We Come to Rock You Exercise #4 by Rosa

There is a world where the people have no spoken, written, or sign language. It was derisively dubbed Nill by the rest of the universe, which after countless attempts to communicate with the inhabitants, simply threw up its collective hands/appendages and said “to hell with them.”
Nill is small—a Class 2 planet one quadrant below the Smynthine nebula. There is one sole continent, surrounded by a vengeful sea, which no one ventures into. The land is hot and arid, sandy near the borders, and rich clay inland. Fresh water comes from the snowpack on one main mountain range. The people settle at the bases of these mountains to be near the most water, and generally live happy, productive and fulfilled lives. You see, a lack of exterior language disturbs Nillians not one iota. Nillians are telepathic, which they view as a superior form of communication. There are no misunderstandings. No rash judgments. No assumptions. No lies. No secrets. No “oh, dogged, I thought you were calling her a dog! How funny!” There is also no singing, but Nillians covet their silence. How is one to think with all that excess noise of speech? The clacking of typewriter keys, the blaring of televisions and the radio? Preposterous. The only instruments respected on Nill are the harp, and the wooden flute.
However, all that changed one day, when an alien pod of aspiring rock musicians landed on the outskirts of a small town, which the locals called (in telepathy) The Scent of Sand After Summer Rain. (Mind you, I take tremendous liberties with my translations, as Nillians have no words corresponding to smell, sand, summer, or rain.)
The alien pod was from earth, the band members all from Fargo, North Dakota, which as we all know, became the rock capitol of the universe in the year 2205. Van Blaren, a tall pale young man who dressed all in blue and wore a peacock feather in his top hat, played lead guitar. Fez, who refused to speak in more than grunts, banged a set of gem-encrusted drums. Milton, a pock-mark faced man who had lived most of his life on a remote science station orbiting Jupiter, took keyboards. The lead singer and star of the band was Sasha, a petite, incredibly toned young woman with radiant ebony skin and a blaring red streak in her punky hair. It often happens that the lead singer of a band simply becomes the leader of the band in all matters. And that was the case with We Come to Rock You.
Sasha pushed open the pod door, took a deep breath of warm Nill air, and declared to her mates “seems fine to me.” She hopped down to the earth and scuffed at the gritty dirt with her stylistically paint-splattered boots. Van Blaren, Fez, and Milton emerged from the pod suspiciously. Fez had been in charge of navigation and fell asleep at the controls, sending them far off course. They were supposed to have landed on FunFunFun, the gambling center of the universe, where they were sure to finally, land a paid gig.
By this time a young nerf herder named (in telepathy) The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You, had spotted the pod and was running over to investigate.
“Hey!” shouted Sasha, waving her finely sculpted arms in the air. “Dude, can you help us?”
The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You stumbled, then stopped. What was that horrid noise, he wondered?
“Stay here, guys. I think he might be afraid,” advised Sasha. She walked out to meet the Nillian, who stood frozen with a pained look on his face. She looked him up and down, noting his strong, lean body, his shy, dashing face. “Howdy, stranger,” she drawled, tilting her head in that tough, but playful way she had. She rather liked the looks of this Sheppard boy.
The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You made a disgusted face and covered his hands with his ears. He strained to open himself up to Sasha’s being telepathically, but received absolutely nothing. The strange girl didn’t project anything! Not one emotion, idea or whim. Perhaps something was wrong with her brain.
“Hello?” Sasha asked, confused. She was beginning to feel embarrassed. “Can’t you talk? Am I talking too loud?”
The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You repressed a shudder, and sent out his usual greeting, (the history of his life, the essence of his self, and his wishes that the other person was having a wonderful day and would live their lives to utmost happiness). Sasha simply stared at him.
“Are… you hurt?”
“Am I offending you?”
“Should I go away?”
“Do you understand any of this?”
“Want to hear my latest song?”
The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You started to back away under Sasha’s barrage.
“Hey, wait!” She put a hand on his bare, tanned arm. He gently pushed his palm over her mouth, sending a delightful shiver over her scalp. The pained look in the herder’s eyes stopped her from jerking away. She realized he wanted her to stay quiet.
