The Confessions of a Late Bloomer—Episode 2: About Reading Books (and Two Languages)

 

As I have mentioned previously, I am a daughter of Japanese immigrants. This means that I speak Japanese at home and English outside of home (except at the Japanese community school where Japanese speaking is a must)—a norm for my family and me.

Because I was learning two languages at once, I struggled with reading and writing at school. Communicating was not too bad, as long as I blend in with my schoolmates by learning the conversational English used on the school grounds. At home, same thing, as long as my parents understood what I was saying. With my siblings (my brother and sister), we communicated in a mixture of Japanese and English.

If you are wondering what kind of bi-language mixture my siblings and I used, here is an example:

My brother: “I borrowed some manga (Japanese comics) from nihongo-gakkou (Japanese school).”

Me: “Nani karita (what did you borrow)?”

My brother: “Doraemon.”

Me: “We need to keep that from Mammi (we called our mom “mammi,” our version of “mommy” or “mom”). You know she will okoru (get mad) when she finds them.”

My brother: “I’ll hide it at the bottom of my kabann (school bag).”

 

You get the idea.

 

Because my siblings and I tried to survive life by using English at school and Japanese at home, we struggled with reading and writing both languages. I chose picture books as a choice of literature (illustrated fairy tales in English, manga books in Japanese) because I felt I got more from the pictures and illustrations than black letters on a white page. That being said, I did not stop there.

Our school principal encouraged reading by setting 30 minutes nearly every morning for all students to read. The students have freedom in their choice of literature (as long as the content is appropriate for their age group—which includes comic books).

One day, one of my classmates in grade four, who was an avid reader, made a recommendation to me. It was “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.” Sadly, I was one of those who chose a book by its cover (and its thickness and size of print), so I passed on the book. However, I realized I needed to read something with more substance than just picture books, and that was when I came across a slim volume of short mysteries called “Encyclopedia Brown, Boy Detective” written by Donald J. Sobol in my classroom library. I found myself engrossed in the book and soon I wanted more.

Within my grade four learning, I borrowed more “Encyclopedia Brown” series then moved on to other chapter books (“No Flying in the House” by Betty Brock, a collection of fairy tales by Brothers Grimm, “Socks” by Beverly Cleary, and more). After reading those books, I finally picked up “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe” and read the entire book.

Reading was a challenge for me, but once I discovered that not only it was possible to accomplish, but I also found the joy in reading. I hope that my readers (or future readers) will be encouraged after reading this.

The Confessions of a Late Bloomer—Episode 1: A Story on Homework

    As a daughter of Japanese immigrants, English was a challenge in school. It was especially more so when I told them, “I have homework.” Their usual response was: “We don’t know English, so don’t ask us.”

    Because of this, I would take home my assignment and bring it back to school untouched. (Besides, the whole point of homework is taking the work home, right?) This went on from grade one all the way to grade four.

    It was in grade four. My teacher, seeing that I brought home blank pages, finally cornered me, and had me stay in class after school. I remember crying my eyes out in the office, telling my mother over the phone that I was told by my teacher to stay after school because I did not do my homework. Imagine my shock when my mother said, “Ok. Just come straight home when you’re done.”

    Interestingly, I was not angry at my teacher for keeping me after school. I knew I deserved the punishment; however, the problem remained: I did not know how to do homework. The easiest answer is “just do it!” but to me it was more than that. This was a report that was assigned to me. I was told to do research by looking up information in books and write a report based on a subject I chose, but I did not understand how to write a report. Kids in my class knew how to put their thoughts into writing on paper and would write something that showed their understanding of their researched topic. I, however, struggled to put my thoughts on paper, let alone write up a report.

    In the end, my teacher did not directly help me, but had me sit in class to finish my report while she did her teaching preparations for the next lessons. Much to my surprise, I wrote up the report and handed it in. Later in the week, I got it back with a positive mark that was other than a “D” or a big fat zero.

    After that incident, I did my homework promptly and turned it in on time.

    I hope that one day I could meet my grade-four teacher and say, “Thank you for having me stay after school and finish my assignment.”

Languages I Have (Sort of) Learned—Final Episode: Bengali

 

Another door of opportunity opened for me—teaching in Bangladesh. When I announced my new teaching job to my family, they looked at me and asked, “Where’s that?” We have heard about Bangladesh on clothing labels, but it was another country we were not familiar with.

Upon opening an atlas, and after some research, I have learned that Bangladesh:

• The country is in the eastern part of India, close to Myanmar.
• It was earlier known as East Pakistan until the country fought for its independence (through civil war).
• It is largely known for its textile and cloth production.
• The religions are Muslim (89%), Hindu (10%), and Christians and Theravada-Hinayana Buddhists (1%).
• The language spoken is Bengali (also known as Bangla).

