙e familiar with often fail to capture our children鈥檚 imaginations so they鈥檝e largely been left for archival scholars to catalog as a hobby. I have a friend who does this. Winslowe. He finds it relaxing. Hero goes on a journey or A stranger comes to town. His husband Jibril finds it tedious, but I admire people who are passionate about their passions! Whatever makes him happy, we agree. 

___

Let me tell you about their son, Ben. 

Aunties aren鈥檛 supposed to have favorites, and they don鈥檛. Hierarchical thinking isn鈥檛 actually natural to human cognition, and there isn鈥檛 any scarcity of resources to compete over. Especially in regards to a person鈥檚 capacity for love.

If you ask Auntie Cade though, and I have (storytellers ask the most impertinent questions, get used to it), she was uniquely grateful for Ben. We all were, but part of that was due to Auntie Cade鈥檚 鈥� interpretations 鈥� as she decoded the intricacies of his language. It turned out to not be a private language, like maybe his parents and peers, cousins, siblings, storytellers, neighbors, and neithers assumed. Ben was in communication with all the unheard and mostly unseen, outside the spectrum of general human understanding. 

I don鈥檛 want to make this telling of a slight, autistic Black boy to sound unnecessarily mystical or mythical. He鈥檚 a person. But sometimes one鈥檚 love for a person embellishes their qualities鈥攖hey swell with our regard, inflating like a generator-blimp before we hoist them high. Once a storyteller gets their hands on a person, they make the character appear larger than life. Is this the mark of fine craftsmanship or a rookie mistake? (You can tell me, it won鈥檛 hurt my feelings.) Why shouldn鈥檛 the loving renderings of an artist鈥檚 brush caress a child, stroke his cheek, and tickle his armpits?聽

Ben would hate it, so that鈥檚 one reason not to. And the only reason we need.

Of all the children she鈥檇 taught and inspired, nurtured and guided and delighted in, Auntie Cade recognized that she鈥檇 learned the most from Ben. She told us that Ben showed her things; he鈥檇 shown them to all of us, but sometimes it required an auntie鈥檚 attention to understand a child.

Our culture puts a lot of weight on a baby鈥檚 first word. (See above.) Not so much what the baby says, mostly that the baby says. That they鈥檝e arrived at a phase of language acquisition which marks their inclusion in the community conversation.

Feral cats don鈥檛 meow. Or so the story goes. 

We talk about everything. People do. The ASL sign for a hearing person is the same as the sign for TALKING. We鈥檙e always talking. Especially the people I know. It varies from neighborhood to neighborhood, culture to culture. But for the most part, we鈥檝e evolved, especially since your time鈥攖hose blip generations when decisions were made by might, hierarchical decree, or just not made at all鈥攚e鈥檝e learned how to talk things out.

When there is a problem, we gather. And talk. Not to be heard, but to discuss. We approach the discussion acknowledging that there is a problem, and that the solution is not yet known, because if any one person knew how to solve that problem, it wouldn鈥檛 be an issue, now, would it? If it were a problem easily solved, we would鈥檝e made quick work of ensuring it 飞补蝉苍鈥檛 a problem. We would instead be off braiding bread or rinsing the vegetable inks from the pages of a library book and searching the catalog for a new one to print鈥攍iving our lives. No, if we鈥檙e there in that room, in that clearing, filling that field, meeting in a sports arena鈥攖hen we have a problem so tricky that it needs everyone鈥檚 input. Children as young as 6 years old have contributed to civic matters. Do voices get raised? Sure. Do men burst into tears? Quite often. Do passions drown out reasoned accounts? Eh, not as often as you fear. Our children learn to listen at a young age and become adept in the skill as adults. I see it straining your imagination, stranger-comes-to-town, that the opinions of each individual in a mob could be worthy of respect. Do not feel bad about your disability, we see it as a failure of education 鈥� one of the many things lost in the blip generations, along with the 83% loss of biodiversity in the sixth mass extinction event you are currently living through.

Your white sciences change the definitions and shift the goal posts every time a community of creatures approximates those arbitrary markers for intelligence, sentience, life. Every time.

But we were talking about Ben. How could a culture of loudmouths appreciate a quiet kid? Who grew to be a silent adult? 

Because, unlike the 鈥渄omesticated鈥� cat, most of the wild creatures we share a planet with didn鈥檛 go out of their way to try and learn our language. To vocalize their need, to pitch their voices like a baby鈥檚 cry, to trigger a physiological response that requires immediate attention from people who hear it. Feral cats are silent because they don鈥檛 want to attract attention to themselves or communicate with people. They want to be left the hell alone.

