An hour passed. As we walked, I prattled on and on about trifles. Mythilda, meanwhile, had adopted a new strategy in her attempt to get rid of me. She answered all my chatter with silence.
“Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
Silence.
“Did you enjoy living in Dawn?”
Silence.
“Tell me about life in an Elvenhome?”
Silence.
When her silence failed to silence me, Mythilda tried a different ploy. She still ignored me, but she also speeded up her pace. I had to jog to keep up with her. Otherwise, my short legs would not have matched the stride made by her long, beautiful legs…
Are you sure that you do not want me to describe her legs? It will only take a few hours. Maybe five hours tops. Or six. No more than seven hours, I promise…
Well, if you are positive, then I will not. That’s probably for the best, anyway. Myth would feel mortified if I began to blather about her legs.
Anyway… Mythilda may have been resolute in her desire to get rid of me. But I was not discouraged. She would become my friend, whether she wanted to or not. I knew some tricks that would dupe her into talking to me.
Let me teach you how to trick someone into speaking with you, Mister. The key is to keep talking. Teasing them is okay. But be friendly, too. And never stop chattering away. Eventually, the person who is ignoring you will become so irritated that they will erupt—ranting and raving about how annoying you are. Being yelled at is no fun, of course. But once they have cooled down, it’s impossible for them to continue ignoring you. This trick had never failed me. And I was confident it would work on Mythilda.
“So, Mythilda…” I paused and giggled.
“I’m sorry for giggling, but"—I giggled again—"Mythilda? Really?”
Mythilda answered me with silence.
“Mythilda. Mythilda,” I sang out. “No. I cannot see you as a Mythilda.”
Mythilda remained silent.
“Mythilda is a spinster aunt who smells of cat. She carries a darning needle everywhere she goes. And she keeps sorghum drops in her handbag.”
Yet more silence from Mythilda answered me.
“All of Mythilda’s nieces and nephews hate to visit her. Because she smells of cat. And because she feeds them horrible sweets. But mostly because, when she sees them, Mythilda shuffles over to them and croaks, ‘Who’s gotta kissie-poo for Auntie Mythilda.’ Plus, she likes to pinch their cheeks.”
Resolute, Mythilda chose not to speak.
“All the children dread kissing Auntie Mythilda. Her breath smells of fish… And all her teeth are rotten, of course… And she has a wispy moustache… And she has a wart on the tip of her nose that presses against the children’s cheeks whenever she kisses them.”
And still, Mythilda remained silent.
Her restraint stumped me. I was being extra annoying, after all. She should have broken her silence by then, if only to shout at me.
Still, I was not beaten yet.
“No,” I said. “I cannot go about calling you Mythilda. I’ll break into a fit of giggles every time I say your name. That might annoy you.”
Silence. But I did notice that she was clenching and unclenching her hands repeatedly.
Am I wearing her down at last? I wondered
“We need to think of a nickname for you," I said. "Something that’s a bit different—mysterious, perhaps. But with a hint of the romantic at the same time. Now, what should I call you? Do you have any suggestions?”
Silence.
“No. That’s no good. I cannot go about calling you Silence. That sounds a bit too strange. Do you have any more ideas?”
Mythilda huffed.
Finally, I told myself. I am definitely making some progress.
“No? It’s up to me then," I said. "Now… Let me think… Mythilda… Thilda… Til… Tilly? No. Tilly sounds like a dog’s name. That won’t do at all. So… Thilda… Thilda… Hilda… Hmm? Hilda? Hildi? No. Both of those sound like the name of a strapping woman whom everyone describes as being healthy-looking. Plus, a Hilda or a Hildi should really have a job churning butter. But… Let’s see… Hilda… Hildi… Hill… Hilly? Blech! That sounds like a geographic feature. Okay… Back to the start… Mythilda… Thilda is no good, so… My… My… Myth?”
I gasped.
“That’s it!” I exclaimed. “Myth! It’s perfect. A Myth has a history. There’s sadness in her past. Nobody knows what that sadness is, though. Everyone is curious to learn more about her. But there is something unknowable about a Myth. Yes. Myth. That’s what I shall call you. What do you think of it?”
Mythilda looked up at the sky and groaned.
“No objection, then? Good. Lead the way, Myth.”
And that’s how Mythilda became Myth.