The Moons of Barsk

by Lawrence M. Schoen

  “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.…”

  THREE

  DEAD SPEAKERS

  JORL rose late in the morning, the tip of his trunk pulled back to press the nubs against his forehead in a gentle massage. He smacked his lips and considered the possibility of just lying in bed a while, or better, going back to sleep completely. The rolling rap of knuckles on his front door tore such thoughts from his mind. Begrudgingly, he sat up. The sound repeated, paused after what he guessed might have been their fifth iteration, only to knock again as he stumbled from his bedroom. Bleary with the shreds of a dream involving a third-century Speaker he’d summoned many days earlier, it was the pinnacle of conscious thought to pull on a robe and wrap the sides closed with a sash before opening the door. As he’d expected from the distinctive knock, his landlady stood on the other side, clothed in a sleeveless dress of dark green fibers, one arm raised as if prepared to keep rapping on his door until the end of time if necessary.

  “Good morning, Kentl. What brings you by today?”

  “Morning is for songbirds, Jorl. Do I sound like I’m singing? It’s nearly noon!”

  As if a partially opened door were an invitation, she pushed past him to enter the spacious apartment’s vestibule. Jorl turned in place. He followed the int
rusive Eleph with his eyes, ensuring she didn’t plunge any further into his home. He muttered under his breath at the way she acted, as if ownership gave her the rights of an aleph to go whither she pleased. Not for the first time, he wished his actual aleph worked in reverse and could bar people as he chose. Instead, he counted to twelve, found he still possessed too much irritation and counted again before replying. “Which is still too early to bid you a good afternoon.” Jorl’d long since learned not to trade barbs with Kentl; the woman had the sharpest tongue in a dozen islands.

  She spun, frowning as her eyes ran over him, cataloging the details of his disheveled appearance. “Did I interrupt your nap? You’re supposedly a busy professional; were you intending to sleep the day away?”

  “It’s the sartha buds outside my bedroom window. I wrote to you about them last season.” He yawned, spread his ears wide, and tried to wake up. “For lack of pruning they’re propagating wildly. Isn’t maintenance of that garden patch part of what I’m paying rent for?”

  She dismissed the argument with a wave of her trunk. “Pay someone to cut them back, and send me the bill. I’m sure you can find some neighbor child to do it.”

  The irritation won out that time. He nodded and said, “Fine. I’ll ask Pizlo the next time he’s by.”

  Kentl froze. A quiver of her trunk’s nubs was the only sign that she understood Jorl’s intention to have a boy that Fant culture insisted didn’t exist and couldn’t be acknowledged tend the garden of one of her properties. An instant later she slapped those same nubs against her thigh and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Or your daughter—what’s her name, Rina? Task her with it. Someone in your family should work.”

  Jorl fought to suppress a smile as he imagined unleashing Rina on the sartha. Give her a pair of clippers and the afternoon and she’d raze his garden. Dabni, Jorl’s beloved wife, had assured him of their child’s great potential, but despite being raised in Arlo’s former home, the girl’s talents and interests did not fall toward pharming.