To prepare for my new job posting, I prepared myself by listening to Bengali language tapes just so I could familiarize with the language.

Soon the day came when I flew to Dhaka, Bangladesh, where other teachers like me were picked up at the airport and brought to an apartment in the capital city. The sights, sounds, exotic fragrances, and locals in their saris and other ethnic dress pressed into our senses.

I worked at a Canadian school in Dhaka for one school year as a prekindergarten teacher with another team teacher who taught in the next classroom. Being an introvert who steps back and watches her environment before joining in, it took me a few months to get adjusted to the overwhelming environment, not to mention the warm, humid climate. It took me a while, but I came to interact with some of the locals.

The staff at the school—those who managed, cleaned, maintained, and secured the school property. I was approached a few times with the question, “Sina?” (I later learned that they were asking if I was Chinese because of my East Asian features).

Because I taught in a Canadian school where we spoke English, I did not learn Bengali (or Bangla as the locals called it) as much as I would have liked despite my ten months living in Dhaka. However, I love the people there. The local staff who took care of the school building, the rickshaw drivers who became regular drivers (if not, guides) for me who took me to local shops, the Muezzin’s voice calling local Muslims to prayer, and those I have befriended during my stay (some who opened their homes to let me celebrate Eid with their families).

Would I want to learn Bengali properly? To be honest, I am not sure. But if God is willing, and I had another chance to meet those who have been kind to me during my stay, I would like to learn enough to say, “Thank you for all that you have done. Your generosity and kindness have been an encouragement to me while living in Dhaka. God bless you.”

Languages I Have Learned—Episode 5: Mongolian (Part II)

My weekly Mongolian helped me go to the market and purchase groceries by asking for bread, fruit, and other items I needed; although my phrases mainly comprised “Hello,” pointing to something and say “That, please,” and “How much?”

I was once told by a Mongolian friend, “You look Mongolian, except when you walk.”

I guessed she meant I kind of blended in—which I took as a good thing.

Because life in Ulaanbaatar was my first time living overseas, I had experienced culture shock on top of my languages learning.

“I missed the honeymoon season,” said my American roommate who shared an apartment flat with me. We both had to agree, the moment we set foot in the country with our individual opportunities (mine being a homeschooling teacher, while my roommate was there to learn the language) we immediately had to swim in the sea of culture shock. It was all or nothing—at least that was how it felt to me. However, I didn’t regret it. I made friends with the locals, and the kindness of my host family and another family I taught helped me with adjusting to my life in Ulaanbaatar.

Some memorable experiences included having a balcony as our walk-in freezer during the winter; discovering that Mongolian tugrik money bills smell like mutton, frequent visits of little roaches (how I hated those guys!), that the electrically powered buses stop in the middle of the only main street in the city and its patrons had to get off and walk (fortunately, most of the places were in walking distance); and tea leaves that were sold in solid blocks (I discovered much later that they had the similar blocks of tea leaves in mainland China). The food was greasy with foods such as fried khuushuurs (deep fried pockets of ground meat and vegetables), pizza with unique toppings (from pickles instead of olives and the occasional shredded carrots), and buuz (mutton dumplings that are fried or steamed). Beverages were undaa (beverages, usually soda, in old-fashioned squat glass bottles) and tsai (salty milk tea, which was a bit of a shock to those who taste it for the first time).

Despite these small delights, Mongolia was still rebuilding from after the Fall of the Iron curtain (this was in the early 2000, by the way). Soon news of Mongolian patriotism came with reclaiming their native writing, though some foreigners bemoaned this news.

“No! Not after all that work learning Cyrillic! And now they want to bring back the Soyombo writing!” I overheard an American foreign worker complain.

The Mongolians derived Soyombo script from Tibetan Sanskrit.

Meanwhile, as I continued with my teaching, my contracted ended at six months. It was a short overseas experience with a long winter that lasted the first four months of my stay. That last two months comprised a brief spring (about a month long) and a taste of summer. With warm weather, bright sun and colours replacing the winter greys, I left the country with a heart full of thankfulness to those who had shown me kindness.

Languages I Have Learned—Episode 5: Mongolian (Part I)

 

When I learned about a teaching opportunity in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, I took it thinking, “Mongolia shares a border with China, and since I learned Mandarin Chinese for a few years Mongolian should not be that hard.” Obviously I did not learn how different the two languages are until I arrived in the country.

