¤ Vera's story ¤

part 3: A calling

by Neishai

In her second year away from home, Vera learned enough about the written language to make her way into the world of journalism. At first, she was given the piddly assignments: features on events no one wanted to see, maybe some product ads … a snippet on the weather?! But her way with words caught the eye in subtle ways. She put her best effort into every piece. She put her anger and frustration into it, using snappy wordage and catchy phrases. She learned how to put together a presentation that would get the readers coming back for more, to go so far as to stand in line to do it! She even received fan mail from a few readers, all of which she tacked up on her wall, after she replied to each personally. Then she found that people not only appreciated a reply, but a hand-written one in her very original, snakelike script.

This was even with the rudimentary language skills of a ten-year-old … but the knowledge and understanding of a gifted girl of twenty-one.

Then came the day when she was given her first real assignment. The superior directly above her was given the task of passing along the details.

Messel was a middle-aged man whose longish brown hair appeared limp and greasy though he washed it daily, skin pasty from years spent hiding from the sun within the protective embrace of the office. Somehow his expensive, 'wrinkle proof' clothing managed to appear rumpled and sweat-stained, even on a chilly day. His attitude completed the image of 'disgruntled white-collar man in a dead-end job.' Not only did it suck like a vacuum, but he actually seemed to instinctively know which person was having the worst day and enjoyed picking at their emotional scabs with his verbal fingernails.

Vera dreaded what was to come when she was called to his office. She had an irrational urge to bolt, feigning sickness as she raced down the hall. I think I have Ebola. Make way! She sighed, knowing she could hide, but he might track her down, like a bloodhound, even into the bathroom, if he felt 'obligated' to do so.

"In about three weeks, we will devote an entire issue to the Boat Festival. You know the one, huge parade, fish banquet on the beach, banners, races, plays, shops, music... Anyway, there'll be a big story, pictures all over the front page, everything. Even the ads and announcements will be geared toward it. I want you to research the history behind it. Get the whole story. What started it, how it became what it is today." He stopped suddenly, mid-step, for he had been pacing the floor. "Are you getting all this?" He narrowed his washed-out eyes, still unconvinced of her intelligence and skill, despite her ever-stronger grasp on the nuances of his native language.

"Yes sir," she confirmed with her exotic accent and nodded her curly mop of hair, which was tied back at the base of her skull, bobbing smartly with the motion. "Complete history of the Boat Festival."

He eyed her for several seconds longer. "Good then." He cleared his throat and continued on his quest to wear a goat-track in the floor.

She snorted inwardly. Yeah, I'm sure you're the one who wanted me to write this. You'd hate for anyone to advance in the field, especially me, so the only reason you'd let me work on this is you can't stand me hangin' around. Having me hole up at my place is like a two-week vacation for you I'm sure! Well, the feeling's mutual, pal…

"You should get your research started tonight." He paused to rub his chin, folded a greasy lock of hair behind his ear, in thought. "It's hot, humid, and dirty over there -- unclean water and … bugs. Everywhere." He shuddered; took a slow breath, his slender back facing her. He turned around. "You can handle this?"

It was as if he was actually going overseas! Vera shook her head in bewilderment. Does he think I'm going? Is he insane?

Resisting the urge to snarl viciously at the pompous bastard, she said matter-of-factly, "Certainly." In her expression she had squeezed, like a slice of lemon, every last bit of excitement she felt over the prospect of her first solo assignment. She loathed the jerk, but she loved her job more.

He sniffed in disdain, lowering an eyebrow and looking down his nose at her. "Well, then get moving! Oh, and your deadline is two-and-a-half weeks from today." When he had shooed her from his office, the man sat back in his chair, holding his forehead lightly with the palm of his hand. "That stupid girl's going to ruin us all."

¤ ¤ ¤

When she had first come to this world Vera had been convinced she was hopelessly lost, but even with a language barrier between them, the lives and culture of herself and Nyoco had been similar. The people across the sea were much different, far removed from even Nyoco's understanding. Unfortunately, in order for her to write her story in the allotted time, there was no way for Vera to go in person. This was a great disappointment to Vera, who wanted to immerse herself in the world of the Boat Makers.

Someday perhaps…

She sat in her room at a desk whose surface was the epitome of disarray. Her right heel braced up on the corner, left leg crossed haphazardly across it, she leaned back until the chair back was stopped by her bed, which was also disheveled. Papers, notebooks, newspaper clippings, magazines with bookmarked articles, all of these lay strewn about the bed, desk, and floor.

But her most treasured resource was strapped to her head. It was a stereotypical headset that wrapped around the back of her head, with a rectangular piece of colored glass situated in front of her eye. On the tiny screen was the face of a man with dark skin and a foreign accent. It was nice to talk to someone else that people around here found difficult to understand ... even though he was a linguist, able to speak many languages and understand even more.

Through him, she was witnessing "in person" the building of the famous boats that were the foundation of the Boat Festival. Beautifully crafted catamarans made from a single tree trunk, Vera could not decide which she found more awe-inspiring, the artistry and skill required to carve such a vessel, or the sheer size of the trees used to support the community.

