BEFORE LANGUAGE
Before language, there existed only the dust of phonemes intoning into the vast engulfment of space. Occluding the webs that tethered these derelict utterances together hung an impenetrable fog—neither light nor dark, but an opaque and unyielding shroud of smoke. Some had ventured into this etheric sea in search of new soundforms; but most returned shortly after, fatigued by their prolonged exposure to the unintelligible din of the cosmos. In rare instances, one would return, days later, with the knowledge of a new phoneme still echoing between their ears. When spoken, the sound would emanate from their mouths awkwardly at first, uncertain, but soon they would be overcome with a swift and intoxicating mastery of this alien syllable, murmuring the tone deep into the night.
Over time, as knowledge of the manifold phonemes grew, basic words began to agglutinate, like “as” and “ab.” Vocal games were played in which participants would prolong and ornament the recently discovered tones, in hopes of revealing their hidden harmonics. In this way, new words were intimated at. Sophisticated maps were devised to mark the known phonemes and to conjecture where there may be others, still occulted. Those versed in the sciences and theological matters drew up plans to discover the remaining soundforms, in the belief that their recuperation would explain the origin of the fog, and also of the strange utterances that increasingly exerted more and more influence over their lives.
In the weeks leading up to the voyage, those elected to undertake the trek prepared by reviewing the known phonemes and their profuse combinations. Despite the council’s commitment to a thorough and comprehensive recitation, all participants conclude that something remains conspicuously absent. In their consensus, they find their resolve strengthened. So began the expedition.
Venturing into the fog, armed now with the knowledge of most, if not all, of the phonemes, they find that the clamorous feedback that initially repelled so many has stabilized into a single note, barely audible. It is quickly agreed upon that this hum must be the hushed intonation of the final phoneme, recessed somewhere in the deep caverns of space. Before long, the troop discovers a path seemingly leading to the tone, only half aware of the steady inclination reshaping the topography beneath them. In their excitement to reach the last phoneme, those in the back clamber and push over the leaders of the troop, fingers and hands crushed under foot as the note continues to ascend in volume. As they draw near the precipice, the note reaches an apex and starts to dissipate; and with it, so does the fog.
Atop the summit, seeing, for the first time, the universe uncloaked, there is the expectation among all those present of an answer in the form of a resounding and euphonious chord. But below, there is only an abyssal darkness, empty, save for death’s strange and ghastly refrain. Behind them, a voice suddenly speaks: Now you see. Then, silence.
by Hunter Lewinski
Hunter Lewinski is a writer and musician living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His work focuses on sound and silence, citationality, and the history of the Midwest.