I have never heard Mongolia spoken where I live (Alberta, Canada) other than a song that a friend from my Mandarin class introduced me to (when I think about it, the song was actually a song another Chinese dialect, not Mongolian). So when I first heard Mongolian spoken, to me it sounded like a combination of Russian and something else. Compared to the Russian I have heard on language tapes, Mongolia did not have the harsh tones and rolling r’s. Instead, it was much closer to an Asian language like Korean or Japanese than Chinese.

A Canadian missionary who hosted me in the country told me that Koreans and Japanese people could probably pick up Mongolian faster than North American speakers. The missionary and his wife learned the language by trying to find something common with the language they knew (English and biblical Greek). He told me he learned by matching some Cyrillic letters (used in Greek and Russian) and identified the sounds and worked from there.

When I arrived in Ulaanbaatar, it was 14 years after the fall of the Iron Curtain, Cyrillic letters were used in the Mongolian language—something carried over from the Soviet occupation (Mongolia was a buffer zone for the Soviets, which explained a lot of Soviet influences from buildings to some political values, and of course, writing).

The missionaries kindly introduced me to their Mongolian language teacher, a teacher at a local school, who taught me Mongolian. To my delight, I found it was easier for me (with a language background in Japanese).

Mongolian had a similar grammar system to Japanese (and, I was told, to Korean) so I just needed to remember where to plug in the correct Mongolian words to make a sentence. The part about learning Mongolian that was difficult were certain sounds: the rolling “r” (as we Canadians would say, “Rrrroll up the rrrrim to win”) and the exhaling “l” (you exhale as your tongue touches the roof of your mouth making a “hla” sound rather than a “la” sound). Imagine how much trouble I had just to say “thank you” in Mongolian (which is “bayal-hlah,” by the way). I think it took me a month or more just to get the sound right.

Despite the language mishaps (mispronouncing the rolling r’s and exhaling l’s), the minus 40 degrees (celsius) weather plus windchill (I lived in Mongolia during the winter months), and other things (did you know that tap water had hepatis A and B, so you need special filters or drink bottles beverages like pop or juice?); life in Mongolia was full of surprises.

Languages I Have Learned—Episode 4: Mandarin Chinese (Part 2)

    After, a positive experience in learning Mandarin Chinese for three years in high school I wanted to take the language course again. In my third year of university, I did, but with some challenges.

    Like I have previously mentioned in one of my previous entries, this time, Japanese interfered with my Mandarin learning.

    “You are thinking in Japanese, aren’t you?” my Mandarin instructor said with a grin.

    “How could you tell?” I asked.

    “Your grammar is not Mandarin.”

    I tried again; this time I was told I was using English grammar with my Mandarin Chinese. By the end of the course, I did not get as high a mark as I did in high school, but I still passed and graduated.

    Oh, and there was another reason I took Mandarin again in university: I had a teaching opportunity in Mongolia after graduation. Thinking that the Mongolian language shared something with Mandarin Chinese, I took the course. Later, I have learned that, again, the two languages were completely different.

Languages I Have Learned—Episode 3: Mandarin Chinese (Part 1)

 

 

   Some could pick up languages quickly, like a brand-new tool, and use it immediately, while others, like myself, had to build the craft just to communicate, whether verbally or in writing. For those of you who are still learning, keep learning and see the small rewards you find along the way—a smile returned with a greeting, a flurry of words that are a progressing conversation, or just an odd look.

    After learning French for three years in junior high, I signed up for another year of French in high school, until I discovered Mandarin Chinese. In high school, I had Chinese friends whom we sat in the hallways in front of our lockers during lunch time and played card games. During these games, Chinese (Cantonese) bubbled from our conversations to the point I felt left out. Being Asian, I guess the group was so comfortable with another Asian that they forget I am an Asian who does not speak the same language.

    In another situation, I have heard some think that Japanese, Chinese, and Korean are all the same. Unfortunately, they are all different languages. When you ask a Japanese speaker what it says on the cover of a Chinese magazine, for example, it is like asking an English-speaker if they could read Russian because it had Romanized lettering similar to the English alphabet (for those who know; they use Cyrillic letters which look like the English alphabet but have distinct sounds for the letters). Or, when you ask a Japanese-speaker, while watching a Korean drama, what they are saying, it is like asking a Dutch person to translate a French dialogue.

    Much like these examples, I have thought that if I learned Mandarin Chinese, I could communicate with my Chinese friends; however, I learned that there are more than one Chinese language—and Mandarin Chinese is one of them. The language that my friends spoke was Cantonese (commonly used by Hong Kong Chinese). Mandarin Chinese is the most common dialect, that standardized form of Chinese used in China, Taiwan, and Singapore. The difference in not just in the languages, but also in the writing (Mandarin uses simplified Chinese characters while Cantonese uses traditional Chinese characters). It was until I learned Mandarin Chinese that I understood these differences.

