No Spoilers

Have you seen this yet? I’m guessing no, or else I’d be getting an earful from Josslyn right now (It might be nice if you stepped up to take the heat on occasion…). I’m also guessing the author (Have you ever even heard of Ophen Precteldey?) doesn’t know she’s stumbling around the border of heresy, either, but maybe she’s a fusionist agitator. I don’t know. (Perhaps we pay Prectel Farraddey a visit, see what they have to say about this Ophen?) I don’t know how she even got hold of that very clearly fallacious article she’s quoting, considering such an obviously erroneous journal should have been caught by Episcopal monitors, but here we are. 

This is why we should’ve pushed harder against the Updike Bull. The more liberal members of the Faculty think any concession is proof of the Episcopacy’s weakness. We haven’t attained our current balance through accommodation; I’m not saying we should invoke Rigor (I repeat again for ReFPA purposes: I am not in favor of another Rigor), but you’d have to be either a dullard or willfully blind not to recognize the bloat all around us. 

Anyway. The relevant passages of the article are below. I’ve tried to trim the academic argle bargle but you know how they like to go on. Line’s open; get back to me when you’re able and we can discuss next steps.

— Janys Tyreegezul

The Limits of Liminality: Toward an Ontology of Quintessence and Quantized Authorship in Multiple Epistemologies

[Janys’s note: I wonder if they know how they’re basically satirizing themselves at this point.]

Ophen Precteldey ¹

Published by the Authority of the College of Multiple Epistemologies
and The Journal of Theoretical Epistemics

Published in adherence of Faculty Guidelines regarding
Consequence and Responsibility

Published in adherence of all Episcopal Requirements as
established during the Caughtlip Conventions 

Published in adherence of all Episcopal Monitors’ Recommendations [Janys’s note: We’ll see about that…]

Published with the intent to achieve greater
understanding of all Simulacral Phenomena

Published with the intent to expand the bounds of Arcalumical Knowledge 

The question of behavioral modification through epistemological exigencies, and its concomitant limits, is one that has bedeviled scholars since the adoption of the Il-deym Framework. While I will not attempt to resolve that rather knotty debate here, I will posit that recent research, both by myself and by a range of scholars across a range of disciplines ² represents a direct challenge to accepted conventions within both the College of Multiple Epistemologies and Transmentation Seminary specifically, and, potentially, Arcalumis itself. [Janys’s note: See? Enough hedging for a royal maze but this is the claim, and the language, of a radical.]

A rash of seemingly-incompatible observations has instigated the current ferment, forcing Arcalumical scholars to ask if some change is occurring within the Simulacrum or if long-held assumptions could perhaps prove to be fallacious. The impetus was the Carpatus Incident, the first recorded example of what Nel Trepinarelya calls “mimesis-by-design,” and not the spontaneous Simulacral mimesis observed in certain eldritch epistemologies ³ This type of “tautological masquerade” ⁴ was more-or-less ignored by mainstream, reputable academics for the duration of the Regular Period, ⁵ though the rather lurid details of Katryna Paneyla’s diary ensured some degree of non-scholarly interest, as did, no doubt, Episcopal Monitors’ decision to ban publication [Janys’s note: In case you needed further evidence of her anti-Episcopal perspective…], resulting in countless samizdat copies, many altered and embellished to emphasize the sexual nature, or self-perceived sexual nature, of Katryna’s relationship with the Carpatus Object. ⁶ [Janys’s note: You get the idea. It goes on like this. At length. I’ve cut out a great many pages of inoffensive academic blather. You will not be surprised to learn that most of it is, functionally, meaningless.]

…

[Janys’s note: Here’s where it actually starts mattering.] 

The most recent development to challenge certain underlying presumptions of the Il-dey Framework comes in the form of polymodal epistemologies. In short [Janys’s note: A little late for that, honestly.], the possibility that firm, clear sets of epistemologies could be laid atop each other was considered unlikely, implausible even. A single epistemology was the most a locality could bear. In those instances where multiple epistemologies could clearly be established within a single locality, ¹²⁷ where the evidence was incontrovertible, a “liminal epistemology” ¹²⁸ has been the accepted explanation. Recently, these have been described as “mushy epistemologies” by some, ¹²⁹ an intentionally belittling sobriquet. 

