This story of the language found again is good. It is listened to with the heart. The reader rediscovers a very distant past that largely escapes academic memory, but whose memory still nourishes isolated tribes far from single thought. With Eden Saga, with the texts of Alain Aillet and those of AAXE, find out where you come from. xs
In the glazed room, facing the screens, Claire watched. The sky did not show: only bright points, coded trajectories, numbers that intersected. She was an air traffic controller, a lookout for the silence of altitudes. Her colleagues joked with each other about numbers and regulations, a dry language reduced to the essential. She took part in it without believing in it. All her life seemed to be summed up in those metallic voices that crackled in her helmet, in those invisible roads that she traced with the tips of her fingers.
But at night, the sky remembered her.
The first dreams were simple: a bird shape, drawn with a child’s hand, passed in front of her and greeted her with a flutter of wings. Came the series of signs, similar to silhouettes, profiled fish, open hands, branches of trees. They appeared in order, not as a disorder of dreams, but as a procession of symbols.
Claire, in sleep, understands. Effortlessly, without translation: each image turns out to be a word, and each word is linked into a fluid, musical phrase that she believes she hears more than she reads it.
It’s a language.
Which resembles neither the French nor the English of the cockpits, nor any language of the passengers that she distinguishes at random from the calls. A tongue from before, like a stream rises to its source. And yet, Claire has the impression that this language belongs to her, as if she had always known it, as if this language was only waiting for human dreams to breathe again.
In the morning, at the control center, Claire keeps silent. Her colleagues discuss procedures, pilot anecdotes, weather reports. Nothing calls for the sharing of what she experiences in her sleep. She is content to listen, smiling and distracted, her eyes still inhabited by the glyphs of her dream.
The following week, dreams become more insistent. Whole sentences are engraved in her. She sees the bird grasping the fish, the hand raising a twig, the sun setting in the sea, and a voice—clear, without timbre — gives these gestures a limpid meaning: “What the bird seizes in the wind, the hand keeps it, and the world transmits it.”
She awakens upset, these words do not come from her. They are entrusted to her, rescued from a forgotten memory.
Discreetly, almost ashamed, Claire consults what we know about ancient writings, the signs of disappeared peoples. She falls on the glyph tablets of Easter Island: the rongorongo. A strange familiarity invades her. The shapes seen in dreams are all there. The same ones, exactly.
What she believed to be oneiric fantasy actually exists. Someone, in the past, engraved the dreams she made. And these tablets still sleep, ignored, in distant museums.
From this day on, her nights become her secret school. In the morning, she notes everything. These fragments have the clarity of childhood and the gravity of the oracle. Claire does not translate them: she hears them in the language she carries within her, eternal, without ambiguity.
One winter evening, the rain hits the windows of the control tower. Claire raises her ear. Beyond their mechanical protocol, the voices of the pilots carry fragments of this language. It closes its eyes. In his headset, the sound signals imitate his dreams: a flight, a hand, a gesture, a phrase, the whole world woven together in one voice.
Claire smiles. She is no longer alone.
On a Saturday in February, Claire accepts an invitation from a friend. A simple dinner, in a Parisian apartment cluttered with books, guests gathered around a roasted chicken, red wine. She doesn’t really have the spirit at these parties, but the friend had been insisting for a long time, and Claire, out of politeness, eventually gave in.
At the table, two men dominate the conversation. The first, thin, with scattered gray hair, wears a élimé jacket. He was presented as an independent researcher, keen on epigraphy and ancient scripts. He speaks softly, choosing his words, without raising his voice. The second, younger, well-tied, is a recognized linguist, professor of a major university. His confident tone, his dry laughter, express unfailing certainties.
The discussion, very quickly, slipped into the history of languages. The linguist defends the rigor of phonetic laws, the need for a method. Languages are only the result of regular drifts, of perfectly known sound mutations. The very idea of an original language is, according to him, nothing but a romantic illusion, a myth of the Golden Age.
The skeptical scholar nods, but his eyes sparkle.
— Certainly, but there are disturbing coincidences. Common roots, similar images from all over the world. Would it not be possible that there had been, in the past, not a perfect language, but a common, poetic fund, which all would have betrayed afterwards?
— Pure speculation, says the linguist. Without corpus, without demonstrated regularity, all that remains a tale.
Claire listens without a word. Her glass in hand, she observes these two opposing certainties — one rigid, the other wavering but vibrant. And in her silence, she knows. Not because of reasoning, but because she understands this language that still resonates.
She would like to say that she has heard it. That the signs engraved in the wood of Easter Island are not foreign to him, that they spoke to him in his dreams. But these words, here, would sound ridiculous. The room, the dishes, the stained tablecloth, the agreed laughter: nothing can accommodate such a confession.
So she keeps her usual silence, a silence full as a treasure.
The two men continue their joust with courtesy, but each locks himself in his own ideas. The linguist stacks examples, the researcher sketches connections. In the center, motionless, Claire is inhabited by a mute certainty: they are both right, but neither touches the essential.
The essential thing is not to prove, but to hear.
Leaving dinner, she walks alone through the icy streets. The streetlights align like glyphs of light on the dark pavement. She looks at them and it seems to her that they arrange themselves in sentences as in her dreams: a word coming from elsewhere, but so close that it holds his heart.
“The world has not lost its tongue. It has only forgotten it.”
And Claire, a simple air traffic controller, walks into the night with the secret dignity of one who knows how to hear, under the mechanical noise of centuries, the ancient voice that still speaks.
