by Alex Ordiales

The desert was an interminable carpet of burning sands. The travellers did not remember for how long they had been walking towards the horizon. She was tired, but he told her that they were almost there. And after walking so far, they finally arrived to the Land of Dead Tongues. There lived the forgotten languages nobody used anymore, and were rarely pronounced by anybody’s lips, except when reading ancient texts.

The travellers were carrying a basket. And into the basket, there was a big egg, as big as a rock. It was a new language, not born yet, who was growing inside. It was still very delicate. The travellers were his parents, two tongues who had put the best of them both into that egg. They came from rich families of tongues, and were very proud of their son. They expected great things from him.

But the Dead Tongues where not happy to see them come with their child.

“You can’t bring him here”, they told the travellers. “It’s hardly a baby, and this place is only for the old tongues who are sent to exile.”

“But he is not safe out there”, said the mother tongue. “The Spoken Languages will be envious of him. They’ll be afraid that it might replace them, and that people talk about it instead of talking of them.”

“It’s always that way”, said the dead tongues. “A new tongue must develop, and we’ll see if he survives or disappears. It’s the same for all languages.”

“This one is different”, said the father tongue. “It’s not like any other language, I know. Couldn’t you give it refuge here, and take care of him?”

In the end, the Dead Tongues decided to protect him, because they were old and wise, and knew how precious a new language was. And also they liked to upset the Spoken Languages, who had exiled them to that distant land.

So the parent tongues left their son with them. The Dead Tongues took the egg, and put it at the top of a very high tower that was at the centre of their town. Very long ago, it had been called the Tower of Babel, where the ancestors of the languages were born, according to the old tales. But no one remembered how that had happened, or why. The Dead Tongues asked the birds that lived in the tower to make a nest with its feathers, and also to sit on it in turns in order to keep it warm.

The Spoken Languages lived in a city very far from there. Although they were brothers, they were always jealous of each other, and competing at who shouted louder. And they did not look kindly on their new rival when they heard of him. It was a menace to them. They all wanted to silence his voice, but they could not, for it was well hidden from all of them.

Also people around the world heard of the new language. His name was whispered in corners, here and there, and it spread like a rumour. Some of his words began to be used privately because they sounded good, and although they were considered vulgar by some people, they became common expressions.

And the echoes of those words floated in the air, were carried by the desert winds, and came to the sanctuary of the Dead Tongues. The Dead Tongues picked them up and put them in the nest, near the egg, in order to feed him. Soon the words were absorbed by its shell. And so, his vocabulary went on growing. Slowly, more words were added to it, as if it were a living dictionary. If you put your ear near the shell, you could hear many sentences, sayings and even slang words.

And the Dead Tongues took some feathers from the nest, dipped them in ink and used them to write stories, the first ones that were written in the new language, and messages that were put into bottles and carried by the birds to the sea, where they were thrown. Those bottles floated through the oceans until they reached some coast, and someone found them and read the messages. Everybody seemed to understand the new language, because it was so similar to the first language that had been spoken on Earth before all others, and was still deeply buried in the memory of men.

So the new language began to be known in all the countries. From the Eskimos to the Tibetan monks, from the African tribes to the Maoris, everyone began to use it to communicate, occasionally at fist, more often later. You could hear it in the streets, in conversations at home, and later on the radio and TV. It was decided that children should learn it at school. Songs were composed, books were written. And when two people met anywhere in the world, one could always tell a joke to the other and expect him to laugh at it. Or to tell him it was a horrible joke.

The Spoken Languages began to lose their power, and many retired to the Land of Dead Tongues. Others stayed, but became humble, and no longer fought so aggressively to keep their influence.

One fine day, up in the tower, the egg shell cracked and opened. A hand came out, and then a head appeared. Usually, babies cry when they come to the world. But this one laughed.