Cricket Creek Bog Searching

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he is to be the silent stranger, is he not? ysen smiles, turning his face half-away, as if hiding some terribly humorous secret that he cannot reveal and yet finds amusement in holding it to himself. ah-ah-ah! he is not to speak, not to make even a small tune escape his lips, so he views them as mangled, ruined things that he cannot bear to open. but of course, they are not, and the stranger persists in speaking to the boy. oh, the heavy burden of silence granted by another, only to wish it gone by the very giver! the boy appreciates this irony, and he smiles again, for it is true.
he nods at her words - gentle, unassuming words. surely she must be young, to see such innocence in the world! and her sight pure, her vision unsullied by the horrid mud-stain on nature's satin. yet she speaks with much wisdom, the wisdom of a woman who has seen much and learnt much, and willingly shares it with the world. she is a mother also, he sees, admires the swell of her belly and the gentle sloping of her shoulders. ah, a shame that he cannot speak!
he nods again, tucking away this precious, precious name and pack-calling into his mind, for him to later weave stories and tales with. names have power, so his Madir tells him. let none know ysengrin, says she, once upon a time, let none harness the magic of your call.
he tilts his neck up just so, drawing a line across, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. look, i cannot speak, he seems to say. see, i have been silenced, his eyes plead. he drags a nail up and down, up and down, in jagged, leaning edges. know, my voice is gone.

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