Her dreams intensify. Every night, she wakes up from having walked through an ancient book whose pages are not of ink but of gold and light. The signs unfold there in a slow procession, as if the sky itself had started to write.
She buys a small black notebook that she places on her nightstand. From the dawn, still numb, she scribbles what she still sees, silhouettes of birds, wing lines, raised hands, elongated fish. Sometimes a word imposes itself, clearly, echoing these forms:
fly, take, give flow.
As the pages accumulate, a consistency emerges. The same signs return, never quite identical, but recognizable as variations of a melody. She notes how some combine: the bird followed by the hand announces an action, an exchange, a story. Others form sequences that are a song or a prayer.
It’s no longer random.
Every day, in the control tower, she continues to orchestrate the anonymous trajectories of the planes. But every evening, she finds her notebook and notes, and rereads her dreams as one rereads evidence. She doesn’t need to believe in it: coherence imposes itself, calm and solid, intimate evidence.
One morning in April, she wakes up with a clear, full sentence, gift deposited in the hollow of her memory:
The hand extended towards the bird catches the breath it brings.
She immediately notes it and rereads the previous pages. Several times, the pattern of the hand and the bird repeats, linked by an invisible thread. She understands that signs are not just images, they serve a syntax, an internal logic. She does not rattle. She participates in a forgotten grammar.
His heart beats louder.
The language of dreams is ordered before his eyes. It is an archipelago at low tide, showing its sandy footbridges to pass from one island to another effortlessly. What she writes every morning resembled the mapping of a lost continent, whose contours she gradually outlines.
While closing his notebook, a thought brushes against it, soft and terrifying:
if I continue, maybe the language will eventually reopen entirely,
like a door that was thought to be sealed.
The pages of the notebook are covered with notes. At the beginning, hesitant scribbles, silhouettes of birds, uncertain features, sketches of hands. Little by little, an order is imposed. Claire begins to trace the signs in the same way, always, as if an ancient force guided her hand.
After a very intense dream, she has the idea to make a list. On one side, the sign as she saw it—the bird, the fish, the hand, the twig. On the other, the word or the breath that she associates with it. Like a lexicon. She surprises herself by turning the pages with the impatience of a schoolgirl who discovers a foreign language. Except that here, she doesn’t learn, she remembers.
(hand) : gift, take, power
(twig) : peace, bond, beginning
Still others arise from her dreams
(sunset) : end, return, promise
(wave) : movement, passage, oblivion
The more she writes, the more the correspondences seem obvious. The signs combine into simple sentences, but rich in resonances. She hears his notes like a familiar song, each word follows on to the next with an accuracy that logic alone could not have built.
Over the days, his notebook turns into an intimate dictionary. The first pages contain the raw visions, scribbled hastily upon waking. The following ones form a directory where she classifies the signs by families. She adds cross-references, reconciliations. Without knowing it, she draws the foundations of a grammar.
What amazes him the most is the internal consistency. As if each dream, far from being isolated, were to complete the previous one, bringing the missing piece of a larger puzzle. The repeated signs never contradict each other: they enrich their meaning, deepen, nuance.
One night, she dreams of a long procession of glyphs engraved in the dark wood of a tablet. She wakes up upset: it’s not an invention. It’s a memory. She notes each form and realizes that they coincide with rongorongo tablets seen in her readings.
That day, she no longer dares to speak to anyone.
His colleagues from the control tower joke, indifferent. They only hear numbers, coordinates, altitude orders. She, in the silence, knows that above the planes, in the invisible sky, still floats the language of the beginning.
Every morning, while opening her notebook, she repeats herself:
I don’t invent. I listen.
That morning, she wakes breathless. The night was dense, with clear visions like lightning. For the first time, she had not only seen isolated signs, but a continuation, a poem. The glyphs had aligned in perfect order, with the regularity of a sentence spoken in a firm and tender voice at the same time.
She opened her notebook, her hand trembling.
One by one, she draws the signs: the bird, the hand, the fish, the wave, the setting sun, then again the bird.
Next to it, without hesitation, she writes …
take
passage
Pop out of her dreams
return
messenger
She stays immobile then, linking the words, she sees the sentence being born.
« The breath taking by the hand becomes offering.
The sea make it a passage,
the sun a return,
and the bird, messenger, keeps memory. »
Upset, she reads and rereads. It’s not a riddle. It’s much more: a poem emerges intact from the dawn of time, a song that has been transmitted through her, deep in her flesh.
She has never felt her oneiric lexicon with such force. Such coherence. No more intuitive connections, risky correspondences. It is a text, a real one. An Adamic stanza. An original word.
In the spring, Claire went to the ethnography museum. She did not come by chance. Her dreams led her there, irresistibly. They present tablets from Easter Island that the display cases protect like relics.
Claire stares at them and her heart clenches. Spread out her eyes the signs noted in her notebook: the bird, the hand, the fish, the wave. The words of her dream, the sentences noted at dawn. Aligned, real, indubitable, everything is there before her.
The guide, imperturbable, comments:
— Scientists agree that we may never know what these signs mean.
Claire hides her smile. She won’t say anything. She won’t tell anyone. She walks a long time in the city. It’s enough to dream.
The great history of humanity is not written in libraries, but in the deep memory that everyone carries within themselves. A sleepy memory just waiting for a breath to come back to life.
Claire looks up. The planes pass above her, punctual, anonymous. Under their metallic wings rings the ancient murmur, the eternal echo of the stars, the language always alive, always vivid, always haunting it.
Anna, the Blessed Virgin and Mother Goddess, has lived so long she has no age.
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