Chapter 3

What I tasted in kiss was something I had truly never tasted before: Acceptance.

It's very difficult to convey the meaning this simple gesture had for me after too many years of being stared at, ignored, chased away.

His lips were smooth and soft. Even in his roughened hands, which came up on my cheeks again, I felt a gentleness, a sweetness.

Felt. Yes, that was another aspect. I literally felt that acceptance, that gentleness, that sweetness. It was a spirit that flitted between us, going directly from his mind to mine.

As he deepened the kiss, the spirit grew stronger, filling me with the idea that I would be taken care of.

All this without words.

We parted and became separate creatures -- physically. In my soul, I still felt connected.

I nodded to them and with two fingers made the sign of walking, then pointed off towards my shelter. They understood me immediately and all three smiling, followed as I went to gather up my few worldly possessions from the shelter I'd constructed out of an assortment of recycled materials -- corrugated metal, plastic tarps, barrels, two-by-fours, old luggage, mattresses, car seats, even an old refrigerator. I could tell immediately that my new friends were impressed with the way I'd arranged things. I actually had two whole rooms, one for cooking and storage, the other for sleeping and living.

We entered the kitchen and supplies room and I pointed out all the food and supplies I had amassed. In one corner I had a collection of bags and backpacks and, gesturing, I indicated that we should take the best of my supplies. All three of them were wearing packs, but they were only small ones, so I assumed they had come to the dump as part of a small excursion and had further supplies at another location. We packed up some of the more precious supplies, including my remaining stock of potatoes, so carefully stored over winter. For general supplies I took my remaining knives, a cup, a fork, and they picked up a few items as well.

Next we moved into my living area. Here I had created something of a nest for myself. In one corner I'd created a comfortable bed from blankets and cushions I'd collected over the years. These I left, as they would be too bulky to carry. The other end of the room was filled with makeshift storage boxes and shelves, where I'd hoarded up what supplies I had salvaged from the dump as well as other areas in the city. Some items, like my ivory-handled face mirror, I'd had for years, even when my mother and I were still together. I opened up the boxes and showed my companions what I had. Together we collected the more practical of the supplies.

I also picked up a few not-so-practical items, small things that held meaning to me. Safe and wrapped in cloth was a framed picture of my mother and me. I pulled it from the box where I had kept it safe and took a moment to unwrap it and give it a look. I'd been very young when the photo was taken, so young my mother was holding me in her arms. The picture, in its silver frame, had at one time stood on her dresser in our home, our house, the place we'd had to eventually leave. My mother was smiling and I was looking up at her with my innocent albino eyes, white hair tousled in all directions.

As I looked at the picture I momentarily had forgotten the men with me and so I was slightly startled when one of the twins tapped me on the shoulder. Turning to him, I saw his eyes on the photo. "Your mother?" he surely asked me. I glanced down and then looking back, nodded to the man.

Over his shoulder I then saw his twin pointing excitedly. I noticed the redhead crouched down examining something. I knew right away what it was: My books.

Wrapping the portrait back up and placing it into my pack, I crawled over to my improvised library. I'd collected quite a couple dozen volumes over the years. Some I could read easily, while others were too difficult for me and were taken only because of the pictures or because I hoped on day to master them. It was my mother who had taught me to read at comfortable least a basic level. Because of my deafness and the way the world had gone bad, I'd never gone to school. It was quite an effort, teaching a deaf child to understand written language -- representing sounds I would never hear -- but she'd managed to do it. "Reading," she'd written to me once, "will make you stronger and keep you safer."

The redhead was still staring at the books, fingering them with apparent wonder. Finally he looked up and gestured broadly at the collection and then pointed to me. "Yours?" he was asking. I nodded and then suddenly realized I'd forgotten something obvious -- or something that would have been, had I not been so seldom in contact with people. Going back to my storage area, I fished into a box and found a notebook and more precious of all, a pen.

I returned to the redhead. Would he write me out his questions?

He accepted the pen and notebook. I watched him open to a clean page and begin to write. The twins were watching.

"Have you been deaf all your life?" he wrote. When I nodded, he continued with "You can read?" He then offering the pen to me.

"Yes, my mother taught me," I replied in a hand shaky from disuse.

Our dialogue continued, all in ink:

"What is your name?"

"My mother called me Moon. She said I was from out of this world."

"Where is your mother now?"

"I do not know... probably dead."

"Was she living here with you before?"

"No, I came here alone after."

"After what?"

"After she left me."

I noticed that after I wrote that, my companion looked stunned, wounded even, although he quickly recovered and tried to hide that reaction. I assumed he was thinking what a horrible mother I'd had but then had wanted to cover up for his reaction, since it might offend me.

I decided to assure him to the contrary. "She was good. She took care of me but it became difficult. I was a difficult child."

He took the pen and wrote out, "You are still almost a child. How old are you?"

"Fourteen, I think. Except for the seasons, I lose track of years. I have been alone for a long time."

Without even pausing, the redhead wrote, "All your life?"

I took the pen and paused, considering. "Maybe."

Finally he expressed a thought that surely required the use of pen, for no gestures could have conveyed it.

"We are Wraeththu. Do you know this word?"

I looked at the strange word, not recognizing it. "No, unless somebody said it and never wrote it for me."

I paused, thinking I was done, but then thought of a question. "Is it like being an albino, like I am?"

The redhead considered. "Yes and no. It does mean that we are different from other people."

"Different in what way?" I asked.

"Come with us and we'll show you. It's not a bad difference."

"I will come with you. I trust you. One thing. What are your names?"

He gestured up to his companions, then himself. "These are Genron and Varan. My name is Thiede."