In the College of Multiple Epistemologies’ Index of Appendices I made a discovery that I believe sheds greater light on such questions and could help clarify the functioning of such so-called mushy epistemologies: an entry from a journal of which I can find no trace. [Janys’s note: And so her coy game begins.] This was purely by chance; the entry predates Calibration, and as such no living archivist was aware of its existence. Published at some point during the Il-seyf Framework, the original article has either been lost or is hiding somewhere within the pre-Calibration stacks, in which case it may as well be lost. [Janys’s note: Or it was rightfully deemed Errata. Why not acknowledge that possibility, Ophen? That you stumbled upon an appendix to an erroneous article?]

In the absence of the original publication, and without corroborating evidence or further scholarship, it is perhaps difficult to give full credence to the material; we have, after all, only the appendix, which consists solely of a transcript of an interview undertaken by Ruus Hanzendey ^12X and Ruus’s brief contextualizing remarks. The implications of what’s discussed in that interview, ^12ℰ though, are potentially transformative, and worth unpacking at length. [Janys’s note: Her “unpacking” is predictably dull, meandering and irrelevant. I’ve excised it. If you want to read it, you can check the original.] 

…

The possibility of polymodal epistemology, of, indeed, some additional unseen “author” [Ophen Precteldey’s note: I use “author” here in only the most figurative of senses. [Janys’s note: And there it is. Pure sass. She’s taunting us, she knows exactly what she’s doing and she’s taunting us. Just the barest fig leaf of plausible deniability. It’s even worse on the second read. An explicit reference to Narratology, and yes, I’m saying it, ReFPA be damned, she’s made it moot anyway. And if some plucky independent archivist requests public attribution, then I’ll own it and say to them what I’m saying to you: I exist. A bureaucrat, an Episcopal clerk, an under-secretary, yes, I am all of those, but I exist. I matter. I need no flamboyant outbursts to be remembered. To have meaning. To be revisited. I persist whether anyone watches. This is how the Performatory Movement came about, and Arcalumis can’t withstand another generation of scenery-chewers trying to distinguish themselves, trying to make of themselves protagonists in their fictive productions. Well, I say no. I am no skein of words. I am no knot of ink and parchment. I am unauthored. I exist. I am unauthored.]], seems, to me, defensible. To posit anything beyond that, though, would require research and resources well beyond both the scope of this article and the limits of my expertise, likely requiring extensive interdisciplinary collaboration with the Transmentation Seminary. I hope I have done enough, though, to incite that further research, as well as to challenge both the widely-held belief of Epistemological Singularity, as well as the mushy Epistemology of the Liminalists, and I look forward to the no doubt vigorous debate this article will provoke.

¹ Ophen Precteldey is the Rodrik Vixdey Professor of Theoretical Epistemologies at the College of Multiple Epistemologies on Treln, where she teaches courses in epistemological theory, epistemic vulcanization and Central Cluster romantic comedies. She is the author of Becoming Woman: Creating Identity in the Beauty Paradigm (College of Multiple Epistemology Press, 225ℰ IDF) and Fools of Engagement: Beyond the Free Will Binary (Maverick Independent Press, 226X IDF) [Janys’s note: These have both been out of print basically since they were published, so I’m still trying to get ahold of copies; Episcopal Archivists deemed them unworthy of Selection.] back ↪︎

² See Yuval Versgezul’s excellent survey, “‘The Lonely Mountain’: Outliers in the Regular Period,” for greater detail on academe’s treatment of heterodoxy during the era. back ↪︎

³ See the “Ventian” and “Triptych” localities, as well as preliminary reports from Locality Phantom Gulé and Locality Vicar Fautum—the dearth of verified accounts indicates the rarity of the phenomena we’re dealing with, but in no way undermines their significance. back ↪︎

⁴ See Huume Yesperareyla’s body of work for the potentially problematic nature of so reductive a term. In short, the appearance of tautology is no guarantee of genuine tautology, as it presumes that the Simulacral Masquerade is comprehensible by human minds, a presumption every College within the University has grown increasingly wary of. [Janys’s note: This isn’t really significant in the grand scheme of things, but that this sentiment is so common that it almost doesn’t bear remarking on here illustrates the decadence of certain quarters of the Faculty.] back ↪︎

⁵ See Yuval Versgezul’s excellent survey, “‘The Lonely Mountain’: Outliers in the Regular Period,” for greater detail on academe’s treatment of heterodoxy during the era. back ↪︎