    If you ask me how my Mandarin learning went, I did well—better than French (sorry, Francophones). I would like to say that my knowledge of kanji (Chinese characters used in Japanese) helped.

    For now, I will say that I was glad about my decision to expand my language borders by learning another language.

Languages I Have Learned—Episode 2: French

 

French is one of the two national languages in Canada.

I took French in junior high because I thought that was what a good Canadian student should learn in school. Sadly, my language learning for French continued until the first month in high school, but that’s another story.

During the time I learned the language, I felt I would not be hard thanks to the daily exposure of French programs on TV during my childhood (thank you, CBC). Sadly, it was not as simple as I thought.

First, French was very different from English; and second, I had trouble getting the pronunciations right.

I remember while studying linguistics (the study of how languages work) in university, learning a second language uses the knowledge of one language. In my case, I had two languages that I used (Japanese and English) to build towards learning a new language—in this case, French. What I have later learned, but not mentioned in linguistics, is that the earlier languages interfere with language learning.

For example, I was trying to remember my lines for a French dialogue. When I look at the original French, I want to make sure I understand the content of the dialogue, so I learn the meaning (in English) and then remember the lines in French. Then comes the part about the pronunciation. Some sounds exist in English (the French word for cat is “chat” where “ch” has a “sh” sound) where I note making specific sounds in a French word. By the time I was ready and stood before my teacher to do my French dialogue, the content is now in English with a smattering of French words and some Japanese phrases thrown in (I don’t know how those got in there, but they were there!). Then, upon seeing my blank face, my kind and very patient French teacher would encourage me to go back and review the dialogue in French again.

Despite those confusing and interrupting episodes, I have miraculously completed my French classes with a passing mark; and many years later, able to use simple phrases and even recognize some French word on a label during my travels.

The point of this entry? Yes, there will be interferences from previously learned languages when learning a new one; and no, not all language learning is for everyone (of which I will talk about much later in detail). Some languages are easier to learn (as I will talk about in my next entry) while some are hard to adapt. In conclusion, it is good to learn or try different languages, perhaps you could find one that is easier to apply.

Languages I Have Learned—Episode 1: Japanese

 

Being immigrants from Japan, my parents spoke Japanese at home; because we lived in an English-speaking country, my mother was worried about communicating with her children in Canada, so she had us attend a Japanese language school provided by the local Japanese community once a week.

The assignments from the language school were hard. We learned hiragana (the Japanese letters), katakana (Japanese letters used for words foreign to Japanese), and kanji (Chinese characters used in Japanese). We learned reading, writing, poetry (both traditional haiku, tanka and other forms), folklore, and essay writing. Because the community school used a curriculum according to the ones used in Japan, during Christmas and summer vacation we had homework (I could still remember how my Canadian friends from school looked at me weird when I mentioned I had to do homework during summer vacation).

The work was hard growing up, being different and learning something that others did not; but looking back, I recall I did not hate it as much as I thought I would. Yes, there was homework; double the amount if you count the ones I brought home from my local Canadian school. Yes, at the school they strictly enforced us not to speak English, even if we did, we got scolded for doing so, which was the extent of the punishment.

Despite of all the challenges and hard work involved, I would not trade it for anything else. It was a legacy that I polished for my family, knowing that one day I would use that language skill when I go to Japan or help others with Japanese. And those days came when I travelled to Japan to visit relatives, translated for Japanese visitors who visited Canada, and enjoyed Japanese novels, movies, and music.

Languages I Have Learned—Prologue

   Five years ago, I created a bucket list for myself. Of the things I listed, one of them was to learn a new (or previously studied) language. On the bucket list I wrote “learn one or more of the following languages” followed by a list of what languages I wanted to try: Hebrew, Urdu, Arabic, Greek, Korean, an indigenous language (Cree, Dene, Inuktitut, etc.), Russian, Turkish, and Swahili. Then threw in other languages I have studied (to some measure) that I would like to pick up again: French and Mandarin Chinese.

The languages I have studied, experienced, or even attempted to use were Japanese, French, Mandarin Chinese, Mongolian, Bengali, and Hebrew. In this next series, I will talk about the languages I have studied.

I hope it would be an encouragement for those who are learning a new language or struggling with the one they use in their everyday lives.

Shaking Off the Dust (a note from S.M. Shigemitsu)

    Greetings from a long-neglected blog site!

    I will be honest. I am not a blogger. However, as a writer, I am learning to use this media platform as a way to let people know about my writing.

