Read Text A, and then answer Questions 1(a)-1(e) on the question paper.

Text A: Vox

This extract is told from the perspective of Jean. Jean and her family – her husband and four children -
live in a society which, one year ago, adopted new rules for women. All women and girls must wear a
bracelet which they cannot remove. This bracelet records how many words they may say each day. If
they exceed the limit of 100, there are consequences.

I watch and listen, my nails carving half-moons into the flesh of my palms. Sonia nods when
appropriate, wrinkles her nose when my young twins, not understanding the importance of yes/no
interrogatives and finite answer sets, ask their sister to tell them what the teachers are like, how the
classes are, which subject she likes best. So many open-ended questions. I refuse to think they do
understand, that they’re baiting her, teasing out words. But at eleven, they’re old enough to know.
And they’ve seen what happens when we overuse words.

Sonia’s lips quiver as she looks from one brother to another, the pink of her tongue trembling on the
edge of her teeth or the plump of her lower lip, a body part with a mind of its own, undulating.
Steven, my eldest extends a hand and touches his forefinger to her mouth.

I could tell them what they want to know: All men at the front of the classrooms now. One-way
system. Teachers talk. Students listen. It would cost me sixteen words.

I have five left.

“How is her vocabulary?” Patrick asks, knocking his chin my way. He rephrases. “Is she learning?”

I shrug. By six, Sonia should have an army of ten thousand lexems 1, individual troops that assemble
and come to attention and obey the orders her small, still-plastic brain issues. Should have, if the
three R’s weren’t now reduced to one: simple arithmetic. After all, one day my daughter will be
expected to shop and to run a household, to be a devoted and dutiful wife. You need math for that,
but not spelling. Not literature. Not a voice.

“You’re the cognitive linguist 2,” Patrick says, gathering empty plates, urging Steven to do the same.

“Was.”

“Are.”

In spite of my year of practice, the extra words leak out before I can stop them: “No. I’m. Not.”

Patrick watches the counter tick off another three entries. I feel the pressure of each on my pulse like
an ominous drum. “That’s enough, Jean,” he says.

The boys exchange worried looks, the kind of worry that comes from knowing what occurs if the
counter surpasses those three digits. One, zero, zero. This is when I say my last Monday word. To my
daughter. The whispered “Goodnight” has barely escaped when Patrick’s eyes meet mine, pleading.

Read Text B, and then answer Question 2 on the question paper.

1
lexem a basic unit of language
2
cognitive linguist someone who studies the link between language and the mind
 Text B: The Road

The novel describes a post-apocalyptic America through which a father and his young son journey
South to find food, warmth and other survivors. The post-apocalyptic situation gives rise to a
breakdown in social order and rules, and the demise of humanity and compassion. The father and son
encounter threats to themselves from men who stalk the road, intent on stealing what little they have
for themselves, which they keep in a shopping cart.

This extract is taken from the beginning of the novel. The father has awoken, and considers the
situation they are in and the landscape through which they are travelling.

When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out to touch the child
sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had
gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma 3 dimming away the world. His hand rose and fell
softly with each precious breath. He pushed away the plastic tarpaulin and raised himself in the
stinking robes and blankets and looked toward the east for any light but there was none. With the first
gray light he rose and left the boy sleeping and walked out to the road and squatted and studied the
country to the south. Barren, silent, godless. He thought the month was October but he wasn’t sure.
He hadn’t kept a calendar for years. They were moving south. There'd be no surviving another winter
here.

An hour later they were on the road. He pushed the cart and both he and the boy carried knapsacks. In
the knapsacks were essential things. In case they had to abandon the cart and make a run for it.
Clamped to the handle of the cart was a chrome motorcycle mirror that he used to watch the road
behind them. He shifted the pack higher on his shoulders and looked out over the wasted country. The
road was empty. Below in the little valley the still gray serpentine of a river. Motionless and precise.
Along the shore a burden of dead reeds. Are you okay? he said. The boy nodded. Then they set out
along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.

On the far side of the river valley the road passed through a stark black burn. Charred and limbless
trunks of trees stretching away on every side. Ash moving over the road and the sagging hands of blind
wire strung from the blackened lightpoles whining thinly in the wind. A burned house in a clearing and
beyond that a reach of meadowlands stark and gray and a raw red mudbank where a roadworks lay
abandoned. Farther along were billboards advertising motels. Everything as it once had been save
faded and weathered. At the top of the hill they stood in the cold and the wind, getting their breath.
He looked at the boy. I'm all right, the boy said. The man put his hand on his shoulder and nodded
toward the open country below them. He got the binoculars out of the cart and stood in the road and
glassed the plain down there where the shape of a city stood in the grayness like a charcoal drawing
sketched across the waste. Nothing to see. No smoke. Can I see? the boy said. Yes. Of course you can.
The boy leaned on the cart and adjusted the wheel. What do you see? the man said. Nothing. He
lowered the glasses. It's raining. Yes, the man said. I know.

3
glaucoma a condition of increased pressure within the eyeball, causing gradual loss of sight.