⁶ For a fascinating analysis of the patterns and potential meaning submerged within that poor woman’s words, see Vespr Huumeareyla's recently-published dissertation. back ↪︎

¹²⁷ See the Trexian Bridge, Liesl’s Folly, the Dirge, or Data Island. It’s worth noting that that last, though, remains controversial among many Multiple Epistemologists. back ↪︎

¹²⁸ See Vix Velndey’s seminal paper “Limning the Liminal: Genre Hybridity Within Mapped Localities.” back ↪︎

¹²⁹ Kalem Vixdey is the most prominent critic of the prevailing wisdom regarding such localities, though this is perhaps more due to the drama of her break with her mentor than any particular insight of her critique. back ↪︎

^12X I have been unable to find additional publications by Ruus Hanzendey. Regarding her mentor, multiple Hanzens were active during that era I speculate this appendix originated within, including a Multiple Epistemologist, Hanzen Yinidey, and her scholarly tree is extant up until several duodecades ago. The last person who could be directly traced to Hanzen Yinidey’s teachings died in the Caughtlip Disaster, interestingly, though he was a man of only negligible scholarship. back ↪︎

^12ℰ [Ophen Precteldey’s note: I excerpt the material here, in its entirety, for posterity’s sake – though I of course have complete faith in both University archivists and Episcopal archivists. [Janys’s note: This strikes me as unduly cheeky. Suggesting it’s a candidate for Errata?]]

Appendix A:

This tale was relayed to me by Tace Rhetarfaut, an anthropological dramaturgist of somewhat dubious reputation. He is better known for what might charitably be described as “tall tales”—told in the less well-maintained of the faculty lounges—than the quality of his scholarship. I must confess, though, I am given to believe him, as he is the underling in this tale, and the braggadocio which he otherwise wears like a badge of honor was curiously absent as he related this anecdote. Furthermore, his regard for Theopanu Theodeyum [Ophen Precteldey’s note: I’m unsure if this is a joke, as no College of this number exists. [Janys’s’s note: I’m unsure if this is a ploy – feigned ignorance or genuine confusion.] I am likewise unable to establish the existence of a Theo, though her mentonymic may be an ironic self-aggrandizement, as her later comments could suggest. And, just as with Ruus Hanzendey, I have been curiously unable to find any examples of Theopanu Theodeyum or Tace Rhetarfaut’s publications [Janys’s note: See previous comment.], though with the latter this is perhaps not a surprise. While I do not doubt either’s existence—Ruus Hanzendey’s article would surely not have made it past Faculty reviewers if they didn’t—their absence from any matriculatory records is striking [Janys’s note: And once more.]] was clear. His swashbuckling attitude is typical of so many anthropological dramaturges of his generation—though, as will be seen, there are perhaps additional motives for his more performative behaviors. [Janys’s note: Already it tugs at history better left forgotten.] 

“It was a pastry that did it. I wish I could describe it to you, but it was particular to that locality. Cheese and honey and a type of pepper that was deeply flavorful and just spicy enough to linger. I’ve worked with bakeries to try to recreate it, but… The pepper just doesn’t exist in any other locality I’ve traveled to. I don’t believe the cheese does either, but, in truth, it was the pepper that really… I digress.

“It was early afternoon and there was only one left and we both reached for it. He and I. We. I’ve been attracted to men before—travel enough across the Simulacra and you’ll find yourself in every variety of carapace, with every variety of desire—but no desire I’d ever felt, or have felt since, has been as potent as what I felt then. He was beautiful. Black, curly hair that fell across his forehead, delicately brown eyes, skin just a shade lighter, a ripple of stubble over his cheeks. His face was narrow, his chin sharp, and he was old enough that lines had begun to gather around his eyes even when he didn’t smile, a delta of fine, perfect wrinkles leading out into the untroubled sea of his temples.

“Listen to me. I can’t help myself, even now, forty years later. Our hands touched. We each withdrew. He gestured but I didn’t know for what purpose. He was offering me the pastry. I’d forgotten it. I couldn’t stop looking at him and I couldn’t say anything. I felt like an adolescent, my mind subordinated to my want for him. Every part of me vibrated like a struck gong and he was the mallet, my frequency in perfect sympathy with— 

“I wonder sometimes how much stays with us when we travel. The rules that govern a locality. There’s no reason for me to still feel what I feel with the potency that I do. That body is gone. I haven’t occupied it since. And yet.