Animals have rich languages of scents and gestures and vocalization patterns. Able to communicate between themselves and with each other, and very few of us have gone out of our way to understand the linguistic complexities of our fellows. Not with the same determination of the cats, at least. 鈥淏ut could those things really be considered language?鈥� I hear one of you say. Your white sciences change the definitions and shift the goal posts every time a community of creatures approximates those arbitrary markers for intelligence, sentience, life. Every time. To ensure that only human people stand in the circle鈥攁nd terrifyingly often, it鈥檚 only the people with similar qualities of those enforcing the definitions who are allowed in. Personally, I tend to wonder if that culture built on exclusion, exhausting itself to enforce artificial borders (or otherwise centering a single person鈥檚 narrative thread, consequently relegating the rest to less important supporting characters and background greenery) may have led to the worldview that brought your generation so close to ending the ever-generating world.聽

So yes, I say language.

Listen to birdsong as you walk through a place with birds 鈥� I was going to say 鈥渢he woods鈥� but that might be difficult for you to find, presently. Things were dire at the tail end of the blip era, as I understand it, you were so very successful in excluding everything unlike your kind 鈥� Anyway, walk among birds. Listen to their trilling call-and-response. You can be sure that they are talking, and I guarantee they are talking about you. You are big news in the woods. They are not quite sure what to make of you. Are you a predator? What have you done to assure the birds that you are not a threat? It鈥檚 easy enough to show them. Their birdsong is asking. They are waiting for a reply.

Ben鈥檚 first 鈥渨ord鈥� was a reply. Our culture has a parallel language system of gestures; yours might, too. A thumbs-up, a corny salute. A peace sign, a fuck you. Our neighborhood has a gesture of gratitude鈥攖wo fingers pressed to one鈥檚 own lips. Thank you. And one to express a wordless need鈥攈ands cupped into an empty bowl. You would probably try to find the words for this feeling 鈥� general malaise, vague disappointment, unfulfilled desire, a soft sense of regret. You know the feeling 鈥� it鈥檚 just a nameless funk. Instead of trying to locate the feeling, to understand it鈥攐r jerkily act out in desperation to feel anything else鈥攐ur people tend to just signal the inner turmoil we鈥檙e experiencing by cupping our hands into an empty bowl. Close to the body if we want to be left alone with the feeling, extended out from the body if we need someone to pull us out of it. It鈥檚 useful. Easy to communicate. Both for one鈥檚 self and to others. The prevalence of tragic instances of ill-advised bang-cutting in our society has diminished, at least.

When Ben was maybe 3鈥攍ong past the age most expect to welcome their children through the rites of their first word鈥擜untie Cade was walking alongside Ben during their daily route through the Tangle. She would follow where he led, always close enough should he need her, but never insisting on holding his hand in the crowded public space. He didn鈥檛 like for his hand to be held and it鈥檚 easy enough to allow small children their autonomy generally, Ben in particular. His morning routine was sacred to him and he was never at risk of running off.

On this day, Auntie Cade witnessed Ben making his quiet wander to his favorite places. He watched the glassblower turn sand into exquisite shapes鈥攎esmerized by the lava blobs birthed in fire and brought to life with breath. The glassblower was a small man with thinning hair and a quiet voice. He did his work, seemingly indifferent to Ben鈥檚 constant presence鈥攁 feat, since people are otherwise hyper-aware of a 3-year-old in the vicinity of molten stoves and display shelves of delicate glassworks. But the glassblower had come to an agreement with Ben, an arrangement. Each day, the glassmaker dropped a single glass marble into a large, wide bowl just as Ben was ready to leave … in gratitude for the child鈥檚 attention and as thanks for him not touching all his stuff or breaking anything.聽

Ben listened to the smooth, nearly frictionless vibrations as the marble rolled in a path up the sides of the bowl and around. Ben鈥檚 eyes followed the lazy arcs and parabolas, and when it tinkled to a stop in the center, Ben reached in with his small fingers and picked it up. He examined the color and the finish of the marble, weighed it in his hand, and, satisfied after his appraisal, placed the marble he鈥檇 carried around all the previous day onto the rim of the bowl and let it circle to rest at the center. Then he left the workshop with the new marble nestled in his palm.

I鈥檇 asked the glassblower about this ritual, and about the day it changed. I had to tease the story out of him, slowly, like the expanding bubble of glass. He told me it started as a simple token, the kind he often gave children in gratitude for not touching any of the fragile wares. The first one was rather large鈥擝en was still small and there were no assurances that he wouldn鈥檛 put it in his mouth. (Auntie Cade assures me that he never did, which she found odd, since he put everything else in his mouth at that time鈥攅xcept for a variety of foods she hoped he would like.) Ben carried the fistful of smooth glass cupped in his chubby hand the whole day, and when the glassmaker presented him with a new one the next day, baby Ben deposited the old one and clutched the new. That was what intrigued the glassmaker, he鈥檇 assumed Ben would collect them like other children often did. He鈥檇 meant for the baby to have both. All of them.聽

We don鈥檛 like to use words like exchange or trade 鈥� they鈥檙e so rooted in blip characterizations of transactional relationships that we just 鈥� find more accurate words. But Ben started this ritual, and each morning, the child plucked the new gift from the bowl, examined it, then returned the one from yesterday before accepting the new one. Until one day, Ben picked up the day鈥檚 marble, and for whichever reason, preferred to keep hold of the one he had, and let the new one slide back into the bowl.

