THERE was little that Pizlo needed from others. He wore the same thing every day, a pair of shorts with pockets front and back and a set of bandoliers with more places to hold whatever he might find or need at a moment’s notice. He’d built various cubbies and sleeping nooks throughout the island, both in the interstitial spaces of the Civilized Wood and down in the Shadow Dwell far below. As for food, the rainforest of the island of Keslo offered an abundance of fruits and leaves and grasses. If in the course of preparing a meal or snack he sometimes sampled from the carefully tended crops of another Fant, well, it wasn’t as though anyone would complain. With only a handful of exceptions, all of Barsk society denied his very existence. Pizlo should never have been born.
It was an absolute truth of Fant physiology that unbonded females were not fertile. But Nature abhors absolutes and tosses up the occasional exception. His people called such unintended births “abominations.” Nature likewise seeks to correct its own errors and each anomalous, one-in-a-million conception usually carried such a host of genetic abnormalities that if the infant wasn’t stillborn it died of its own weakness within a season. At fourteen years of age, Pizlo had defied such probabilities, an abomination’s abomination.
Often if he needed something he could simply ask one of the few people who acknowledged his existence. To this day, Tolta, his mother, would welcome him in her home without hesitation, mend his clothes, prepare his meals. Jorl provided paper and ink bamboo, as well as access to his personal library. And while Jorl’s wife, Dabni, rarely allowed him in her bookshop for fear of driving away customers, she nonetheless left new books out for him to borrow. The arrangement covered most of his needs but not all. Four years ago he’d become a Speaker, and while Jorl had originally been happy to purchase koph at his request, as Pizlo moved from childhood to adolescence he wanted to stop relying on others. Even if it meant reaching back into the world that denied him.
Pizlo sat on a branch just off a lesser boardway in the heart of the Civilized Wood, no more than an ear’s width of dense, living green camouflaged him from the notice of passersby. He peered through the boundary between them to study the apothecary that lay on the opposite side. He kept a tally of the shop’s patrons as they came and went. When the shop was free of customers he dropped from his perch, tumbled through the foliage, and rushed within. A wooden bell above the door murmured his arrival. Behind a counter near the entrance, a clerk filled shelves and fronted stock. At the far back end behind a second counter, a chemist compounded remedies and dispensed advice.
The clerk at the front stood facing away from the entrance. She turned at the bell, but Pizlo had already dartted unseen down an aisle of over-the-counter analgesic powders and topical unguents for fireleaf rashes. As he arrived at the back the chemist there had also looked up. She paled—though not so pale as his own albinism—and her eyes desperately sought something else to focus upon even as she searched for an avenue of escape. No such options existed. Her workspace offered only well-stocked shelves, no exits, nor even any place to hide. She made do by backing away into the farthest corner and faced into it like a young child being punished for some misdeed at gymnasium.
Pizlo clambered over the counter. He ignored the chemist and sorted through her pharmaceutical supply bins with purpose until he found his prize—packets of koph-laced wafers. He carried these back to the counter, divided them into several stacks, and carefully wrapped each in squares of waxy paper kept on hand for that purpose. The stiff paper made a slight sound as he folded it into envelopes for the koph. In self defense, the chemist began humming to herself. Pizlo didn’t even sigh.
“I know you can’t acknowledge me,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the humming. “But I’ve reduced your inventory and it’s not fair for you to bear the cost. I don’t have any money … how could I? Anyway, the day before yesterday a cove on the far side of Keslo called to me. I know that doesn’t make sense to you, but it happened. It happens a lot. So I went there.”
He paused, slipping the packets into separate sections of the bandolier across his torso. Pizlo glanced over to the corner. The chemist still faced away, her ears pressed flat to either wall. She continued humming, presumably to block out his words. He needed to finish this quickly and pressed on.