“And yet.

“We shared it. Sitting in the plaza outside the bakery, we shared it and we talked and the sun swept over the cobblestones and the shadows scurried away and then crept back and still we talked and then it was evening, and electric lights hanging from the eaves turned on and the plaza filled, buskers playing their impromptu concerts, dancers twirling across the stones, laughing and clapping, tables filling outside cafes as they served dinner. The entire evening we spent in conversation. I don’t remember what we said to each other. So much else I can see, I can smell. Corn roasting over a charcoal grill, the nightflowers opening, their anise perfume hanging in the air, the whisper of smoke from the candle at our table. What we said, though? Of this I have no recollection.

“We never touched. Not then. Not that night. Not after that first brush of skin against skin as we reached for the pastry. It would have felt crass, somehow; though we both wanted it, we simply couldn’t. So when we parted we stood facing each other, just for a moment, each waiting for the other to move, I think, though perhaps he never had any intention to. 

“I returned to our camp of operations, which was really just a room at a local inn and addressed my research lead upon arrival. 

“‘Theopanu Theodeyum,’ I announced, ‘I am in love. We met over a pastry and now I am in love.’ 

“‘A pastry?’ she said.

“‘A pastry,’ I said.

“‘What a cliché,’ she said. [Ruus Hanzendey’s note: As he told this story to me, he shifted the position of his body when he spoke for Theopanu Theodeyum. The effect was as though he was having a conversation with himself, cocking his head to the left then to the right, not looking directly at me. Though initially unnerving, it soon felt natural.]

“You must understand, this was not how I spoke, not in my life and not to her – we barely knew each other and this was my first experience in the field since I’d been accredited. I am not a romantic. Ask my ex-wives. Ask my ex-husband. They’ll tell you. It’s hard to be a romantic in our field of study. Had she known me, I think she would have understood then what our situation was—the type of locality we were in. As I said, she was a… a brilliant woman. [Ruus Hanzendey’s note: A transcript cannot convey the reverence with which he spoke of Theopanu Theodeyum.]

“Even as I tell you of it, even as I think of it, I can feel myself changing, telling it how I felt it, how I lived it—not as the man I truly am. Or perhaps I only tell myself I am changing. Perhaps it was my true nature I experienced there, suppressed for a lifetime, denied, allowed to live only in memory. The Simulacrum provides many wonders, but even more mysteries, and no mystery is greater than one’s own essence.

“Feh. Listen to me. Live long enough and we all turn into Esoteric Theologians. Perhaps better to call nature just one more story ascribed to us… We’ll get there, though. 

“Theopanu told me, ’Be careful out there. There could be Bureau agents. Hircarra. And who knows what else. We have no tracker, so keep a low profile.’ I agreed and we slept, the muffled sound of conversation and singing from the public room four stories below like ocean waves, lulling us during a restful night.

“We spent the next morning in the town’s university, Theopanu Theodeyum’s expertly-forged credentials allowing us access to their library. The locality was post-industrial, but we were stationed in a resort parish and ‘luxury’ within this culture consisted of an enforced simplicity, along with a rather absurd recreation of pre-industrial social norms, so we were surrounded by draft animals and carts and meticulous rusticity. The townspeople were dressed in the traditional garb of the region’s culture, as, in fact, were the university’s faculty and students, an affectation that would have driven me to madness, though the small stipend they each received to maintain verisimilitude likely helped. We even passed an antique circus on the way to the university, its colorful tents pulled tight over the wagons’ tops like flamboyant bonnets, an elephant, or something profoundly elephantine, trundling along in the midst of it all. 

“I served as helpmate, retrieving books, offering translations—my carapace happily had some linguistic expertise—fending off inquisitive local scholars who sought an audience with the wholly fabricated eminence, that is, Theopanu Theodeyum, who graced their institution with her presence. Our day ended while the sun was still high in the sky, Theopanu Theodeyum being known for her early starts and early finishes, and I was released into the city. 

“The university was slightly outside of town, and the walk back took me along the Philosopher’s Path, so called for the strolls two scholars of local repute had taken each evening some number of brevgulém prior. It wound along the shore of a lake, and I took in the mountains that rose along the far shore, the ferry which crossed to the town at their feet, the gentle sounds of water lapping, of birds chirruping, of the streams that trickled happily down from the hills and my footfalls crossing the small, ornate wooden bridges that spanned them. 

