Episode One Hundred and Eleven - Translation
The second letter of Episode One Hundred and Eleven of Monstrous Agonies was written in an approximation of Middle English (though adapted for a modern audience) and included some words and phrases that might be unfamiliar to listeners. Below is a translation of the text into modern English.
Please note that the PDF version has the modern translation side by side with the original text, which was unfortunately not possible to format correctly on this post!
Episode One Hundred and Eleven - Translation
I was woken recently from a sleep I truly thought was my final ending. I had died not, as I had hoped, in bed, peacefully in grace and mercy, but in a commotion and an attack, killed by sudden violence in my prime.
I still remember the fight that killed me. The gnashing teeth, the fists, the blows, the flaying touch of blade upon my ribs. Then… nothing. Not peace. Not even nothing. Nothing at all.
Until it came about that things were different. I don’t know how. I woke, quite as suddenly as I’d fallen asleep. I cannot describe what it was, to go from nothing, not darkness or formless chaos but nothing at all, and then to wake to lights and flames. To not be, and then suddenly, be.
If only I could explain this change. I don’t know who caused it to happen or why. Though I didn’t know the reason for my previous life either. Perhaps it’s not right for the common man to think on such things.
The world is very different to the world I left behind. Quicker, louder, more full of people. The food, the clothes, even the weather is very much different. Yet all these things, I could take in my stride. I was never a dullard, and it will take more than a Chilli Heatwave Dorito to frighten me.
Except that I can’t speak well. I speak and it isn’t understandable. Words, here and there, find their way through the confusion, and I have learned enough crumbs and scraps that, with gestures and lots of patience, I can make myself comprehensible.
Fortunately, I had learned to read in my previous life, and the letters are not so different. I sound them out tentatively, and the meaning comes in dribs and drabs. But it is too slow for conversation. I cannot speak with anybody. I can’t make friends with anybody.
And it is not only the words. I cannot understand the social graces of this world. I was considered very polite in my time, and spent time with the politest people in society. But my behaviour is all out of time. I am now strange at best, downright rude at worst.
I have found a few kind people who will sit with patience and think hard about what I’m saying. And perhaps this is ungrateful. But not one of these people has tried to learn my ways. My speech. That burden, heavy and oppressive as it is, they leave all to me.
I’ve never been work-shy. I am here, and I am trying. I am absolutely determined that I shall not be alone. I will learn these manners and these words. But aren’t I owed the same effort/attention?
I have written this letter not only for your discretion and wisdome, but because of your great age. You, I trust, will understand me. And your speech is slow and clear, I can follow you more easily.
So, I ask your counsel. Are there folk in this new place who will meet me where I am, between two worlds, and stretch out their hands to reach me?
