Chapter 33
CHAPTER 33
JOHN
T ink has rearranged my communication board.
That’s my first thought when I enter the cave where I first trapped Tink. I’d snuck out of the Den after dinner, hoping Tink’s combination of the SUN and DOWN tiles meant to meet in the evening. I make a mental note to make her a NIGHT tile for ease of communication. Apparently I was correct, because she’s perched, thighs resting against her heels on the cave floor, looking rather pleased with herself as she glances between me and the mangled communication board.
“Oh no. No, no, no,” I say, grasping for the wooden pieces. “All of this was arranged alphabetically. I guess you’d have no reason to know that, but I organized it that way for a reason.”
Tink swats my hand away from the board, causing me to drop “GO.” It clatters against the wooden board as I choke in pain. When I withdraw my hand, I notice a faint line of blood tracing my skin from where her long nails sliced me.
My mind starts rattling off the plethora of types of bacteria that live underneath the fingernails. I can only hope that not quite so many have had time to develop in a place like Neverland.
“Ouch. Thanks for that,” I mumble, wiping my blooded hand against my pants.
Tink plucks a tile from the board and tucks it in my palm, which I open.
It’s the tile for “YOU’RE WELCOME.” I roll my eyes, which earns a twitch of her lips, the effect of which is a warm sensation in my chest.
I decide I might have to roll my eyes more often.
“Really, it’s best if we have an organization system,” I say. “That way it’s easier for us to remember which words are where on the board. At least until muscle memory takes over.”
Tink points to the set of eyes. “LOOK.” Then she encircles a set of tiles with her outstretched finger: a stick figure running, another walking, the last swimming.
Realization slaps me over the back of the head. “You grouped the verbs together.”
Tink beams and points to “YES.” The sight of her genuine smile almost knocks me over. Another thing I’ll have to make a habit of—pointing out what a genius she apparently is.
As I scan the board, I notice a set of meticulous patterns. Not only has she grouped all the verbs together, she’s also rearranged the board so that the pronouns are in the upper right-hand corner, anything that could be used as a direct object on the bottom few rows. “That certainly mimics the way we speak more fluidly. I should have considered that we don’t choose which word we say next based on what letter of the alphabet it begins with.”
Tink points to a new tile. One she must have carved herself. It doesn’t have any written script underneath it. It’s just a turkey, its bulging black eyes empty.
Incredulous because I’m uncertain turkeys even inhabit this island, so I can’t see the point in wasting a tile, I ask, “What does a turkey have to do with anything?”
Tink jabs me in the chest, then points to the button again.
“Ah. I assume stupid is what this means?”
Tink nods smugly.
I press my lips together to keep from smiling, then grab the tile and scrawl “STUPID” underneath her depiction.
As I examine the rest of the board, I notice several new tiles, none of them bearing a word underneath their icon. I’d planned on teaching Tink the tiles that are slightly more abstract today. The tiles that I couldn’t think of pictures to represent. The ones that aren’t as intuitive, like “BE” or “BUT.” However, it appears Tink has already devised other plans for our session.
She hands me a quill and a tile of a frowning woman with a slanted brow, baring her teeth, then points.
“Angry?” I confirm, before marking it on the tile.
As it turns out, she has tiles prepared for every emotion under the sun, and as we work filling them out, I find myself bobbing in impatience. “You know, this really isn’t—”
She points again at the tile of a woman with cropped hair resting her chin between her thumb and the knuckle of her forefinger, staring up at the sky.
“Think?” I ask, less than confident that’s what she means.
Tink shakes her head.
“Ponder?” I try again.
Tink places her hand over her chest.
I have to hold back the urge to groan. What we need is a tile for “VEX.” “Feeling like you want to think?” I ask.
Tink glares at me, then points to “STUPID.”
“Fine. Pensive, wistful, reflective, ruminative?”
Tink points to the number “ONE” at the top of the board.
“I don’t see how ‘PENSIVE’ is all that functional—”
Tink taps “WANT.”
“Fine.” I scribble PENSIVE onto the tile.
I expect Tink to tire of our task before she does, but she works diligently, scribbling on the blank tiles as I try to figure out what she means. This goes on for hours, and I wear out before she does.
That makes sense. I’m not the one who’s been unable to communicate for who knows how long. Still, I can’t see why, after years of silence, she’d want to communicate “PENSIVE.” It’s not as if it’s a high-frequency word.