“I confess my thoughts were less than philosophical that day. I thought, of course, of him, of whether I would see him again. Of how my life would change, loving a man from this locality. If it was even possible. He could have been, as Theopanu implied, another traveler, or an agent of this world meant to entrap travelers. If the latter were true, he had succeeded beyond his wildest ambitions, as I could not keep my thoughts off him. What could explain the power of this ardor? Its riotous force? I felt like an Esoteric Theologian in the grips of some ecstasy, somatic enlightenment upon me, tranquility within me.

“In town, I returned to the bakery, but he was not there. I had walked slowly, love making me indolent, and, after eleven years of dissertating, leisure felt like luxury. The sun hid behind the town’s tallest buildings, and sharp shadows fell across the plaza. Almond and sugar and the heavy scent of cheese greeted me in the bakery. The shelves behind the counter were mostly bare, three loaves of bread remaining, and in the case only the small, geometric biscuits of the locality and one lone pastry. There was the baker in the shop with me, no one else, and the light through the window gave the moment a caramel sheen. I felt nostalgic for this locality I hadn’t grown up in, and understood well the pull of the cartographer’s wanderlust. How many such worlds, full of magic and wonder, would I die without knowing? It seemed unspeakably sad to me. 

“The baker leaned down over his case to look through the glass. He said, ‘Like a snowy mountain set aflame, yes? It is for you, my friend. The last of the day.’

“I nodded and paid, handing over the appropriate coinage, the three silvered triangles the pastry cost, and then held it, the box top open, and saw that, yes, it was like snow aflame, the cheese light and smooth and charred in spots to a burnished orange, the pastry’s peak dribbled with golden honey, slivers of pepper arranged beneath flaky, buttered outcroppings. It gathered the shaft of sun to itself as though spotlighted, and I felt as though the whole world had paused to observe it, to allow me to observe it, this humble, perfect pastry—the last of the day. 

“He was waiting for me at the fountain, sitting at its edge, swirling the water with a finger as I approached. I sat beside him without speaking and we shared the pastry, the ceaseless, conspiratorial whisper of the fountain at our backs, the gentle clamor of commerce before us, and then he kissed me, and I could taste the honey on his lips. 

“When I left his room, all three moons were high overhead, their light only slightly paler than the pre-dawn’s glow. He had exiled me from his bed laughing, apologetic, claiming necessary work the next morning, and, though I had my own responsibilities, I was loathe to depart. He’d gathered the bedsheet around his waist, but it fell loosely, down his thigh on the opposite side, and I can remember still the dimple of his hipbone, a small shadow in the lamplight, as he pushed me gently through the door.

“The walk to the room I shared with Theopanu was, paradoxically, both endless and all too brief, a mirror of my walk earlier in the day, my thoughts disordered and fervent. I wandered through countless possibilities, countless futures, as I tried to calculate how best to ensure I remained on the world, and he remain with me. No good options presented themselves, not least of all because I still knew nothing of his circumstances or situation – not even if he was a traveler, a subject which had, not surprisingly, failed to come up that evening. In retrospect, of course, the breadth of my ignorance regarding him indicates the likelihood of the relationship’s failure, but in the moment such challenges seemed negligible, somehow, and eminently surmountable. We were to meet by the fountain the next day, and all would be resolved satisfactorily then. 

“Theopanu was awake when I returned. 

“‘How progresses your love, Tace Rhetarfaut?’ she said. She sat at the desk of our shared room, reading by oil light, and did not look up at she spoke.

“‘It progresses apace, Theopanu Theodeyum.’

“‘It would seem that it does, doesn’t it?’ She pointed at the clock on the wall, which indicated that today had, in fact, become tomorrow.

“‘Well as you are not my mother,’ I said, rather peevishly, ‘you didn’t have to wait for me to come home.’

“She closed the book and then looked up, and there was only warmth in her smile. ‘Every great love affair appreciates an audience and a co-conspirator, so I thought I could serve as both. Regale me, Tace, and I will listen.’

“So I did. I told her of my walk along the Philosopher’s Path, of the way the clouds drifted past the mountains across the water, of the way the ferry’s wake sounded as it curled against the shore, and the way the wind in the fields through the waist-high grass sat above it—how together they sounded like the world sighing, and of the way his face transformed when he saw me, how my presence alone brought him more joy than I’d ever brought to anyone, and of the baker’s odd remark about the pastry: like a snowy mountain set alight. 