Perfection is easy compared to this.

The glassmaker was startled, curious, and after the boy left, he picked up the marble and examined it. It was of the same quality as all the other marbles. What inspired the child鈥檚 preference for the previous? 鈥淭here were no imperfections,鈥� the glassblower told me while clipping a molten blob of glass, it curled in on itself like a living larva. 鈥淏ut there was some quality that displeased him, or at least persuaded Ben to keep holding on to the one in his hand.鈥� Here I had to wait some time for the glassblower to roll his rod and use gravity to temper and shape the glob that would become a kind of vase. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 when it started. It went from a game, to a challenge, to 鈥︹�� He stared thoughtfully at the fires. 鈥淎n inspiration. I am so grateful to Ben. His careful regard has inspired the development of my craft to a degree that 鈥� no one else would probably notice, but I know that he notices. Propelled by the urge to please him, my craft has been elevated to art and then to an act of devotion. I鈥檓 still not sure what the boy is looking for when he makes his assessments. It鈥檚 not perfection. Perfection is easy compared to this. I just want to make something that makes him happy. Something he wants to carry around with him each day, every day.鈥�

I鈥檇 asked the glassblower if he鈥檇 ever felt offended. Refusing a gift can be a sensitive matter. The glassblower was startled, 鈥淚t never occurred to me to be offended. You know Ben. The social rules of the gift don鈥檛 apply. It鈥檚 just him and me and the day鈥檚 marble.鈥�

I later learned that on the day I鈥檓 taking my sweet time in telling you about, the moment that Ben joined the extended family of the living world, Ben had been holding on to the same marble for two ten-days. That marble was blue, with cloudy swirls of white and flecks of green-brown. The glassblower had presented him with 20 examples of his refined craft鈥攕ome vibrantly colored and particularly large or remarkably small, since the glassblower was getting kind of desperate to create something that would win the boy鈥檚 favor鈥攁nd none of them satisfied Ben鈥檚 internal matrices of color, feel, and weight that made a gift a pleasure to hold.聽

鈥淚 still have no idea what it was about that one that appealed to the kid,鈥� he let his sigh shape glass. 鈥淚t was even slightly misshapen, with a bit of a bulge around the equator. Not at all my best work.鈥�

But this was the one Ben didn鈥檛 want to let go of. Come, let鈥檚 go catch up with him. You鈥檒l soon realize why I spent a seemingly disproportionate amount of time imbuing so much meaning into a smooth chunk of glass a 3-year-old carried clutched in his grasp. There he is. He鈥檚 moved on from the glassblower鈥檚 workshop to watch the rivermen unload their shares on the Main Stream docks, with Auntie Cade shadowing alongside him. 

The crew rolled barrels onto shore, tilted them upright in a row. Ben watched them pop the tops off the barrels and plunge their hands elbows-deep into the watery contents. They wrestled strands of kelp from inside and strung them, glistening, up on a line, so the sunshine glinted off the slick surfaces, highlighting the variety of each. The exquisite variations in colors and textures and shapes. 

Red sea kelp, which eases digestion processes in ruminants, decreases the methane content of cow farts, and can also fry up crisp and salty like bacon. Tasty. Exotic sugar kelp harvested from Nordic shores, alongside eelgrass gleaned from local seagrass meadows. Ben silently regarded the hanging kelp strands glittering like festive garlands, their home-waters draining back into the barrels beneath, while people stopped to admire and inquire.

鈥淧retty big haul today,鈥� Jibril鈥檚 voice boomed out, and he rested his big dad hand on Ben鈥檚 back. Ben flinched away from the touch. 鈥淥h, sorry, Benevolence.鈥� Jibril apologized and glanced at Auntie Cade. 

She admonished him with a twitch of the corner of her mouth, and nodded encouragement.

Jibril knelt beside his son and lowered his voice. 鈥淚 thought I鈥檇 find you by the boats. You like the boats?鈥� 

Ben didn鈥檛 answer or meet his eyes. He poked at one of the slimy air bladders bobbing on the surface in the sea barrel.

Jibril joined him in pinching and stroking the glistening seaweed, and started to make conversation with the rivermen.