    As for (re)opening this blog, I (and I am sure others who have visited this blog) have noticed it has been 2 years since my last entry.

    I have learned that blog writing takes commitment and discipline. I have to admit I admire (and could not help but wonder) how people can keep their blogs alive and active -- not to mention eye-catching and entertaining. That is a talent indeed!

    And so, as I blow off the dust from this long-neglected blog. I would like to reintroduce myself to the world of blogging.

    My name is S.M. Shigemitsu, but I go by Michiru Nagashigeh on this site because that is my pen name. I am a novice writer of fantasy and fiction. I have written short stories in the past (one for an anthology, another for a devotional at a North American Baptist college I graduated from), and one in Japanese (of which I posted on a Japanese writing site then known as Novel Days).

    My hobbies are reading and writing, including occasional drawing and movie watching.

    Pleased to meet you! よろしくお願いいたします。

 

About the story of "Jìzi and the Sesame Oil"

Hello, Readers!

It has been awhile, but I finally posted the English version of "Jìzi and the Sesame Oil" (a retelling of a Bible story taken from 2 Kings 4:1-7).

Thank you for taking the time to read the story. I hope you have enjoyed it just as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Until next time!

                                            

Jìzi and the Sesame Oil

       

            Long, long ago, in a land far west of China there was an emissary of the Emperor of Heaven named Jìzi. Jìzi travelled to villages and other tribes teaching education to the locals there.

As he held a classroom at a village, Jìzi sees the wife of an old friend waiting for him outside the house he was at. The woman’s name was Shòushòu whose husband died several months ago.

After the lesson Jìzi met with Shòushòu. The widow bowed her head in respectful greeting.

“Please pardon my sudden visit, teacher,” she apologized.

“I’m sure there is something important you wish to discuss.”

“Yes, well, you see,” Shòushòu explained, “when my husband was alive, he went about helping the community to the point of borrowing money to assist those in need. When our sons became ill my husband borrowed even more that by the time, we were having his funeral the money collectors came. I was planning on leaving this place in the middle of the night, but my sons are still too ill to travel, I am not sure what to do.”

“There must be something that could be done,” Jìzi stroked his chin in reflection. “Do you have something of value in your house?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even a comb?”

“Well, we do have a bit of sesame oil.”

“Then, let us do this. Got to your neighbours and borrow as many jars as you can. And when I mean many, I mean lots.”

“Jars? You mean, clay jars?”

Jìzi nodded. “Now, once you have collected the jars, you and your sons will go into your house and shut the door. Take whatever sesame oil you have and pour it into one of the empty jars.”

After visiting the teacher, Shòushòu went to her neighbours and borrowed jars. Once the jars were collected, she and her sons entered their home and closed the door. Taking the bottle of sesame oil in her hand the widow began transferring it into one of the empty jars.

“What are you doing, Mother?” the younger son asked.

“I am transferring the oil into one of these jars.”

“Can we help?”

“I could change the full jar with another empty one,” the eldest offered.

“I’ll bring the empty ones,” the younger son said.

Before they know it, the little oil in the bottle kept flowing into the empty jar soon filling to the brim.

“It’s full!”

“Here’s another jar.”

“This one’s full too. Hurry, bring me another.”

“But that’s the last one,” the moment the younger son said this the oil emptied into the jar stopping just at its brim.

 

The next morning, Shòushòu visited Jìzi and told him what happened the other day.

“Our house is filled with jars of oil,” she told him in wonder.

“Take that oil and sell it. With that money pay off your debts, whatever is left buy your sons’ medicine.”

And so, with the money she made with the sesame oil, Shòushòu was able to pay off her debt and buy the medicine to help her sons. The sons, thanks to the medicine, recovered and were able to take care of their mother until the end of her days.

季子（きし）と ごま油

   

       

          昔々、中国の最も西の国に季子という名の使者がいたそうだ。季子は、天帝を遣い村や他民族に学問を教えていた。

          ある村で子供たちに学問を教えたら、季子の古い友人の妻が家の外で待っていたのを見えた。その女性の名は、壽々。壽々の夫は数か月前に亡くなったそうだ。

          授業を終わった季子が、壽々とあった。彼女は、頭を深々と下げた。

          「先生、突然こんな形で来てすみません」彼女が誤った。

          「いやいや、君が来たのは訳があるようだな」

          「はい、実は夫が生きていた時に村の人々を手助けしたのだが、借金までして人助けをしたり、息子たちの薬代でさらに借金をしてしまい借金取りが葬儀以降に追われてしまって。夜逃げをしようとしても息子たちはまだ病弱でどうしたらいいのか」

