Monday, August 17, 2009

The leaves that bore an ancient script

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 36
We heard rumors in neighboring villages that a certain type of leaf was being saved, and indeed, upon entering several homes in the area we found quite a few bundles of this variety of leaf tied together with twine, ribbon, or thread. We were told that the leaves, which were in various conditions, were prized for the unique way in which their veins were woven throughout their flesh.

We maintained a curiosity about these leaves, and were thus intrigued to find that upon departing the lower regions farmland and heading into the foothills of the mountainous region we encountered many travelers carrying these same leaves. We inquired time and again into their purpose, but were rebuffed by shrugs and unknowing smiles.  We resolved to follow these villagers, who were growing more numerous as we ascended the mountainside.

Soon, the trickle of travelers fed into a steady stream, and we observed that a sort of queue had formed up the side of the mountain.  We joined this queue in the hopes of discerning the meaning of the leaves.  While we were there, an old woman who spoke our language agreed to discus with us what she knew.

“The veins of the leaves,” she told us, “are written in the script of a forgotten language.  It is perfectly legible and beautiful rafted, but we cannot read it.  The people of this area believe it to be so miraculous that they save each leave in order to have it translated into our tongue.”

“All of these leaves have writing?” we asked.

“Yes,” she said.  We followed her up the hillside to a small hut.  Inside, we were told, lived an old man who was the sole keeper of the ancient script borne upon the leaves.

Finally entering the hut, we surprised the old man by revealing that we had no leaves.  He looked up from where he was seated.  Around him were piles upon piles of dried leaves.  Discarded, perhaps, or perhaps kept for a particular poetic or philosophical quality.  The man wore thick glasses over pin prick eyes, and he moved slowly but deliberately to look at us.  He beckoned us to approach, and we gathered that he was not used to receiving visitors bearing our style of dress or mannerisms. When he found that he had nothing for him to translate, he began to wave us away, but since we were accompanying the old woman, he indulged us by hearing a few questions which she translated.

“What do the leaves say?” we asked.  “What is their message for us? From where does their meaning come?  Are they from God?”

The man laughed and answered in his own language.

The old woman translated.

“They are translatable,” she said. “But it is mostly nonsense.”