鈥淭hese specimens are a delight,鈥� Jibril said. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think I鈥檝e seen sugar kelp available for some time. Rough seas?鈥�

鈥淣o more than usual,鈥� a riverman shrugged as she ladled more seawater on the strung-up strands to keep them glistening and hydrated. 鈥淗ydrofoil yacht pirates are always trying to take more than their share, but these beauties came through from the kelp farms of S酶r-Tr酶ndelag.鈥�

鈥淭hey鈥檝e come so far!鈥� Jibril exclaimed, 鈥淏en, this seawater is from the far seas. Incredible.鈥�

Ben continued to poke the air bladders, obviously sharing his dad鈥檚 fascination with the seaweed, though maybe not for the same reasons.

Everyone called Winslowe 鈥淏en鈥檚 dad鈥� and Jibril 鈥淏en鈥檚 big dad鈥� (Ben, of course, didn鈥檛 refer to them at all). Jibril was, yes, a hulk of a man, but it was his outgoing personality that gave him his 鈥渂ig dad鈥� stature. He and his mama Kerime kept a community tavern attached to the Archives, where he and Winslowe and Ben had a small living space above the library. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e off-loading?鈥� Jibril made note of the number of barrels.

鈥淢ost of it. We talked to Lis, who said salvage crew approved a rebuild of the generator serving East Bear cluster, so when needs are met here, we鈥檙e taking the river algae to the technicians. They can use their mysterious chemistries to extract materials for self-repairing sail production. You want anything today?鈥�

鈥淣o need, no need. Only when I saw you had so much, it inspired me. I have an idea for a new recipe I wouldn鈥檛 mind serving up at the tavern today 鈥︹��

Ben wandered off to his next stop at the witchcrafters while his big dad invited the rivermen over for a hearty meal, whether or not they had sugar kelp to spare. Auntie Cade followed the boy, sure he was eager to play with the puppies Auntie Owen had been bringing to the circle while they all talked story and swapped dyeing methods and stitch techniques. But Auntie Cade soon realized that she鈥檇 lost sight of the boy. He had veered off from his usual route and she searched the crowd at knee height, looking for him, fighting back a strange shame鈥攁n auntie never loses sight of their child. (Though Auntie Cade is quite extreme in her sense of responsibilities. She doesn鈥檛 permit herself to make mistakes, when everyone else knows that aunties are only human.)

Then she saw him. Tottering over to a man she didn鈥檛 recognize. Not a neighbor, perhaps a neither. That鈥檚 what we call people who we don鈥檛 yet have a named relationship with. You call them strangers, which 鈥� rude. But the man was sitting crouched off to the side with his head down and his cupped hands held out. Ben had noticed him, probably glimpsed between the legs of passersby, and had left his prescribed route to answer him.

Ben slipped his tiny hand into the man鈥檚 empty cupped ones.

The man looked up, startled, and opened his hands to find that Ben had placed the glassmaker鈥檚 marble there. The colorful work of magic. The cold miniature world.

Tears streamed down Auntie Cade鈥檚 cheeks when she saw Ben take the man鈥檚 hand, urge him to his feet, and lead him over to the puppies. She knew how Ben felt about holding hands, that he endured his own discomfort to give comfort to another. She hurried the few steps back to Jibril and tearfully recounted what had just happened. How Ben had recognized the man鈥檚 need, and he had responded. This was unmistakably a word. Ben鈥檚 first.

They embraced and laughed and wove through the crowds to the witchcrafters鈥� circle. They found Ben silently introducing the man to the squirmy puppies, even then showing his abilities to be attuned to the nonverbal needs of creatures, human and otherwise.

___

I鈥檓 sure you know that鈥檚 not the end. How could a first word ever be?

But you didn鈥檛 need a story about an ending. I saw that right away, the first time we met there in the beginning. Saw how I would have to unspool my narrative thread into loose loops and coils to ensnare you. My needle sharp and glinting to repair the tears. It鈥檚 a story, I hope, that will hold to bridge the short century between us. A tightrope that will help you find your way back here.

Even now, you鈥檙e wondering how a storyteller from the future could be telling you all this. The, like 鈥� mechanics of the thing. See, storytellers are time travelers. Always have been. Or at least they could be, if they understood their true relationship with time. I鈥檓 not sure the blip storytellers were able to do this. The records of their stories would read differently if they could 鈥� though maybe the ones who understood the weavings of time didn鈥檛 get the opportunity to leave records. (I鈥檒l have to talk with Winslowe about that one鈥攁rchivists aren鈥檛 wrong all the time.)

I鈥檓 not predicting the future. I鈥檓 just telling you what I鈥檝e seen and been told. So the next time you find yourself holding on to an imperfect blue marble, you might have a few ideas about what to do with it.

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate fiction contest from Grist. Imagine 2200 celebrates stories that offer vivid, hope-filled, diverse visions of climate progress.