The Interpreter
By
Torah Cottrill
Pari walked down the dusty road, her shadow sharp
against the sunset-bloodied desert rocks. In her
dreams, the shapes that the ridges made against the
broken sky were a message she could almost decipher,
but the meaning always slid away with the dawn.
The road wound out of the the high desert emptiness
and into a valley. Dusty grass and defiant fists of
weeds gave way to farmland. As Pari approached a small
settlement, a sound like roosting birds resolved into
the voices of children. Little girls in thick, full
skirts and boys in knee pants and heavy brown boots
shrieked with tired, evening delight, chasing a hoop
rolled one last time down the road through the
village.
“Esti pierdut?” one of the little girls stopped to
ask.
Pari stared at the child, waiting to hear more. To
encourage her, Pari dug a piece of raw-sugar candy out
of her pack.
“Va multumesc!” the child mumbled happily, mouth
bulging with candy. As Pari listened, the knot of
sounds was unraveling. It was an interpreter’s gift,
to sense patterns and find meaning.
“Ce este numele tau din sat?” said Pari, the words
becoming more familiar as they left her mouth.
“Praf,” the girl told her. The name of the village:
Dust. Appropriate, Pari thought, with a glance at her
worn boots.
“Esti aici pentru pedure stafii?” the girl asked.
“Mananca copii, mama spune ca.”
“Unde?” Pari asked. The girl pointed west, then ran to
rejoin her friends. Pari walked on.
That night, Pari lingered over the embers of her
campfire, adding the Romanji dialect spoken in the
village of Dust to her travel journal by the light of
the double moons. After a moment’s thought, Pari also
added a note about the girl’s story of child-eating
ghosts in the forest. The next time she returned to
the chapter house, she would leave this journal behind
to be copied and added to the archives, and begin a
new one.
Not all interpreters traveled. The oldest sisters and
those not physically capable of a life on the road
lived and worked in the chapter houses, copying,
sharing, and studying the journals of the traveling
sisters, teasing knowledge from the confusion of
details.
Interpreters tracked the movement of people,
languages, and ideas. Recently, the sisterhood watched
with concern as Lyudi settlements spread west, and
considered how this affected the nomadic Naj tribes
the Lyudi encountered. The scholar sisters predicted
that the Lyudi would expand through the Lasta Pass and
dominate the hereditary Naj grasslands in five
decades, and that the Naj language and tribes would
die out.
For the sisterhood, charged since the Arrival with
maintaining the genetic diversity of this world, the
loss of the Naj and their language was unacceptable.
The senior sisters wanted to avert a Naj extinction by
engineering a gradual assimilation, instead. They
wanted a solution to the Lyudi dilemma, and Pari had
been sent to find one.
In the morning, Pari settled her pack across her
shoulders and continued west. As she walked, she
wondered whether these forest ghosts would be worth
investigating. It sounded like a bedtime tale to keep
children out of the woods, but the sisters taught that
rumors and stories often contain a grain of truth.
A few hours’ walk brought her into the wooded
lowlands, carved into sprawling estates by stacked
stone walls. It took a lot more land to support a
family in the forest than in the farmlands, Pari knew,
and this bred a different kind of community, feudal
instead of communal. The sisterhood was widely
respected, but these hedge lords could be
unpredictable.
Pari heard the dogs before she saw the manor. Two
dozen men on horseback filled the stone-flagged
courtyard of a hacienda in the old style, many
dismounting to lead their horses away as she
approached. A sea of hunting dogs beat against the
knees of men and horses, some still belling their
excitement from the morning’s hunt. Pari slowed as she
approached the elaborately arched gate, giving the men
a chance to study her, as she studied them in return.
A man in a tight, many-buttoned jacket was speaking to
an older man in the noontime shade of the hacienda’s
deep porch. The younger man’s gestures were emphatic,
and Pari heard the words “duty” and “courage” clearly
above the noise of dogs and horses. The older man
shook his head and turned toward the gate where Pari
stood, gesturing her closer.
“Be welcome in my home,” he said as she approached. “I
am Don Miguel, the fidalgo of these estates.” Pari
inclined her head. In the Yber-derived cultures, men
and women did not clasp hands. “You, I imagine, are
the interpreter I’ve been hearing rumors of. This is
Obregon, my teniente. Please join us.”
