Manuscript: Chapter 4

Grim and Osborne walked in the Wastes without speaking. Osborne’s gear clanged and clattered, but he seemed comfortable trudging through the dust. His feet left no footprints, just as Grim’s hadn’t. Finally Osborne broke the silence.

“You’re lucky we found you when we did.”

“Funny, she said that too.”

“She was about to drag you into that pool of hers. Not the coziest way to go out.”

“Why would she do that? She seemed nice.”

Osborne laughed. “She puts on a good show, but she’s not a good girl. She’s a Rusalka – a water spirit. Probably drowned a few hundred years ago, more than like. She’s been around as long as I can remember at least.”

“A...spirit.” Grim said, his disbelief evident.

Osborne didn’t miss a step. “Oh sure. Lots of spirit-folk in the Wastes. Carve out little niches for themselves and try to take advantage of lost folk and foundlings like yourself.”

The term ‘foundling’ rankled Grim, but he didn’t say so. Osborne was talkative, but he didn’t seem like the kind of guy that would take cheek from someone he’d just rescued.

“The camp shouldn’t be far now.” Osborne plodded on, whistling a nameless tune as he did. Grim couldn’t make out anything ahead, but he kept quiet. He was pretty sure Osborne knew where he was going.

What seemed like a good hour later, Grim spotted a small fire in the distance. Shapes surrounded it, and over the next few minutes they materialized into three men, all of whom sat chatting with each other. All three men were different and made a motley group. Grim thought one was Chinese or Japanese; he had wrinkled, tattooed skin and wore a cold scowl like it was a piece of armor. One was a very dark man who Grim thought was probably Indian; he had traces of gray in his hair but was bright-eyed, with a pleasant, fatherly face. The third man was tall and pale with red hair and freckles; He was hawk-nosed and younger than the others. The three men spoke amongst themselves in the same strange tongue that echoing in Grim’s ears.

Grim and Osborne approached and the men stood. After spotting Osborne they relaxed and welcomed the two travelers into the circle with smiles and pats on the back. Grim sat with the group, who talked and talked, including, it appeared, to him, until Grim finally decided to speak up.

“Mr. Osborne...”

Osborne looked confused for a moment, but then replied, “Charlie.”

“Charlie. Right. Um, sorry, but what’s with the weird language you all are speaking? It sounds really strange in my head, like I can almost make it out, but not quite.”

Charlie laughed and put a hand on his forehead. “Ah, manners. I’m sorry Grim. Here.” Charlie leaned over and whispered a word in Grim’s ear that sounded something like “Myuirai.” Suddenly and with startling clarity, the conversation the other men were having rang plainly in his mind.

The red-headed man smirked at Osborne. “Nice, Charlie, real gentleman-like. Forgot to teach him Babel? He probably thought we were all talking behind his back.”

“Oh go boil your head, Murphy.” Charlie tossed a handful of dust toward the other man. It settled back onto the ground with unnatural quickness.

Grim looked from one man to the next. “How...Are you all speaking English now? What the heck just happened?”

All three men sported knowing smiles, but Osborne spoke up. “We’re not. We’re speaking Babel and now you are too, though you probably don’t recognize that you’re doing it.” Osborne said. “Once you’ve relearned it, it comes as naturally as your old language.”

Grim baffled. “What do you mean relearned? All I know about Babel is that it was a tower or something. I didn’t pay much attention to that lesson in Sunday school.”

“That’s how the legend goes.” Osborne began. “A long time ago the Babylonians attempted to build a tower so high it touched the heavens. Quite proud of it, they were, and dedicated its creation to the glory of mankind. Unfortunately, as punishment for not making it in His honor, their God took the Babylonian language and shattered it, the original tongue of man, into seventy-two different languages.”

“Sounds like a really nice guy, eh?” teased the Asian man.

Murphy kicked his friend in the thigh. “Bah, you’re such a damn cynic, Lee. Haven’t you got a sense of mysticism?”

“No. I don’t buy into that crap.” Lee crossed his arms.

Osborne continued. “So anyway, God broke the language of Babel up into a bunch of ‘lesser’ tongues and created the nations of the world as a result, spread humanity to the four corners, made them disagree with each other by giving them differences.”

“Sounds really...epic.” said Grim; He felt he should at least let the group know he was paying attention.

“It’s a bunch of hooey,” pronounced Lee.

“Well, whether it’s true or not, there’s one thing that’s pretty clear. Whatever the origin of the original tongue, no one’s really forgotten it.”

“It’s just locked away.” The Indian man pointed at his head.

“Yeah, what Prith said. And all you need to speak Babel and understand it is the key,” Osborne smiled.

“Which our fearless leader has already generously given you,” the man Murphy cut in.

“Oh,” Grim replied. “That word. What was it again?”

“Know.” Osborne said, to Grim’s slight disappointment. “But now that I’ve said it to you, it probably doesn’t sound as dramatic.”

Grim scanned the group again, and realized he didn’t know anything about them. “Who are you people, anyway?”

“Oh, there I go again.” Osborne stood. “Sorry Grim. This is my squad -- Lee Feng, Prithu Sivaram, and the loud one is Murphy Fish.”

“Like the fish,” Murphy injected.

“We’re part of the Finders, the beat-cop branch of the Foundling Society of Wayside.” Lee added.

Murphy stretched and yawned. “Which means we’re the only ones that do anything approaching productive.”

“Hush, Murphy.” Osborne said. Murphy clicked his tongue and gave Grim a sidelong wink. “It’s our responsibility to find people, usually kids, who are wandering in the Wastes and get them back to Wayside before they forget their own story.”

“What do you mean, forget their own story?” The questions in Grim’s head just kept piling up.

“We’ll try to explain some more before we get to Wayside.” Osborne began digging through his pack for something. The other men looked to be preparing for bed. “But for now...” Osborne tossed Grim a few wool blankets.

“So we just stay here? Is it safe?” Grim looked out into the dark Wastelands.

“Not really.” Murphy yawned again.

Osborne scowled at him. “Prith is on watch. He won’t let anything sneak up on us.” Osborne patted Prith on the shoulder. Prith nodded and shouldered his rifle. Osborne began to settle into his own blankets. “Tomorrow we’ll head to Wayside.”

Grim spread one of the blankets onto the hard, impossibly flat earth, and lay down. He stared up at the empty sky and tried to go back through the last few days in his head. He thought about his escape from the bar and the jerks that had chased him into the woods and about the huge wolf in the dream. He thought about Lyudmila, combing her hair by the pool. He thought about his step-father, and the bruise he had gifted Grim. He thought of his mother sitting on the steps of their trailer smoking and defending the blow. He thought about his father and distant Atlanta.

Weariness caught up with him as his brain swam with the day’s events and the heat of the fire worked its way into his bones. “Charlie?” Grim muttered as he was drifting to sleep.

“Yeah, kid?” Osborne croaked.

“Thanks for rescuing me.”

“My pleasure.”

And with that, Grim Evans finally slept.