I’m thinking of the parts of Cindra’s writings that mention the egg-choosing ceremony. No wonder I haven’t understood them. There are no words in English to translate the gentleness with which each wyvern approached the fiery nest, the wholehearted awe with which Aodahn chose his egg, as if he had been enlightened by some supernatural source.
I glance at the brand-new father next to me.
‘Aodahn,’ I say. ‘If I were to try and write about the egg-choosing ceremony in another language, so much of its meaning would be lost.’ I glance over at Cindra, who is admiring Aberdine’s egg, and lower my voice. ‘And it’s the same for Cannair. Some of it just doesn’t work in English at all.’
‘Ah, the curse of translation,’ Aodahn says softly.
I swallow. ‘Curse?’
‘Translation translates, but does not necessarily preserve.’
‘What do you mean? Translation is a tool for preserving ideas, information.’
‘But not always meaning,’ Aodahn replies, his eyes unblinking. ‘And not always the language the ideas come from.’
‘Sometimes, meaning gets lost,’ I say, nodding. ‘But every act of translation requires sacrifice, no?’
‘Why should we sacrifice?’ Aodahn says, his tail flicking. ‘So that the wyvern tongue can fit into the confines of English? Of – and I mean no offence – one singular, limited human tongue?’
Language subordination.
‘In India there’s no great translation tradition,’ Gideon interjects. ‘The people and dragons simply speak each other’s languages. Monolingualism is very rare there.’
‘But . . . but translation is a noble pursuit,’ I say. ‘It brings voices that might otherwise be lost to—’
‘No one said it wasn’t noble, dear one. But is it enough? You yourself admit to being at a loss for words. What will happen once you’ve translated Cannair –ifyou succeed? Your translation might move some to attempt to learn Cannair, but most will content themselves with the English version of Cindra’s texts.’ Aodahn breathes another small flame on to his egg and my head spins.
He’s right. What good is a translation if it transforms one language into another, only to let the original die?
I think of Cindra’s writing, the pages gathering dust, her careful choice of words and sharp wit lost forever.
Aodahn gives me a sad smile. ‘Cindra believes that translating Cannair will save it. But does translating a French text for British readers keep the French language alive? Of course not. It merely rewrites the author’s words into English.’
I’m suddenly reminded of the Bulgarian storybook of my childhood, the one that doesn’t exist in its original language any more – not even inside my head – because Mama translated it into English for me instead. The translation didn’t preserve the Bulgarian language, its sound or rhythm, nor the style of the Bulgarian author. It turned it into something an English reader could understand and relate to, exchangingPetarforPeter,SofiaforLondon, the Bulgarian Bolgoriths for Western Drakes . . . until there was nothing left of the original story.
Translation translates, but does not necessarily preserve.
‘Then what do you suggest?’ I say more sharply than I intended.
‘What if sacrifice isn’t necessary?’ Aodahn blinks. ‘Patrick had the solution.’
‘Did he?’ My hands reach for the journal, but it’s back in the sleeping cave.
‘Why do you think he stopped translating Cannair?’ the wyvern says.
I hesitate. ‘Are you saying Clawtailchoseto put an end to his study of the wyvern tongue?’
Aodahn nods. ‘To learn Cannair in its fullness, one must hear it from a native speaker. Patrick could not preserve Cannair through written translation, but he made sure his daughter spoke the language. Perhaps, wherever she is now, she has passed it down.’
Could there be a family somewhere in Britannia speaking Cannair?
‘So, you’re saying that you think the wyvern tongue is untranslatable, at least into English?’ Gideon says.
Aodahn glances nervously at me. ‘No language is entirely translatable. Like you said, Vivien, there is always sacrifice.’
Untranslatable.
I can hear my pulse beating, like a rushing in my ears, as my mind swims with panic. If that’s true, then I have not only failed to translate Cindra’s writing and therefore failed to solicit the wyverns’ help. It means my whole career is a lie. What do I have, if not languages? Who am I, if not a translator?