“It’s a tiny place, not good for swimming or fishing and hard to reach if you don’t have the knack of dropping through the Shadow Dwell and arriving in just the right spot. I found a tidal pool there with some funny-looking anemones. I also found a carving. It was weathered by years in the salt, the wood of it cracked in places from its travels. It told me it was among the last pieces carved by Rüsul of Maxx in the eastern chain, a distraction, I guess, while he sailed away.”
Pizlo dug in a pocket of his shorts and removed a parcel, an object wrapped up in a broad leaf and tied with a bit of vine. He set it on the counter. “It’s here now, where you’ll find it after I’ve gone. You never saw me touch it, so you can honestly say you don’t know for sure that it came from me. You can say you just found it here and that’d be true. Keep it or sell it—it’s probably worth quite a bit to a collector—and it’s worth many times what I’ve taken from your shelves.” He paused. People were complicated; it wasn’t enough that he’d offered a generous exchange. Best to provide the framework for other motivations as well, so when the woman altered and embellished today’s events, she could justify her own actions.
He rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Selling it might be best, because I’ll be back. I’m going to need other supplies, and your apothecary looks to be the best place for me to come where I’ll upset the fewest people. I’m sorry for the stress my being here causes you. I hope this makes up for it. Thanks.”
The transaction completed, Pizlo vaulted back over the counter and exited the shop, hearing a surprised gasp as he sped past the clerk at the front. He rushed across the boardway and threw himself into the surrounding growth that provided a barrier to ordinary citizens of Keslo though not one he’d ever agreed to. He scrambled through, bits of branches scraping his body, calling forth thin lines of blood on his pale skin without eliciting any pain as he plunged deeper. Soon he reached broader limbs that allowed him to climb up and up, brachiating his way ever higher until he achieved one of his hidden places at the top of the canopy.
He’d stashed food here, and a couple books, and at various times other things his conversations with the world told him he might need. Alongside a cutting stone he knew he’d need in three days and a folio of maps of the eastern archipelago that he’d meant to return to Jorl last season, he prepared to stash one of the envelopes of koph he’d just obtained. But first he opened it and unwrapped a wafer, placing it in his mouth. A nearby gourd contained water. He took a long drink, swallowed the koph, lay back and waited for the drug to work on him. The ethereal scent of spiral mint filled his sinuses.
Jorl no longer needed koph. He’d told Pizlo as much but not the why or how of his special case. Instead, when they’d discovered Pizlo possessed the gift to be a Speaker, he’d focused on explaining the possibilities open to him and the rules that had to be followed. Becoming a Speaker had changed everything and nothing. He could see nefshons; the subatomic particles of memory and personality would come at his call. If he summoned enough of them that had belonged to a dead person he could even talk to them. But Speaking to the dead required knowledge of their lives, and who did he know? And even if he somehow learned enough personal details to attempt a summoning, any Fant he tried to chat with would be horrified, posthumously confronted by an abomination.
But despite those limitations, practicing with the drug had given him new skills of imagery, sharpened his thinking, and changed how he saw the world. Jorl chose to do his Speaking in a replica of his office, imagining a space filled with familiar scents and textures, beloved objects, comfortable furniture. Pizlo understood that every piece helped anchor him to the physical world and in turn granted greater solidity to the mindscape by settling his mentor’s mood and shaping what his conversants experienced.
Pizlo, lacking both an office and potential conversants, had instead learned to use the mindscape as a tool in its own right. Since earliest childhood he’d collected bugs and stored them in his mother’s home where housekeeping always warred with organization. Koph provided a better way to keep track of the collection. He had recalled each specimen, hanging them one by one in a mindspace he manufactured just for them. It had taken many sessions and a lot of koph, but at the end he had a vast catalog, a wall comprising tens of thousands of insects each pinned in space a handspan away from those to right and left, above and below. Every detail of each physical specimen existed there in his memory. Having set it up once, he could summon it any time he ingested the Speaker’s drug.