          「何か方法あるのでは。家に何か価値のあるものは？」

          「それがないんです」

          「くしすらも？」

          「ごま油なら少し」

          「では、こうしよう。近所に回って壺を借りなさい。できるだけたくさん」

          「壺…ですか」

          「壺をできるだけ詰めたら、息子たちと家に入り、戸を閉めなさい。そこで持っているごま油を空の壺に移しなさい」

          こうして壽々は、言われた通り壺を集め、やがて家の中に息子たちと閉じこもった。そして、ごま油の入っていた瓶を手に取り、油を壺に移し始めた。

          「お母さん、何をしているの？」

          「油を移しているの」

          「僕らも手伝って良い？」

          「そうしたら僕いっぱいになった壺を空のと交換する」長男が言った。

          「じゃあ、僕は空の壺を持ってくる」次男が言った。

          するとどうでしょう。あんなに少なかった油がみるみると次から次へと壺をいっぱいになるのではないか。

          「もういっぱい！」

          「はい、次の壺」

          「もういっぱい！早く次のを」

          「お母さん、もう壺それで終わりだよ」と次男が言ったら、ちょうど瓶の油が空になり壺がいっぱいになった。

          次の朝、壽々は季子に会い、先日の出来事を話した。

          「家中の壺が油でいっぱいです」

          「では、その油を売りなさい。そして儲かったお金で借金を返し残りで息子たちの薬代に」

          こうして壽々は、油を売ったお金で借金を払い返し、息子たちの病の治療ができたそうだ。そして病から回復した息子たちは、母親を支えることができたそうだ。

          めでたしめでたし。

After A(nother) Long Hiatus

Hello, Readers!

It has been...three years(?) since my last post.

I have not stopped writing (though my art skills are rather questionable) and found myself reading more books on general fiction/literature, autobiographies, non-fiction (some self-help), and books in Japanese.

I have also been trying my hand in writing in Japanese - something that really stretched my brain, but rewarding after completing a story.

The story I posted just today is a retelling of a Biblical story retold in an Asian setting. It is in Japanese at the moment, but English translation will soon follow.

Despite being socially isolated, I found delight in working on my creative skill muscles (reading and writing in both Japanese and English). I am hoping more skills will develop in time.

Cheers!

The Coinbearer - Chapter 3

In the middle of the night, Jerna felt her throat parched. Somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, she tried to swallow. She got up, seeing only darkness, she felt around for her pack in search of her water skin. A hand grabbed her wrist. She froze.

“What are you looking for?” asked a gentle voice. Jerna realized that her rescuer was still there.

“My water,” her voice raspy with thirst.

He fell silent for a moment. “You lost your water in the lake.”

“What time is it?” She wondered how long she had slept as unease crept within her.

“It’s morning, can you not see the sun?”

Jerna did not know if she had heard him right. “What did you just say?”

“I said, it’s morning.”

She waved her hand in front of her face, then, looked about her. Nothing. She could not see. She covered her mouth as she felt a lump form in her throat. Why? How did this happen? What about the cure?

“Jerna, do you want some water?” he asked quietly.

Suddenly, she felt him envelope her with his body. Something pounded in the ground around them, kicking up the damp scent of earth and broken vegetation. A drop fell and landed on her. Then another.

“What’s going on?” she wanted to call his name, but she did not know it.

“Do not move,” he told her gravely, he sounded winded. A gasp came from him, Jerna felt his presence shielding her from something, but could not tell what it was.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“Do not move.” This time it was a command.

More precipitation fell landing on her, she could still sense him hovering over her. But what is this precipitation?

Gingerly she touched where the drops landed on her. The moisture was not cold like rain, it was warm and sticky with a scent of iron. Blood? She shook her head. She grabbed at the air before her and found the material of his cloak.

“Get off me.” She felt her mouth work. “Move!” she begged, trying to push him away.

“No!”

“Are you bleeding? Why are you bleeding?” Panic rose with her voice. “Why are you doing this? What is going on?”

An agonizing cry came from him. Some droplets fell on her eyes, she wiped them with the back of her hand and finally saw him. He was covered in blood. Something rose up behind him – a thorny vine, red with blood.

“Get off me!” she begged, as she watched the point thrust into his back.

A hand covered her eyes. She tried to remove his hand.

“It will be over soon,” he whispered.

Sure enough, her vision opened, he still hovered over her drenched in red. She was covered in blood – his blood. The vines withdrew, slithering away from them.

In relief, he collapsed to the side. She sat up and turned towards him.

His eyes were closed, his back was filled with puncture wounds. Seeing him wounded for her sake, her shoulders shook. Her cry tore through the air.

