(TM) 283. Speaking in tongues
What languages do you speak?
"The squire has more Gaelic than you have English, my lad. A man who speaks only his cradle tongue can't cast aspersions at others."
"Don't be mistaking Gaelic for my first language, Donncha. Nor me for a lad."
I grew up speaking the language of my kind. Most humans who know of it call our tongue Fae, or some other variation on the names they have given my people. It is a language of silk and stone, of ice and flame, that can sound like bird calls, rushing water and the ring of metal all at once. Our tongue changes as slowly as we do, and those humans who hear it do not forget the hearing, whether or not they recognize it as speech.
But I also spent much time in Éire, watching, listening to and eventually speaking with the people there. With the sponge-like tendencies of the young of any race, I absorbed Irish Gaelic with a fair amount of ease. Granted I occasionally got details of pronunciation wrong, not because of any lack in my learning, but because of the quicksilver way that human languages change and shift according to their use. The process gave me what others have often referred to as an "antique" accent. If they only knew ...
Certainly I never felt any temptation to learn any of the other tongues that took root on the fair isle in the ensuing centuries. Not only did I have other interests taking up my time, I saw no need to make the effort.
Fairies have certain advantages in communication, after all.
"In the center of four walls, my friend, and on a floor, I have no English, for I have never learned it. But on my own earth … there I can speak to anyone."
When I speak to someone in my native land, standing on solid ground and under open sky, I can understand them no matter what language they use. Whatever language I speak; they understand me in their own tongue. No need to bother with tedious lessons with such a gift, or so I thought.
My blackbird Máire held a differing opinion. She saw the changes that would come to Ireland and the rest of the world as the twentieth century wore on and determined to ensure that her family had the skills to weather those changes. Pained as she was by the shrinking use of Gaeilige in our own country, she nevertheless decided that I should learn English, though she had little love for the language. Besides, as she informed me tartly, it would be considerably more convenient if I could understand people whether or not we happened to be outdoors.
Little did she realize she was taking on a long, often frustrating project. Believing that I would never leave Connemara, much less Ireland, I at first studied the bewildering tongue only to humor her. Our boys, however, learned right along with me and much quicker than I did, mastering three languages at once. With their help, Máire gradually dinned English into my slow but stubbornly retentive memory.
Decades later, though it seemed barely any time at all, the Troubles tore my dark rose from us. Ireland seemed too painfully full of memories for my children and I to remain, at least for a time. Máire was wiser than she realized, to insist that I stop relying on my fae understanding and learn that third language. I only wish that I could tell her so.
Ruairí MacEibhir
Fandom: The Grey Horse
Word Count: 510 (excluding quotes)
"The squire has more Gaelic than you have English, my lad. A man who speaks only his cradle tongue can't cast aspersions at others."
"Don't be mistaking Gaelic for my first language, Donncha. Nor me for a lad."
I grew up speaking the language of my kind. Most humans who know of it call our tongue Fae, or some other variation on the names they have given my people. It is a language of silk and stone, of ice and flame, that can sound like bird calls, rushing water and the ring of metal all at once. Our tongue changes as slowly as we do, and those humans who hear it do not forget the hearing, whether or not they recognize it as speech.
But I also spent much time in Éire, watching, listening to and eventually speaking with the people there. With the sponge-like tendencies of the young of any race, I absorbed Irish Gaelic with a fair amount of ease. Granted I occasionally got details of pronunciation wrong, not because of any lack in my learning, but because of the quicksilver way that human languages change and shift according to their use. The process gave me what others have often referred to as an "antique" accent. If they only knew ...
Certainly I never felt any temptation to learn any of the other tongues that took root on the fair isle in the ensuing centuries. Not only did I have other interests taking up my time, I saw no need to make the effort.
Fairies have certain advantages in communication, after all.
"In the center of four walls, my friend, and on a floor, I have no English, for I have never learned it. But on my own earth … there I can speak to anyone."
When I speak to someone in my native land, standing on solid ground and under open sky, I can understand them no matter what language they use. Whatever language I speak; they understand me in their own tongue. No need to bother with tedious lessons with such a gift, or so I thought.
My blackbird Máire held a differing opinion. She saw the changes that would come to Ireland and the rest of the world as the twentieth century wore on and determined to ensure that her family had the skills to weather those changes. Pained as she was by the shrinking use of Gaeilige in our own country, she nevertheless decided that I should learn English, though she had little love for the language. Besides, as she informed me tartly, it would be considerably more convenient if I could understand people whether or not we happened to be outdoors.
Little did she realize she was taking on a long, often frustrating project. Believing that I would never leave Connemara, much less Ireland, I at first studied the bewildering tongue only to humor her. Our boys, however, learned right along with me and much quicker than I did, mastering three languages at once. With their help, Máire gradually dinned English into my slow but stubbornly retentive memory.
Decades later, though it seemed barely any time at all, the Troubles tore my dark rose from us. Ireland seemed too painfully full of memories for my children and I to remain, at least for a time. Máire was wiser than she realized, to insist that I stop relying on my fae understanding and learn that third language. I only wish that I could tell her so.
Ruairí MacEibhir
Fandom: The Grey Horse
Word Count: 510 (excluding quotes)