The Language of Sound

By Cassandra Hamm

The iksomi opens his mouth, and his cry pierces the thick, morning air. All gloom and pain strips away. The noise is rigid like a lyre string, warm like honey, and I let it fill my being.

His mouth snaps shut, pointed teeth curving over black lips. He stretches, arching his back and extending his feathered wings before settling against the black sand.

Contentment, I decide. That is how he communicates contentment.

I imitate his noise—the clearness, the rigidness, the warmth. The first attempt is too thick, too garbled, but as I continue, the noise clarifies. Contentment, I tell myself. I must remember that noise. It might help calm him if our meeting goes wrong.

For moons I have watched the lavender-furred feline—or, more accurately, listened to him. I know the sounds he makes to threaten, to woo, and to make peace. I know the sounds he makes when he is anguished, afraid, and furious. At least, I think I do. Nan says I’m crazy, but she never did think my uncanny ability to imitate sounds was useful.

I creep closer to the iksomi—my dark skin helps keep me hidden behind the hosela bush—and listen to the rumble of breath in his magnificent chest. The suns glare behind him, casting a bluish light on the desert.

“The beast will tear you to pieces,” my nan said once, shaking her finger at me. “Your obsession with sound has muddled your brain.”

I rise from the bush despite the memory of her warning, clutch my spear in my fist, and step forward.

The iksomi’s dilated, red eyes snap toward me. His growl is rough like an obhumba hide. A warning.

I drop my spear—in my head, Nan screams, “You foolish boy!”—and hold out my hands. “I am Kholwa.”

He stands, his hackles raised, and growls deeper.

The clear, warm call from moments ago pours from my mouth.

He studies me with his slitted eyes, and I can barely breathe. I should pick up my spear—no, Nan would say I should hurry back to the village and never go near the beast again.

Our tribe fears his kind. The iksomi have not shown mercy to humans, but if we try to learn their language—or at least some form of communication—maybe we can get past all this rivalry and violence.

That’s my theory, anyway.

The iksomi steps toward me, his massive paws thumping against the sand. I bask in the message of friendship and warmth, then try to pour it through my lips with that rigid, clear sound.

He sits, his fur lying flat on his back.

My shoulders slump. At least on some level, I’d interpreted the meaning of the sound correctly. The thought gives me boldness, and I call out with the same warbling tone I’ve heard him use to woo.

He snarls, harsh and cold like my nan’s glare.

My hands shake. I must have misinterpreted that sound. I repeat the first clear call I had interpreted as contentment. He lets his lips flatten, but his eyes remain narrowed. If I mess up again, he might leap at me. Will my tribemates find my bones here? Will my nan weep?

A purr, thick like Nan’s bread dough, rumbles in my throat. I trust you, I say through the sound. Please trust me.

A snort comes from his massive, flaring nostrils; then he dips his head, showing me the intricate black spirals between his thin ears.

My breath comes in gasps, and rare tears sting my eyes. He is showing me respect. I am speaking his language.

Then he stiffens, rising to his feet. That’s when I hear it—the silence. Birds have fled the area, taking their song with them. Suddenly chilled despite the blazing suns, I turn. An obhumba stands, regal and proud, not twenty paces from me.

I snatch my spear from the sand, my hands shaking almost too hard to hold onto it. Obhumba skin, thick as tanned leather, is much too difficult to penetrate with an arrowhead. And its six eyes blink at varying times, keeping one eye always fixed on me.

Behind me is an iksomi, in front of me an obhumba. I have made fragile contact with the former, but I cannot trust that it will not destroy me.

The iksomi lets out a thick, rough growl. The obhumba returns a sonorous bellow, echoing through the desolate desert.

I try to imitate its bellow, but it paws at the ground, spraying sand everywhere. I do not know its language well enough to try to communicate.

I hurl the spear at the obhumba, but it glances off harmlessly. The leather-skinned beast lets out a breathy hiss like a cold finger running across my skin, then advances, its many eyes pinned on me.

I back toward the feline who has shown me respect and let out a thin, piercing cry, like a mewling cub. Help, I tell him. Help me.

The iksomi’s dark wings stretch out to their fullest, at least twenty paces across, and he gives the same cold snarl. But it isn’t directed at me—

He crosses the sand in a massive bound and digs his long, curved teeth into the obhumba’s hide. The obhumba roars, thrashing madly, and the iksomi lets go only to beat the creature with his wings. Sand swirls around them, obscuring my vision, and against all logic, I step forward.

The obhumba suddenly turns and flees, his blue hide melting into the horizon. The dust settles, revealing the iksomi grooming his wings.

I almost choke on my tears. I trust you, I tell him with a rumbling purr.

Returning the purr, he dips his head. His tail swishes against the sand and flicks my cheek.

A grin splits my face.

He spreads his wings and, with a shrill call of triumph, soars into the clouds.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassandra Hamm has always been fascinated by the inner workings of the human mind. She received her B.S. in psychology and continues to apply her knowledge to her characters. Her love of writing prompts has spurred her to start blogging, submit stories to amazing websites like this one, and host flash fiction contests on Instagram. She is obsessed with cats, jigsaw puzzles, movie soundtracks, and Broadway musicals.

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