A stranger had taken the blows from the demons in her place, yet he was not any stranger. He knew her and was her rescuer. A pair of strong arms encircled her and held her close as she sobbed uncontrollably.

“It is all right. They will not harm you. It is over,” he comforted as he rocked her.

“B-but, you were dead. I swear –”

He removed his robe and revealed his back, now covered with puncture wounds fading into scars.

Relieved, Jerna threw her arms around him.

After being held and rocked in comfort, he finally asked, “How do you feel?”

“I feel –” she stopped and noticed her leg felt different, there was no pain or burdensome weight. She looked at her leg and lifted it. Slowly, she stood up, her eyes still staring at her leg. It was not grey and dying, but healthy with its natural colour. She turned to him in disbelief.

“I’m healed!” she whispered.

He smiled as they embraced each other.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

“Mother, Jerna came back!” one of Jerna’s brothers told her dying mother. Jerna entered the house with the man.

“Mother,” Jerna approached the bed, taking her mother’s hand she told her, “I found the cure!”

Her mother turned to her, her eyes staring at her daughter sadly. “Child, you don’t believe in those fairy tales, do you?”

“What are you talking about? There was a cure to the disease. All you need to do is receive the water of life –”

“There is no such thing, child!”

“Mother?”

“Why do you believe in such tales that your superstitious grandmother told you? You are just like many of those dreamers who thought they could find the cure. Those people never came back!”

“But I did, Mother! There is hope. Immanu is with me.”

“Immanu? Don’t be foolish! He is just a myth.”

“But I met him! He is right here with me! Can’t you see him? He is in this room with me –” Jerna stopped as she noticed something. “Mother, is something wrong with your eyes?”

“What are you talking about? My eyes are fine! I can see that you are right beside me.”

Jerna swallowed. “Who else is in the room?” she asked.

“Just you, I could tell by your presence. Your brother left the room momentarily.”

Jerna turned to Immanu who had come with her. He approached her and stood behind Jerna.

“Mother, don’t you want to get well?” Jerna begged.

“Child, how many times have I told you? There is no hope for me?”

“But there is!” Jerna wanted to shake her mother. She wanted Immanu to help her mother see. She wanted her mother to see what he had done for her, but knew it was up to her mother to accept this gift.

That night, Jerna’s mother died. Jerna sat beside her and held her hand.

The mourners had left Jerna’s home after her mother’s burial the next morning. Jerna sat outside her home with Immanu beside her.

“Please forgive my mother,” she told him softly, “She was stubborn and proud.”

He reached over and pulled her close, letting her lean against him.

“I understand,” he replied, comforting her with his presence.

“What do you plan to do?”

“I will visit other towns. There are many who still need me. I will bring my life to them so they could also live.”

“Can I come with you?” she asked, holding his hand.

“I was hoping you would ask.”

The Coinbearer - Chapter 2

Jerna had a dream. She was very small and her grandmother was still alive. They were sitting near the fire.

“When the chief god left his people, they thought that he had left them to die. Because of this, they felt that there was no purpose to live. They also believe that the chief god sent the disease as punishment. So, in hope to appease him sacrifices were made by letting animals run into the desert. However, there was another story that was not known to many people.”

Just when her grandmother was about to give the second story, Jerna woke up. She closed her hand over the coin around her neck. It felt heavier than it usually was. She sat up and looked at her surroundings. She remembered that she was in a cave she had found just outside the desert the night before. She opened her pack for some breakfast. She ate chewing each small bite carefully so she could taste every last morsel. She took a sip of water from her water skin. For a moment, she stared at the ground before her.

Without any weapons Jerna had come on this quest alone, bringing with her only a pack of supplies and a staff. Her cloak was not tattered from her escapes from dangers. Many times, she had faced dangers from wild animals and was lucky to have escaped them. She felt it was a miracle that she saved from the brood of flesh-eating beetles. However, the question remained of why she did not see her rescuer.

Her grandmother’s tale returned to her, “One day, the chief god, who had not communicated with his people for ages, came down and mingled amongst the people. He lived among them and learned their ways. Seeing the affects of the disease, the god had the people send him into the desert. He stayed in the desert and was not seen for days. Then one day, he returned covered in scars. The people wondered how he survived, for no one ever returned from the desert. The god gave water to his people and whoever drank this water lived.”

If that water is the cure, then I must find it. Jerna put her water away and shouldered her pack. Time to go.