“As I spoke I could see her focus shift, could feel the full weight of her attention and intellect settle on me, though I didn’t understand why.  

“‘This pastry…’ she said.

“‘Yes?’

“‘It was… set alight?’ Her expression was neutral.

“‘Not literally, no.’

“‘But this is what the baker said? Alight?’

“‘No, actually… I don’t think that was it.’

“She waited.

“‘Aflame!’ I said. ‘That was it. Like a snowy mountain set aflame.’

“She nodded and said, ‘Well that explains some things…’ and though she seemed to be speaking to herself, to be weighing something, I took umbrage. 

“‘Theopanu Theodeyum, I have been unstinting in my dedication to your research, and any romance I have pursued has been pursued wholly in my own time, time that you—‘

“‘What was the pastry? What was in it?’

“‘What does that have to do with—’

“‘Tace Rhetarfaut, answer me now.’  

“‘Cheese and pepper.’

“‘What kind of pepper?’

“‘I don’t know! The delicious kind?!’

“Her eyes narrowed.

“‘It was… sweet and spicy?’

“‘Not bitter?’

“‘No, definitely not.’

“‘Good. That’s good.’

“‘Why is that good?’

“‘Because if it were bitter then you would certainly die.’

“‘Oh,’ I said, and waited for her to elaborate. She had a way of looking at you as if she knew the next thing you would say before you said it, her expression simultaneously blank and bored. She wore it then and forced me to ask, ‘Are they poison if they’re bitter?’

“‘Certainly not. No, you would die because then we could be almost certain it is either a bathetic murder-revenge or an absurdist neo-tragedy that you are in.’

“‘I see,’ I said, though I most assuredly did not.

“‘You most assuredly do not,’ she said. ‘There are only two multiple epistemologists alive who have more than a passing familiarity with the Thengurian High Forms and I am one of them.

“‘Who is the other?’

“‘My dissertation director.’

“‘Oh. We could be sure what is either a… bathetic murder plot or a—’

“‘A bathetic murder-revenge or an absurdist neo-tragedy.’

“‘Right.’

“‘They’re Thengurian dramatic forms.’

“‘Right.’

She looked at me again, her face impassive and weary both. 

“‘Are you going to explain any of this to me, or—’

“‘The Thengurian Plutocracy itself hasn’t existed in a guldiesium, but localities inhabiting its dramatic forms are still extant. [Ophen Precteldey’s note: I have been unable to find any evidence of a Thengurian Plutocracy in the Repository on Cresque, or in the atlas archives of either the Colleges of Ætiological Ordination or Ordinal Ætiology, let alone localities adhering to Thengurian dramaturgical epistemologies. There are, in Cresque, references to “The Imperium of Thengúr,” a deeply ritualistic pan-galactic civilization, and though it seems feasible that this Imperium became the Plutocracy in question, given the timeframes involved, I was unable to find any linkage definitive enough to claim continuity.] It seems we have found ourselves in one, with you—and your beau—as its current focal points. There are dozens of classic forms, and the whole purpose of their theater is the admixture of those forms to subvert audience expectation. The comedy of remarriage. The revenge of remarriage. The bathetic parent story. The romance of failure. Some we don’t have a word for. There’s a genre about wanting peace and quiet in the woods and falling in love with a tree. An entire genre about the perfect border between satisfaction and overconsumption.’

“‘And the point is to keep the audience from knowing what genre the play exists within?’

“‘That is correct.’ 

“‘That sounds frustrating.’

“‘It’s dreadful! Their plays are some of the worst I’ve ever read.’

“‘But you wrote your dissertation on them…’

“‘And I shall never forgive my director for pushing me into so abominable a specialization.’

“‘But how do you know what form we’re in?’ I asked.

“‘You’re in,’ she corrected. ‘In each of the High Forms there are phrases or symbols, signposts at key points, approved by the Imperial Dramaturge. At the signposts, various possibilities are eliminated by the utterance of the phrases or the reveal of a symbol and the audience applauds or jeers depending on if they were fooled.’

“‘That does sound dreadful.’

“‘Indeed. Your pastry is one of the symbols, and the baker’s description, “A snowy mountain set aflame,” one of the phrases. With them, we can surmise what is to come.’