The man, another offworlder that went by the name Jatan, was Vera's translator. Her assignment required that she formulate her own set of questions and goals, and with his help she was able to work out exactly what she wanted to say. He gave suggestions about conduct and alternate questions that would have the same meaning to foreigners, yet vastly different ones to the natives. He was key to the success of her story and she had every intention of giving him credit where it was due. He wasn't just her translator, he was…

"A reference book? Is that all I am to you?" he joked.

"I think I'm giving you a lot of credit here, Jatan. I could just call you 'parrot,' me matey, or 'translator robot,' though that'd make you sound high-tech or something … " she winked, " … but," she sighed dramatically, "I feel like being nice today."

"Then I guess I'll owe you one when I get back, hm?"

"Mm, yes. Lunch would be nice."

"Good idea. I'm starved. I'll talk to you later, Vera."

"Hey! Jatan!"

It was a lot like an Internet conversation at times, but they were a great team. Vera grinned, setting the headset down on the receiver. It would beep at her when Jatan had returned. Right now, it was her job to write down what she had learned thus far: the questions, the answers, and everything in between. It may be mealtime where Jatan was, but it was still early morning for Vera.

She heard a tap at the door around lunchtime. Had that much time passed already? "Come in." As the door opened, Vera saw the tray in Nyoco's hands and rose to her feet. "Here, let me help."

"Why don't you come out here to eat. You need to get up and move around," Nyoco said.

"You're right."

Vera had left a narrow path from desk to door for Nyoco's use, but she always entered with a look of horror on her face and left as soon as she could. They looked around the floor, Nyoco from the doorway, Vera as she passed through the room. Vera smirked and Nyoco just shook her head. How ever would Vera find everything with such a mess? But it was how Vera had always worked; she always knew where everything was. All slobs know where their treasures are buried.

Vera saw the look on Nyoco's face. As they sat down, she asked, "Aren't all teenagers like this around here?" Vera asked.

"I don't know," Nyoco replied wryly. "I never was that young."

Vera laughed and rewarded Nyoco with a goofy-looking raspberry. "Touché. How could I have possibly assumed you were ever that young?"

"I'll forgive you this time, young one. But remember, senility is unbecoming in youth."

When a loud, persistent beep issued from the depths of Vera's cave-like bedroom, she rose quickly to put her dishes away. "Lunch was great. Thanks, Ny."

The woman smiled and shook her head, watching Vera go. Nyoco was very careful to make sure Vera was cared for. Not only once had she come home during the workweek to find Vera still in her pajamas, or clothes from the day before. When she asked, no, Vera had not eaten all day. Dragging Vera out of her room was Nyoco's way of keeping some semblance of a family atmosphere. She knew Vera appreciated it, not only from her words, but from her expressions and posture too. Sometimes she trudged out with a weary face, but went back in her room looking upbeat and even rested. Nyoco was happy to note that the feeling was mutual. Ever since she had first found Vera in front of the drugstore begging for scraps, she actually looked forward to coming home every night for the first time in many, many years.

In the two weeks that she was "locked" in her room, Vera had begun to show the telltale symptoms of one who is sitting at a desk for too long. She began to grow pale from a lack of sunlight. She developed cramps in her limbs and back from being in the same position for hours on end. To remedy this, Nyoco dragged her outside for a jog early in the morning, before going to work. Though she had never been a morning person (to the point where her pale skin actually began to match her green eyes), it nevertheless jumpstarted Vera's mind, like a strong cup of coffee, to greet the cool morning by kicking up clouds of mist and dew with their running shoes while discussing the day to come.

One morning however, Nyoco rose and was surprised to find Vera up making the local coffee equivalent. She was dressed and a little disheveled, but otherwise wide-awake.

"Up already?" Nyoco asked, covering a yawn with the back of her hand.

Vera turned bloodshot eyes upon her friend. "Nope, this is my second pot in the last six hours." She rubbed her eyes. "Want some?"

That night, Nyoco fixed her a large warm meal, a hearty stew with biscuits on the side, and sent her to bed early. Vera didn't complain; tomorrow was the day before her deadline, and her articles (she had written several, expecting that they should use the one that worked the best) were practically finished, just needed a little polish to make them shine. She had to be physically prodded out of her chair at the dinner table to head to bed. Nyoco helped her out of her rumpled clothes before Vera fell on the bed, asleep. She awoke in the morning with a blanket draped over her body; she hadn't moved once all night.

Her deadline came and went. She was given praise for her articles but she waved them away offhandedly. She had done her job, hadn't she? And it wasn't as if she had done it alone. Jatan, who was due in from the airport that night, had been invaluable, and she made sure everyone knew it. Finally, they had heard enough from her and though the layout and decision-making for the project hadn't been done, sent her home early.

Like everyone else, Vera had the Boat Festival off. Though it wasn't a national holiday, for most businesses save tourist traps, grocery stores, and the market, staying open would have been difficult or impossible.

And while everyone was out celebrating the object of one person's two week long obsession, Vera slept through it all.

¤ ¤ ¤