Jerna walked until she came to the edge of the most unusual sight she had ever seen. It was a forest full of thick tall trees, some as wide as a house covered in moss. In fact, the entire forest was covered with moss, from the trees to the ground. Jerna wondered if she would turn green herself if she entered it. Perhaps the water of life could be found here, Jerna took her first step into the mysterious place. Though it was still day, the light streaming through the tree boughs gave the place an ominous feel. Jerna walked soundlessly on the thick carpet of moss as she cautiously stepped over tree roots and small plants. She came to a clearing where there was a lake surrounded by trees. She studied the waters. The water was clean and transparent revealing the lake floor. She tasted the water, it was sweet. Bringing out her now empty water skin, she filled it. Once the skin was full, she decided to rest before continuing her journey, so she spread her cloak and lay down. She smelled the sweet damp scent of moss as her mind drifted into sleep.

“The forest of illusions is a dangerous place,” Jerna heard her grandmother warn in her dream. “One may think that it is safe, for it appears very welcoming to those from the desert. However, the place is deadly and alive with evil spirits. The trees are not trees at all, but another form of demons that lure you into their trap with their sweet scents and flavours from their branches. One taste of their fruit can slowly poison you that you are not aware of it until you die. The lake is the place you must stay away from most of all; in it lives a creature that will pull you into its depths. Once you are pulled in you will be devoured.”

Then, Jerna dreamt she felt herself standing not far from the lake. Remembering her grandmother’s words, she turned to run, but could not move. She looked down and saw her feet embedded in the ground and covered in moss. She looked up and saw branches waving in the air like tentacles of a giant octopus, reaching out to her. She woke up screaming and found herself in water with something around her leg.

Jerna looked before her. Her eyes grew in terror. Before her was a giant black mound with black tentacles, one of them had a firm grip on her leg. Two slits appeared on the mound revealing a pair of glowing yellow eyes. Jerna screamed clawing the ground away from the creature, but the thing dragged her as it held her ankle fast. Water closed over her head. She looked down and saw its depths. She fought and thrashed in the water trying to break free. Her lung ached at the lack of air, she gasped inhaling water. Pain stung her nose and throat as water filled her lungs. Scenes of her life flashed by: her mother in bed, her grandmother, her brothers and sisters. Mother, I am sorry, she said in her heart.

Just then something grasped her arm and pulled her upwards. Jerna felt herself violently cough water; her lungs received sweet air! She looked up at her rescuer and saw a pair of gentle blue-grey eyes. Her vision blurred as she squinted trying to see the stranger’s features hidden under a deep hood. She saw black, brown, and green tendrils fly towards her. The stranger wrapped his cloak securely around her and said a word. As if they touched fire, the tendrils immediately retreated. Darkness enveloped Jerna’s sight.

Jerna woke up with a cloak wrapped around her. The cloak was of tightly woven cotton warm and soft to the touch. Seeing movement not far from where she was, she sat up. She gasped as pain shot through her leg and thigh.

“You should rest,” suggested her rescuer as he knelt before her.

He was broad shouldered wearing the garb of desert people – a long sleeved tunic and baggy trousers, around his waist an intricately braided belt of five colours. His coal black hair was long and tight coils that fell past his shoulders, giving him a wild look; yet his beard was neatly trimmed accentuating his lean chiseled features. His skin was earthen brown, possibly from the sun. His eyes were blue-grey like the clear desert sky.

“You have tzuim,” the man explained.

“Tzuim?”

He pulled back the cloak to show Jerna her ankle. The bandage became loose, exposing greying skin, much like her mother’s condition – the advanced stage of the disease.

“A disease that not only attacks the body, but also kills the spirit.”

“How did I get it?” she wondered aloud.

“It was with you from birth, you just did not realize it.”

“Will I be able to walk?” She was hoping the disease was not severe.

He looked at her for a moment. “That depends.”

“What do you mean?”

“The disease attacked your nerves on your leg, you will not be able to walk on your own.”

Jerna did not like what she was hearing.

“But I must!” she objected, “My mother, our people – there are those who are dying! I need to find the cure.”

The man with the eyes of skies looked at her.

“You cannot walk on your own,” he told her sincerely. “As for the cure, I will bring it to you, if –” Jerna listened. “If you will take me with you on this journey.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Then you will not survive.”

“I suppose I have no choice.”

The man said nothing as he added wood to a crackling fire. As Jerna watched the fire, her mind recalled distantly the mysterious tale her grandmother told her.

“After the god saved the people…he left them, with a promise that he will watch over them…. The god at first did not have a name, but he was later given one…”

Jerna close her hand over the coin pendant, feeling the metal surface rubbed smooth over the numerous times she had held it in her hand.

Grandmother, what were you trying to tell me?

She lay back on the ground and closed her eyes, hoping that the pain in her leg would go away.