I was born in the mountainous areas. Since birth, I spoke the highlander dialect. In high school and at university, I had to learn to speak my language properly. At school, we were taught foreign languages like English and German. English has stayed with me permanently; in my youth, I learned most of it from games and computer programs, as back then there was hardly anything in our language. I studied German for over three years, but despite the teachers' efforts, it didn't stick well with me. Besides, I didn't have many opportunities to use it, so over time, it largely faded away. I can still understand a bit, but if I have to say something, the words don't come to mind, and I feel empty. However, I can say a few things in several different dialects from the few words I can put together. Not a very useful skill, but it amused others who also knew a bit of German.
I learned another language, Hungarian, when I was in university. I started learning it a bit as a challenge for myself, and over time, as I understood more, it became a bit like an adventure. The more I understood, the more curious I became about what the next funny-looking long words meant. I had a few Hungarian friends with whom I could try to talk and practically use what I had learned from an old book, published still during the communist era.
I lived in Hungary for several years, using almost exclusively Hungarian, so it became somewhat like a second native language for me. I even thought in this language. Later, I moved with my family to Norway and started intensively learning Norwegian. I have lived here for almost 18 years now and think in Norwegian. With the native language, I had little contact, and it became somewhat neglected, while Hungarian I still used at home to talk with the family. Lately, mainly only with my wife, because the children preferred to speak in the same language they use at school with their friends.
Knowing multiple languages doesn't hold the same value as it used to. Almost everywhere, you can get by with English, and in the last few years, artificial intelligence has developed so much that live simultaneous translation can be had on every electronic device, even on smart rings or earrings, which became popular a few years ago. A fast, reliable translator always at hand, speaking in various voices and dialects - modern technology that quickly became the norm.
Despite knowing several languages, I wasn't able to fully utilize this. Despite a rich vocabulary, I always struggled with expressing myself and generally didn't like talking. I hated phone conversations, didn't like corporate meetings or parties where there were a lot of people and everyone talked with everyone about everything and nothing. My twisted and complicated sense of humor was incomprehensible to many, so I didn't even try, to avoid experiencing the awkward silence, that my contribution to the conversation usually ended with. I only engaged a bit in conversation when the topics were related to what I work with and know well. Then I was even ready to enter into discussions. Usually, however, I preferred to listen and be silent; at least then I didn't have to worry about not being understood well.
I walked the trail, a few steps behind the boy carrying a basket of sticks. On one side, I had the light green and on the other, the dark green forest. I sped up slightly to catch up with the boy and strike up a conversation, and in my mind, I was drafting a script for my chat. I didn't want it to look awkward chasing after him, so I walked two steps beside him and as if by chance, I asked:
"What are you carrying in the basket?" and immediately scolded myself in my thoughts for sounding like an idiot.
"For arrows," the boy answered, glancing in my direction and slightly raising his eyebrows as if he really was wondering if I was a fool, and then he added, "for Black Fire's next hunt. The Young Smith will straighten them, and they will be the best."
"Where do you live?" I asked another question from my list of unknowns, hoping he would mention a city or village name I knew, and then it would be easy to find the way forward.
"Under the flat rock," he replied.
"Is it far?" I inquired.
"Close, you'll see it there soon," he answered, pointing down the trail in the direction we were walking.
"How old are you?" I tried to continue the conversation.
"This is my seventh summer," he responded, showing me a piece of leather strap about two centimeters wide and maybe 20 centimeters long, which was tied to the string serving as a belt for his trousers. On the strap, there were six small black holes as if made with a red-hot nail.
"Is each hole for one summer?" I asked, intrigued.
"When the summer ends and we have a day of rest, everyone who is alive makes another," he answered and looked at me again with a slightly puzzled expression.
"Aren't you afraid to walk alone?" I continued with interest.
"I'm almost seven years old, I'm grown up. If cats wanted to attack me during the day, I have an axe," he replied with a noticeable hint of pride.
"From what age are you considered grown up?"
"Before my sixth summer, my father gave me a command. This is already the second full summer."
"How did you know when you would become an adult?"
"When a child can walk, run, and speak, they are given daily chores. If they don’t die, perform tasks well, and don’t have to ask for help, then the father gives a command, and they become an adult. When I am taller and have hair here," he pointed at his chest and underarms, "I myself will become a father."
