“How many basic runes are there in British typography?” Anna asked Mike of a sudden, in an odd circuitous manner that put Mike on guard.
“Runes? What do you mean, ‘runes’? They’re named… something other than that,” answered Mike, “but I’m damned if I can remember what.” He considered for a bit. “Itters? Ettins? Otters? …No, I guess ‘runes’ is right.”
“And the number of runes?” she prompted.
“Why, 25, as ever.”
Anna took a book in her hand and showed it to Mike. “Mike. This chart says 26. I’ve determined we’ve forgotten about the rune just before #13 on the chart.”
“I can’t even see it on the chart,” said Mike.
“Nor can I. I can’t even say a word with the rune in it. Not even the genuine names of our mother tongue or our first daughter. Neither can you, I bet. Not even the number of the rune in the typography, the one that comes before #13. Or the one before that. I can say ‘ten,’ though.”
“So?”
“So say your entire first name.”
“Mike,” he said, shrugging.
“You know better. Try again.”
“Okay, Mike….uhhh ,” he droned. “Damn it!” he said in desperation, and strained. “MikeUHHHHH!” Then he put his head in his hands. “Don’t inform me it’s that time of year again.”
She nodded. “Yes. The dreaded happy-day approaches.”
The Great Agnosia had struck 20 years ago, after American scientists tested the first hyperspace drive. It worked, getting its crew to Proxima Centauri and back in 27 days. The Americans were triumphant! But, they determined six months after, it had somehow in addition affected the brains of every speaker of the British tongue, so that at certain times of year, they forget specific phonemes. Or entire words.
They had no choice but to get through it, speaking and writing in roundabout ways to avoid the forgotten pieces of their written and spoken tongue, ways that foreigners guffawed about. The French thought it was quite funny this time of year, since as a pun it fit their name for the season. Documents were edited with no issue after the Agnosia fit, but for a month or so British-speakers spoke in tortured, circuitous idiom, as if British were their second tongue rather than their first—which made most of Earth very amused. They were not adept enough even to speak their tongue’s true name!
Mike was not amused. In fact, he was irritated, dumbfounded, furious, and so many other words he had no capacity to use for now, due to the Agnosia. He was a pro writer. Words and runes were his job, and during this horrid time of year, he had no access to one key rune and so many perfect words. His wife Anna was a pro editor. She suffered just as hard.
Argh! Heck and damnation, they just had to suffer through! Once it was over, thank God, it was four months before they had to cope with Directioner. Having four kids, Directioner was something they very much dreaded. Mike and Anna hated denoting the favored tokens of that Sunday as “Directioner eggs” more than anything, except saying “the Directioner Bunny.”
Maybe they might emigrate to one of the towns on Proxima Secundus. Mike had heard they had no saint’s days or happy-days there, and there were no bunnies to be found anywhere. Nor even Big Orange Squash, thank the Heaven-Residing Deity Person.
THE END
About the Author
I’m a former tech writer and archaeologist who never woke any sleeping gods or uncovered any ancient evils (alas). I’m now a full time writer and editor.