The fidalgo gestured Pari before him into the cool
dimness of the main house. Don Miguel was just past
middle age, with a stout frame still powerful under a
layer of fat, his iron gray hair and beard trimmed
neatly short. Approaching a buffet covered with cold
meats, nuts, and late fruit, he flung his stained hunt
jacket onto a bench and poured beer into three wooden
cups.
Pari accepted a cup and drank gratefully. The day was
hot. As she drank, she studied the vest the fidalgo
wore, dark green and heavily woven, but faded and
thinned in patches with age. What caught Pari’s eye,
however, was the thick tracery of metallic thread
woven throughout the fabric, in asymmetrical,
geometric patterns that did not repeat. The front of
the vest was covered with oddly shaped, reinforced
pockets, all empty.
Seeing her gaze, Don Miguel asked, “Can you tell me
what this is? For generations, each fidalgo in turn
has worn it. But the story of its origin has been
lost.”
“It is a relic of the Pre-Departure,” Pari said,
setting her cup down. “The tracery was known as
‘circuitry’ and channeled power from artifacts
contained in the pockets, although the nature of that
power is not known to us.” This was true, although not
the entire truth. The sisters knew a great deal more
about the time before the Arrival than they spoke of
outside the chapter houses, and savant sisters were
said to be close to reproducing the lost data
retrieval techniques of the Pre-Departure. One day,
perhaps, the vast dead libraries slumbering in the
deep storage caverns could again be woken. “Would you
allow me to copy the pattern in my journal? It is
unusual, and quite beautiful.”
“Of course, Sister. I have always been ready to do any
service for the interpreters. And,” the fidalgo added,
fixing a shrewd gaze on Pari, “I trust the sisterhood
stands as ready to do a service for those in need?”
“Of course, Don Miguel,” Pari replied. “What
assistance do you require?”
“No, Don Miguel!” broke in Obregon. “This is not a
matter for outsiders. Allow me to take some men,
myself. I assure you. . .”
Don Miguel raised a hand to silence his teniente.
“Obregon, I have made my decision. The interpreters
are the ones who deal with infestations. Don Eusebio
wrote to me last year about the plague of lung flies
in the Eastern Province, and he said the sisters knew
of a way to save the cattle. This is what they do,
collect bits of old lore and help rid us of the
occasional vermin, isn’t it, Sister?”
Pari inclined her head. It was the common
misunderstanding, and the sisterhood encouraged it.
The savant sisters were particularly interested in
reports of unusual life forms surviving so many
centuries past the extinctions engineered by the first
settlers. Cultivating a reputation as exotic
exterminators helped the traveling sisters pursue
these rumors.
“I will help you if I can,” she assured Don Miguel.
“Tell me what happened.”
“Five months ago, we noticed that the game in the
woods was not as plentiful. First the smaller
creatures were gone, then the larger. These animals
are food for our tables, goods for our traders. I sent
men into the forest to investigate, but they found
nothing.
“Then we lost two children.”
Don Miguel paused, and took a deep drink from his cup.
“We searched all night with torches and dogs. Near
dawn we found them, empty sacks of skin still wearing
their clothes. But we found no signs of the creatures
who had done this.”
“How long ago were the children taken?” Pari asked.
“Two months. We continue to hunt the forest with the
dogs, but find nothing. For the past two weeks,
though, the dogs have been barking at night, and the
men who go outside to investigate have seen . . .
something. Dark shapes in the shadows or gliding
between the trees. And a sound like, like. . .”
“Like singing,” Obregon finished for him, “from very
far away. Jordao Antonio followed the sounds into the
forest, and said that he saw the ghost of a woman
singing to him.”
“Let me talk to this man,” said Pari.
Jordao Antonio’s story was brief. He told Pari that he
followed the dark shapes and the sound of singing into
the forest, where, by the light of both moons, he saw
the ghost of a beautiful woman flitting from tree to
tree, always just ahead of him. The neighbors who
hurried after him with torches dragged him back.
“They say that I fought them,” Antonio admitted with
embarrassment, “that I shouted at them to let me go,
beat them with my fists. But I remember nothing of
this! Only,” he smiled, remembering, “only the most
beautiful woman, and the song.”
In the afternoon, Obregon and a group of armed men
escorted Pari into the forest. It was oddly quiet, the
small noises of scurry and chirp absent. Pari kept a
wary eye on the taller trees. Once, she stopped by the
decaying trunk of a fallen tree and probed the soil
beneath with a stick.