Talking to the boy raised more questions than it answered for me. I needed to digest what I'd heard. We walked in silence for a few minutes. It reminded me that my son is now of a similar age, and I couldn't imagine making him work at such a young age. He's probably in the second grade of elementary school this year, athletic and agile, but not very resourceful and certainly not as independent as this young companion on the trail.
So far, it seemed like he was eagerly answering all my questions, so I decided to ask something more specific but didn't want to be intrusive. Thus, I chose one of the more important questions from my list of unknowns:
"Do you know where the nearest city is and what it's called?"
"Cities are far," he answered right away, and after a few seconds, he began to elaborate eagerly - "Old Beetle was in the city, many days' ride on a horse. He's been to both large and small cities. He was also at the markets many times in winter, but he's old now and doesn't want to tell stories."
From his voice, one could infer that Old Beetle's stories must have been interesting. Suddenly, he asked me his first question, looking me in the eye, and his facial expression seemed very similar to my son's when he's asking for something:
"Have you been to the city?"
"I have," I answered right away, but after a second, I added - "I've been to several big cities, but very far from here, and I got lost. Now I'm trying to find my way back to a city."
"Old Beetle will show and tell if you also tell. In the evening at dinner. Come." he replied.
I noticed he started to smile more and picked up the pace a bit. Despite my longer legs and bigger strides, I struggled to keep up, and my underwear wasn't making it any easier.
We walked another good two thousand steps, not counting exactly because I was engaged in conversation. The sun had already passed midday because the shadows behind us were a bit longer, but there was still almost half a day until sunset. I wasn't hungry, but I felt thirsty. The last time I drank was from the lake, which by my estimate was at least 10 kilometers ago. I hoped we would soon reach the boy's home and maybe there would be something to drink there.
The forests on both sides began to recede from the trail, and the path emerged onto open terrain covered mainly with grass and small deciduous bushes. Up until now, the terrain had been entirely flat, but now the path led up a hill. When we reached the top of the hill, a vast valley unfolded before my eyes. On the eastern side of the valley lay a large rock, something like a miniature Uluru in Australia, only in a light gray color. From this distance, it appeared to be about 50 meters tall, flat as a table, and its walls seemed steep, almost vertical. Below the rock, there was a small village, consisting of a few, perhaps a dozen buildings of various sizes, all surrounded by something resembling a fence or a very airy palisade.
From the rock, through the village, and further west, a winding, shimmering ribbon of a river stretched out and disappeared in the distance where the valley turned slightly northward. Far to the south, the edge of the forest was visible as a thin dark green strip on the horizon.
The boy pointed towards the village, didn't say a word, but had a smile from ear to ear on his face. We immediately moved on. We were no more than half a kilometer from our destination. The boy started to run downhill, and I also tried to speed up, but my non-sporty attire forced me to continue at a moderately fast walk.
Flat Rock - that's what this village or settlement was called. I didn't have to wonder long why.
The fence around the settlement didn't have a gate, just a several-meter gap where there was a path. The houses had a structure of wooden logs, and the walls between them were made of intricately and tightly intertwined branches. The roofs were sloped, with a single pitch away from the entrance. They were made of a thick layer of dry reeds, and grass grew on its top layer. The doors were a movable part of the wall, where the flexible mesh of branches could be pushed aside almost to a right angle. The houses had no windows or chimneys, except for a few houses in the settlement, there were workshops. These were buildings with the same construction and roof as the houses, but only with one or two walls.
The young boy ran into the settlement ahead of me and spoke with a slightly older youth, pointing in my direction. As I crossed the settlement's fence boundary, I was greeted by him:
"Be well," said the young men, bowing slightly.
I bowed back, not knowing what I should say or whether it would be appropriate to shake a hand and introduce myself. He just placed his right hand on his chest and with a slight bow said:
"Black Fire."
"Arne," I introduced myself uncertainly, mimicking his gesture.
"Welcome to Flat Rock," he said, then turned and went back to his work as if we had never met.
The young boy looked at me with a smile and followed him. And there I stood alone, not knowing what to do with myself. No interrogation about where I came from, where I was going, what I wanted, what I was carrying with me. I again associated the situation with games, where after completing a task or finishing a conversation, the character simply walks away and stops being interested in me. A typical NPC.
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