Once she’s finished the last tile, I show her the articles and the more abstract prepositions, thinking those will prove more difficult to memorize. There aren’t exactly intuitive images for the words “a,” “the,” and “of.” She’ll just have to memorize what the words look like.
When we’re done, Tink having memorized the articles in a span of seconds, I rest on my heels across from her and scratch the back of my neck.
“I’d like to start over, I think,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m John.” It’s meant to be the offering of a handshake, but Tink either misinterprets the gesture or doesn’t care for the formality, because she tucks a tile into my palm.
It’s the tile for TINK.
When I glance up at her, she’s smiling. But there’s something else too, tears welling at her eyelids. I don’t entirely understand. It’s not as if she’s finally figured out a way to communicate information I didn’t know. But I figure it best not to acknowledge the soft tears.
Besides, they tug at my ribcage, and that’s not exactly productive. Empathy gets you hurt, John.
“Have you always been unable to speak?” I ask. “Verbally, I mean.”
Tink shakes her head.
“Was it illness? A surgery? Apoplexy?” I’m not sure if Tink knows what apoplexy is, but I’ve learned to assume that she knows more than I think she does unless I want to get called stupid. Or asked if I think she’s stupid. I have yet to figure out a way to differentiate between the two.
Tink bites her lip, and again shakes her head.
“How did it happen?” I ask.
Tink looks at the board. For a moment, I think she’ll reach for one of the tiles, but she doesn’t. She just shrugs.
“We don’t have the words for it?” I ask.
She doesn’t look at me this time. I can’t decide if I believe that, or if she just doesn’t want to tell me how she lost her voice. It shouldn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. What matters is finding out what happened to Wendy.
“Did you see what happened to my sister?”
“YES.”
My heart pounds against my chest.
“Would you tell me? Please?”
Tink cocks her head and traces the tile that says please with her finger. A soft, sad smile tugs at her lips.
“What?” I ask.
She shrugs. “JOHN SAY PLEASE.” She frowns, blinking tears away. “JOHN ASK.”
Something swells in my throat. I swallow it away. I want to prod her forward, but something in my instincts tells me it’s better to wait.
Eventually, she points to the “PIRATE” tile, the one I made so she’d have the vocabulary to talk about what happened to Wendy, if that really was the case.
“Peter was telling the truth, then.”
Tink flicks her eyes up to me. There’s something in them that I get the sense can’t be expressed with the tiles.
“WHAT PETER SAY.”
This is the first time I’ve realized I haven’t actually told her.
“He says Captain Astor, the pirate who killed my parents, tracked her down to the island and kidnapped her.”
Tink nods, looking…pensive, I regret to admit…then scans the tiles. “PETER NO SAY ALL.”
“He lied?”
Tink just shrugs, as if I’m asking a philosophical question.
“He at least omitted part of the story, then?”
Tink nods, a bit too eagerly.
“What did he omit?”
Tink stares at the tiles for a long while. After what feels like several minutes pass, she sighs. I watch her, the thoughts racing behind her vibrant blue eyes as she scans the tiles. It kills me not knowing what’s happening inside her mind. That my access to her thoughts is reduced to a set of wooden tiles and slight gestures, subtle changes in her facial expression.
If it tempts me to scream in frustration, I can’t fathom what it’s doing to her. How starved of communication she must be to feel so excited about having a few dozen words to use. When the rest of us have thousands.
Tink crinkles her forehead, rubbing at her temples. When she doesn’t find what she’s looking for in the combination of words, she wilts. But a moment later, the despair is gone, and her back is straight again, fortified with a determination I can’t grasp.
She takes one of the blank tiles and sketches a box wrapped in a bow. “Reminds me of a Solstice gift,” I say, then add, “Do you celebrate Solstice where you’re from?”
She gives me a look that makes it clear that what I’m saying is irrelevant, so I go to scribble the word on the tile. “Gift?” I ask to make sure.
She shakes her head.
I think for a moment. “Give?”
“YES.”
When I’m done, she snatches the tile away, her hand grazing mine as she does. Were we not discussing the fate of my sister, I might linger longer on the way her skin brushed against mine.
Tink takes a handful of tiles, then arranges them on the floor of the cave. When she takes her hands away, the words imprint themselves in my mind.
“PETER GIVE PIRATE WENDY.”