When they returned to the main house, Don Miguel met
them in the courtyard. “I need a goat,” she told him,
and explained her plan.
That evening, the fidalgo hosted a plain but generous
dinner, attended by his extensive family and several
important locals who wavered between courtesy and the
desire to press the interpreter for news. Pari passed
along information the sisterhood wanted disseminated,
and gathered what there was to be learned.
Pari sat in the deeply shadowed porch after nightfall.
Across the moonlit courtyard, a goat stood, tied to a
stake. It bleated its confusion, the only sound in the
night. Pari waited to see what would come out of the
forest, hiding the glint of her long knife under a
fold of her coat.
Shadows, flickering through the treetops, snagged
Pari’s peripheral vision. The goat fell silent.
Pari held her breath, absolutely still. Dark shapes
hunched across the open ground between the village and
the edge of the forest. They could be mistaken for
shadows on the grass, but Pari watched one intently
until she saw it move. She counted eight shadows, but
she was certain there were more she couldn’t see from
her position on the porch. The goat, frantic, strained
against the rope.
The dark forms converged on the goat. After a
fluttering, silent scuffle in which the first to
arrive fended off challenges for its prize, one of the
shadows wrapped itself around the goat, which
struggled only briefly beneath the dark shroud. The
other forms hunched away, leaving the feeder alone in
the grass. Quickly, Pari rose from hiding to approach
it.
As she stepped off of the porch, Pari heard a low
hiss. She spun to her right in time to see one of the
shadows flow from the ground up the wall of the manor
and disappear. Looking more closely, Pari saw an
elongated oval outline, as tall as she, flattened
against the rough stone. Its color and texture
mimicked the wall perfectly; it was all but invisible.
At her movement, the oval changed color, becoming a
smudged shadowy black. The outline of a pale human
face began to form on the black surface. Variable
chromatophore coloration, Pari thought, but was it
mimicking its predators or its prey? The face shape
took on more texture, while the rest of the black oval
shaped itself into something that resembled a human
body wearing dark robes. Pari now faced what seemed to
be a human of indistinct gender, eerily beautiful.
Then it began to sing.
Although Pari had read the ancient reports about
hypersonic hypnosis in indigenous life forms, she was
unprepared for the mind-fogging song, the size of the
dark shape looming over her, and the strangely
compelling miasma of musk and decay that surrounded
the creature. Pari found herself approaching the
singing shape before she realized that she had moved.
With a cry, Pari flung herself backward, stumbled, and
fell. Dark folds closed on the empty air above her.
The outside of the creature still appeared to be a
mesmeric human figure, but inside the folds of
darkness twisted dozens of ropy, grasping tendrils and
a sharpened proboscis for injecting digestive enzymes
into its meal. Pari leapt to her feet and backed away,
lifting her knife in numb fingers. Finding its meal
resistant to the opiate effects of its song and
apparently unwilling to wrestle such large prey, the
creature collapsed to the grass and disappeared into
the shadows of the trees.
Pari stood trembling for a moment, then vomited on the
ground.
The next morning, Pari took Don Miguel and his
tienente into the woods. “Here, and here,” she showed
them the knots of wriggling white worms beneath rocks
and fallen trees. “These are the larvae. Find them
all, and burn them out. These are nat’nissarna, the
night elves. The mature forms, the ghosts that have
eaten the game and the children, will die over the
winter. Destroy the larvae, keep your people out of
the woods until spring, and this will end.”
The fidalgo nodded to Obregon, “Gather your men.” The
teniente hurried away. “We owe the sisterhood a debt,”
he said. “How may we repay it?”
“Next summer, when your hunts prosper again, Elder
Sister Isolde enjoys smoked deer beyond reason. Send
her a portion at the chapter house, with the story of
your winter, and give her my obedience.”
Don Miguel nodded. “As you wish. Will you stay as our
guest for a while?”
“No,” Pari said, “although I thank you. I have other
places I must be.”
The next morning, Pari shouldered her pack, heavier
now with supplies from the fidalgo, and with a
wax-sealed flask of pale larvae. The savant sisters
would be very interested to know that these creatures
were not, after all, extinct. Seeded in the right
locations, the night elves could close the Lasta Pass
for generations. She had found the solution to the
Lyudi dilemma.
Pari lengthened her steps, and headed east.
END