When he’d finished, Pizlo had shown the catalog to Jorl. His mentor had been impressed by his ingenuity and in turn had come up with an idea for someone with whom Pizlo might actually Speak, an artificial but sapient mind that had been destroyed years before. Introductions were made, and over that first conversation he’d acquired enough familiarity to summon those same nefshons on his own. From then on, Pizlo met regularly with his new friend. It made him feel a little more normal, but really there was nothing normal about dialogues that occurred only in his mind with a conversant who had been built like a machine many millennia ago.
In the four years since, Pizlo had followed Jorl’s example and conjured a place for his summonings, a spot beyond the forest of his home but instead out under the clouded sky. He imagined himself in a relentless downpour regardless of the actual season. A therapist would have found the choice significant, but no mental health professional anywhere on Barsk would willingly observe an abomination’s state of mind, let alone extend any treatment or therapy to help him.
Back when Pizlo’s father had died, Jorl had become a major part of his life, filling an emotional void that at five years of age he hadn’t understood existed. Jorl had tutored him in all things, including the ways of Fant society and other topics that neither expected would ever matter to him. And yet, his mentor had insisted. The world might not acknowledge him, but to be a Fant meant learning the ways of the people who rejected him. The history of Speakers had been among those things, even before he’d manifested the ability that defined them.
“I never expected it would lead to anything.” Pizlo spoke within his mind, revisiting the inner scene he’d constructed years before. The rains in his mindscape drenched him. He turned his head to the sky, weak eyes peering up through the rain at the clouds, feeling a connection to the world despite his imaginary surroundings.
“It seemed so … what’s the word? Ironic? All at once I could see the particles of people, living and dead, people who would never ever talk to me.”
A voice replied through the rain, “I’m pleased Jorl introduced us and that you choose to visit with me.”
Pizlo’s invented surroundings were impossible. He stood upon a massive cube that hung high in the sky. Each side was easily three times his height, composed of grey metal, plastic, and smoky glass. Indistinct shapes swirled inside the cube in response to his voice. Pizlo spoke to the weather all the time, but only in the mindscape could he talk to this cube.
“Me, too. Jorl doesn’t have as much time anymore, not like when I was just a kid. And the time we do have, it’s more precious. I don’t need him for lessons like I did before. Instead we discuss the stuff I’ve learned from the books he gives me. But the things you tell me, they’re different from any of that.”
“I was created to tell stories. I am the Archetype of Man. It is my purpose. I am the repository of the hero’s lore.”
The teen Fant sat there, knees bent, legs crossed at the calf, feet under knees. Jorl had called it “Tailor style,” and as his mentor’s father had been a tailor, Pizlo accepted it without comment. He unfolded and stood now, as much to stretch as to pace—another habit he’d picked up from Jorl. He stepped to the edge of the cube, peering over the side, willing the pelting rain not to pitch him off the edge. In the real world where he’d left his body high in the canopy, a faint smattering of rain likewise fell upon him. By the time he returned, he’d be soaked through. None of that mattered though.
“Most of your stories follow the same kind of pattern. The people may differ and the things they do might change, but they all kind of work the same way, don’t they? Aren’t there other kinds of stories?”
“There are, but they are not mine to tell.”
“Because you only tell the hero stories?”
“Yes.”
“So … back when you were made, were there others? Other … repositories?”
“That is my understanding, but the details of their making or appearance or content were not entrusted to me.”
“None of it?”
“No. I am sorry, Pizlo.”
“It’s okay. I was just asking because … well, if you knew anything about them, maybe one of them could be summoned, too. Probably not by me, but certainly by Jorl. And once he’d done it that first time, I’d be able to do it any time after, and you could have someone else to talk to. Maybe.”
“It is a generous intention, but it would be a wasted effort.”
“Why?”
“While you do not match the physiological definition of mankind as defined by my makers, still you are a biological being. You have a sense of your own existence and an awareness of your own mortality. I do not truly possess either of these attributes. Your race exists in uncertainty, without definite knowledge of your purpose in the universe. In contrast, my kind were clearly defined. We existed to share our stories with humanity. Our reason for being was to preserve the best of these, and as opportunity allowed, to teach them. That purpose does not allow for one repository to instruct another. Nor even to interact.”
