The Voiceless Man...

ominating my curiosity to the fullest, the conversation that I had been a part of, with a grey foul for what was worth it, had more than make me think. Where had my travels taken me and what was this amazing, but at times puzzling, Land of the Nether. The pigeon had told me the most entailing stories, but shortly after it stopped to catch its breath, one of his companions of a more human form had pulled me aside and told me to take everything it said with a pinch of salt. However, from all the words that had been flung at me by the feathered wisdom, I understood that for me to know the marvels of this world I was to travel to the North. I had to find someone. 'A man of many forms' was the best description that the bird gave. The nod and spark in everyones' eyes lead me to believe that this whimsical person held the key to the abundance of knowledge that I was yearning for. I was told that he resembled me in the sense that he also did not belong to the small Community of the Nether. Yet, apparently everyone knew him, everyone held him deer. But also, everyone was afraid of him. Why?

This question had me occupied all the way through the open fields, filled with beautiful flowers that almost resembled gold in the bright and teasing summer sun. According to my diary it was December. This did not surprise me for a second. It seemed that my ability for surprise was somewhat dull. It lead me to think, however, of how I reached my current destination. If it is to be warm in this wintry month, I had to be in the southern hemisphere. This could not be. The train which brought me to this place was very much northern-hemispheric. How did I get here...?

This scary thought had to wait. A strange panicky, yet melodic sound was coming from the bank of a small stream, sunning along my way. I rushed to see. First there was a tartan cap, then a droopy grey jacket and finally, an accordion. Underneath all this was a tired and worn complexion of a seemingly happy vagrant. 'Hallo', I said, but the only reply I got was a screechy sound from his musical instrument. 'Panthomime it is!', I declared vocally. The man's brows twitched happily and his fingers started running across the buttons of the accordion. No music. No screeching. He talked...

After fighting with the earge to faint, followed by the instinctive earge to run, I sat down across his camp fire, which had burned out long ago. He explained that he lost his voice long ago. He was stranded. His family had left him and his employer had disposed of his services. All he had left was the clothes on his back, a train ticket without a destination and his mother's accordion. He had all the time in the world, which he used to learn how to talk... without talking. My fascination was rekindled and thus I sat and listened....