Strange Tongues and Stares

The cobbled street, slick with a recent, muddy rain, reflected the grey, overcast sky like a distorted mirror. Carter’s modern sneakers, usually so sure-footed on pavement, felt clumsy and out of place on the uneven stones. He’d managed to slip away from the immediate chaos of the marketplace, the shouts and the bewildered stares of the villagers still ringing in his ears. His bright, synthetic t-shirt and jeans were a beacon, an anomaly that drew every eye, every whisper. He’d tried to speak, to ask for directions, for anything, but the words that tumbled out, the familiar cadence of twenty-first-century English, seemed to fall on deaf ears. Or rather, on ears that heard sounds, but understood none of it as language.

It was like trying to converse with statues. Their faces, etched with hard lines and weathered by a life Carter couldn’t even begin to imagine, tilted in confusion, their mouths moving in a guttural, alien tongue that sounded vaguely like a rough, hurried Latin. He’d pointed, mimed, even tried a few basic gestures, but each attempt was met with a fresh wave of suspicion, a tightening of lips, a narrowing of eyes. They didn't understand him, and he, in turn, was adrift in a sea of incomprehensible sounds.

A burly man, his leather apron stained with what looked suspiciously like blood, had grabbed his arm, his grip like an iron vise. Carter had gasped, his heart leaping into his throat, and yanked himself free with surprising strength born of sheer panic. He’d stumbled backward, his eyes wide, and then he ran. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs ached, until the throng of accusing faces receded, replaced by the shadowed alleyways and the looming, timber-framed buildings.