“I guess that makes sense. I am grateful to have you teaching me. Your stories are fun. After listening to them I can think of things that have never existed on Barsk or maybe anywhere in any of the worlds of the Alliance. But … can we take a step back?”
“How back?” inquired the Archetype of Man.
“Can you tell me a story about why so many of your stories feel the same?”
Although it lacked anything like a face, Pizlo heard a smile in the machine’s voice when it replied.
“Indeed, I can. You are seeking a meta-discussion of story. It is the very definition of my uniqueness. The archetype which defines me.”
Pizlo leaned further out, taunting the illusion by manufacturing a wind to keep him from tumbling over the edge. He didn’t want to actually fall, but liked the idea of braving such a fall.
“Which is what?” he asked.
“The hero’s journey. The structure of nearly all my tales.”
“Structure. Like order? The way things are put together?”
“Precisely.”
“Like the way I organize your nefshons when I want to summon you?”
“Perhaps. I don’t understand how you or Jorl do this thing, but I would not be surprised that it requires the imposition of structure on the particles you have described. I don’t believe they were known in my time. Certainly I have no stories of them.”
The Archetype rarely spoke of its own creation or time, and under other circumstances Pizlo would have welcomed following his teacher down such a path, but he didn’t want to let this current idea go. And uncommon as tales of itself might be, this other thing was completely new.
“You’ve been telling me stories for years now. Why haven’t you mentioned this structure before?”
The machine did not pause, and if there was irony in its response, Pizlo could not detect it. “You never asked.”
The wind increased, a reflection of the Fant’s sudden sullenness. He stumbled backwards from the edge, arrived near the middle of the square and sat back down. “Fine. I’m asking now. What is the hero’s journey?”
“It is composed of three components. These are the Departure, the Initiation, and the Return.”
“And all heroes travel through these parts?”
“No, but of all the stories I possess, those that share in all three pieces have been shown to resonate the most with the spirit of humanity. Those heroes inspire and instruct. Those stories reveal and remind the hearer of the greatness that exists within all of mankind.”
Pizlo nodded. “We use those words differently, I think. Mankind and humanity. It’s confusing.”
“As is the state of the galaxy as you have explained it to me,” responded the Archetype. “These terms have become more inclusive since the time of my creation. But I was given contingencies for encountering alien beings so that by hearing my stories they, too, could come to understand my creators. Jorl has explained you are not aliens but rather descendants of other creations. We are, in that sense, distant cousins.”
“But that still doesn’t explain the difference. How can we have different meanings for the same words?”
“For me, humanity only encompasses the sapient beings that existed when I was made. For you, it refers to the eighty-seven different types of your fellow sapients. Thus, what you and I mean by mankind reflect different frames of reference.”
Rising again, Pizlo considered this. He returned to his pacing, navigating the perimeter of the rain slick square several times. He stopped at the middle of another edge and lifted his head, speaking up into the sky again. “But … all the stories you’ve told me over these years, they’re good stories. I feel them. It doesn’t matter that they’re about people I’ve never met, or even that the people aren’t like any people I would recognize. You’ve shared their stories and I’ve laughed and cried. I’ve cheered their victories and suffered their defeats. They were good stories.”
“Indeed. They resonate for you. The stories elicit these reactions in humanity.”
“So, does that make me, and probably everyone else in my time, a part of your definition of the word?”
The Archetype fell silent, leaving only the unending sound of the rain striking the cube face beneath the Fant’s feet. Then, “The evidence would suggest you are correct. I will adjust my parameters. Thank you, Pizlo. This meta-discussion has been insightful for both of us.”
He grinned and stepped away from the edge. “Right. So let’s go back to the other thing. Explain to me about the parts of this hero’s journey.…”