The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You told Sasha telepathically that he would take her and her companions to his village elders and they could decide what to do with them. At the same time, he told her how attractive he thought the red stripe in her hair was, and how lovely he thought her skin, how the sound of her voice was so startling it made him squirm. Accidentally, he let slip all of his thoughts on philosophy and the four sexual fantasies he’d already had about her. (Such things are less than awkward on Nill, where thoughts are flung about like grains of sand in a desert storm. They are not shocking, just vaguely crude.)
Sasha did not respond. She sensed this man was trying very hard to communicate with her, but with just his eyes. Purple eyes that bore into her own with such intensity she flinched when he blinked. Flustered, she turned and sprinted back to the pod.
“What’d he say?” asked Milton.
“Nothing. He can’t talk. I think there might be something wrong with him. Let’s go.”
“Bugger it all, we can’t,” Van Blaren stated in his fake British accent. “The computer needs another four hours to fix Fez’s moronic blunder. Besides, the chaps and I want to diddle around. Perhaps we could set up the mini-stage and have a go of it. Call it a free concert if anyone shows up snarking around for a permit, eh?”
Sasha frowned. It wasn’t likely anyone would show up and she hated playing for no one. But what could one do when one was stranded on an alien planet? She hoped the young nerf herder came back. Even if the audience consisted solely of him, the show would be worth it. “Fine,” she sighed.
An hour later The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You, joined by the entire population of The Scent of Sand After Summer Rain, which totaled about 123, came traipsing across the barren land to the alien pod. They persisted, even though the high wail of Van Blaren’s guitar, amplified by powerful speakers to sound like some space monster in heat, was quite possibly the most rude and unexpected thing they’d ever heard. They moved forward as one, even though the violence of Fez’s base drum frightened them, shook them to their cores. Even though Milton looked like a moody scientist, pounding out soaring chords on his keyboard, shoulders hunched, his feet resting on a box which conveniently drew him into an upright fetal position, his “most favorite position if you’re counting un-sex-related positions.” The only time the 123 Nillians faltered was when Sasha’s vocals came in:
Hey! I’m talkin’ to you, hey hey! That’s right.
Come on over, with your tattoo on your shoulder
I wanna talk to you, you make me high as a kite!
The Nillians assumed this compact, electrifying young woman was in terrible pain. Or perhaps incredibly angry. Her face twisted around the words, belted so loud her voice took on a hoarse quality, a quality that took her years to perfect. Delighted at seeing the turnout, she gave the song her all. She strutted. She pumped her free fist. She leaped on top of the amplifier only to leap off, dropping to her knees, thrusting her pelvis. She spotted The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You staring at her with nervous wonder in his eyes. She wiggled her shoulders for him. Karate kicked for him. Spun around and coyly looked over her shoulder at him.
The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You wasn’t “nervous” per se. In the parlance of his times, he was battling the sensation a fly was crawling up his spine while his stomach twisted as if he’d eaten too many Mumaloo berries. A common sensation, almost cliché. But what puzzled him was his heart competing with the pulse of the base drum, so loud in his ears in confused and exited and disgusted him at the same time. This woman was speaking, something he was beginning to believe was a myth. She was using her voice to express something. What he wasn’t sure, but something so moving to her she screeched out the words, shouted them in strings that somehow fit, somehow went along with this tumult of pounding, flooding violent music. He pondered the situation so loud everyone within ten feet turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. Because the translation of their thoughts would fill several volumes, I’ll just say they did not share his awe. In fact, they were so offended, they stormed the stage and destroyed the amplifier and the speakers. Within minutes the musicians’ hands were tied, their mouths gagged. The village council held a hasty vote, deciding the noisy posse must be jettisoned into space immediately.
The pod was packed up. A booster rocket was tacked on and then lit. The town of The Scent of Sand After Summer Rain ignited the rocket and retreated a safe distance to bid farewell mentally to the unwelcome guests. Only then did they realize that The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You was missing.
The Cool of a Mountain’s Shadow Creeping Over You looked down at his wordless world from a small square window in the pod, sending out every hope for the future, his regrets, his motivations, his predictions, even though he knew his friends and family were already to far away to receive them. Then he untied the gag in Sasha’s mouth and said “Hey!”