Dumb&;#063;

From the day he was born, Mark was extraordinarily quiet. He didn't
wail his heart out like all the other babies; instead, his tantrums had
the volume of a breeze, as if his lungs were disproportionately tiny.
When he wanted something, he would open his mouth to scream and
communicate his desire by something approaching telepathy. Air escaped
from his lips, but sound refused to. Sound didn't come out.

While this problem was surmountable in a close family environment -
indeed, the mental tie between mother and son brought them closer than
is natural - school was a different matter. In amongst a crowd of new
boys and new girls, none of whom knew him or of his inability to speak,
things were difficult. When the teacher asked him a question, he would
open up, as he did as a baby, and produce air, but no answer. He
suspected, and even began to believe, that he was talking, forming his
lips into the right shapes, positioning his tongue precisely so as to
produce different sounds. But no-one else heard more than the faintest
whisper. No-one else got a peep.

His written work, however, was phenomenal. He proved himself to be
ferociously intelligent, and his teachers were thrilled. They'd found a
prodigy, way ahead of his form in every subject, way ahead of those in
the older classes who became his classmates for a brief period while he
overtook them term in, term out.

At secondary school, of course, he got a different teacher, a different
specialist for each subject. And while all found him as silently
brilliant as his primary school mentors had, he excelled particularly
in English literature. He adored every book he was given - with a
curriculum stuffed full of classics, there was plenty for him to
dissect and analyse - but the thing that really got him going was
drama. His essays on Shakespeare glistened with insight, his comments
on the direction of scenes showed professional judgement, and his
creative efforts were fit for the National. So at the end of the sixth
form he went into acting.

On stage, Mark had an effect on audiences. He began, as anyone would,
as a perennial extra, and his parts as Bystander or Man proved
undemanding, particularly as he didn't have to speak. But he carried
these roles off with such unexpected panache that he became quite
famous as a mute. He was respected for his ability to mime, to
communicate without words, but naturally, no director would give him a
shot at a bigger role; there just wasn't any call for non-speaking
heroes aside from the world of physical theatre, and that simply didn't
offer the challenge he was after. So he wrote his own play, with
himself in mind, and produced it at a small, cheap venue above a pub
near where he lived. The writing was superb, of course, and his
co-stars were culled from his contacts at the top of the theatre tree.
But what really caused a sensation was when he came to deliver his
first line.

He opened his mouth, and the theatre fell silent. As his lips moved,
the attention of every person in the room focused wholly on him. Some
people shivered, others became stiff in their seats, unable to move.
Everyone listened, heard the silence and understood precisely what he
was saying. It was a heavenly moment, and the thrill refused to die
down for the rest of the play. Tension remained, even when the hush was
broken; the rapport created in that first short line grew warmer as the
unexpectedness of wordless speech dropped away. And as he breathed the
curtain line, intense, poignant, aphoristic, a silent wave of applause
broke out. Mark received an ovation of unheard-of vitality and
enthusiasm, during which palms stayed in laps, trousers stayed stuck to
the cushioned seats, and vocal chords resisted the longing to vibrate.
The theatre-goers left noiselessly, intent on spreading the word. And
later that night, alone on the empty stage, contemplating the success
of the evening, Mark let out a whoop of joy. But nobody heard him, of
course. They'd all gone home.