“‘Then what is to come? What genre are we in?’ 

“‘Are you in. And by telling you all of this I will likely have pushed you into either a parodic black comic romance or a romantic meta-farce.’

“‘How blackly comic are we talking?’

“She waved her hand. ‘You have nothing to worry about, whichever it is. He’ll be a Bureau Man, or part of Firmāre, but that will be fairly trivial to overcome. Some of the supporting characters may be in for rather gruesome, inventive deaths, but as a protagonist you should be fine. Minor turbulence at most, I would say. It’ll be interesting to observe how things proceed so close to the action yet removed from it.’

“‘But aren’t you in it, as well? Because of me? We have a lot of scenes together, as it were.’

“‘Of course not! I wouldn’t allow myself to be…’ She trailed off and pursed her lips. 

“‘What?’

“‘That is exactly what the Meddlesome Scold would say in a romantic meta-farce. Troubling.’

“‘The Meddlesome Scold?’

“‘A Thengurian archetypal supporting character.’

“‘Oh.’

“‘I should be all right. I’ll just have to be careful near pack animals, heavy machinery and bordellos.’

“‘Well those should all be easy to avoid, right?’

“‘You would think that wouldn’t you? But engineering an unlikely encounter with some panicky draft horse is exactly the sort of thing Thengurian playwrights delighted in…’

“The next day, Theopanu Theodeyum had settled on a plan. We abandoned our ostensible topic, a frankly dull investigation into the poetry of this locality, one that I can’t help but imagine was inflicted on Theopanu by diktat, perhaps as punishment for her iconoclasm regarding the ‘Abrogated’ Open Letter. That she was able to maintain tenure at all remains, I think, the clearest evidence imaginable of an interventionist Simulacrum. [Ophen Precteldey’s note: While I was able to locate numerous references to an “Abrogated” Open Letter, none were willing to discuss the letter’s actual contents, only its ramifications, so controversial was its publishing (or the apparent failure to do so in full). [Janys’s note:  As we all know, the “Abrogated” Open Letter is a malicious myth, spread by malcontents and troublemakers and its invocation is spurious at best and functionally heretical at worst.]]

“But I digress. The poetry housed at the university, and, perhaps, in the entire universe, was, in the words of Theopanu, ‘Irretrievably contaminated’ by the Thengurian rules inflicted upon it. So while we would, superficially, proceed with our research, our true purpose was to observe the world around us. Though I was an accredited anthropological dramaturge, this was my first experience within a dramatic epistemology, and Theopanu informed me she had been present in only two other such unmapped, unmarked localities in her entire career. I have not been lucky enough to experience a second such locality, and I imagine that is likely to remain the case. 

“All of which is to say, such opportunities are rare, and the chance to witness Simulacral manipulations directly, in the very epistemology of a universe, is a thrilling one. To be the discoverer of such a locality even more so. 

“All observations, all analysis, we made would instead be epistemological in nature, as we sought to understand the extent to which the universe’s rules, which had engineered the love now roiling within me, affected everything that wasn’t my love. Whether I had the capacity to ignore my desire and maintain scholastic decorum, making the necessary observations of my own life as it happened around me, I still don’t know. Nor do I know if Theopanu had faith that I would be successful or if tasking me to observe the events of my life was simply another level of her research.

“As it turned out, I had no opportunity to fail. After our morning in the university, during which nothing of interest occurred—the usual clerical organizing and tedious cross-referencing—I made my way along the Philosopher’s Path and into town once more. The day was overcast, though, the water dark and glassy, the mountains on the far shore reflected with mirror-like perfection. Their peaks reached almost to me, snowcaps wavering in the tranquil water, beneath the black-green of inverted forests that spanned the lake entire.

“I went to meet him at the fountain, as we had arranged the evening prior, but he was not there. 

“Had he simply been delayed or was this the Thengurian black comedy at work, engineering some farcical contrivance to keep him from me? The thought came unbidden, and I immediately resented it. Would I base my next actions on the conventions of a dead genre or behave as my own nature and will dictated? Surely the latter, but had my nature, my will, been subsumed by genre conventions without me knowing? I pushed the thought from my mind. I would sit and wait and that was my decision. The speed with which it came was reassuring until it wasn’t, but I was not dissuaded.

“The lip of the fountain was wide and I settled on it, letting my attention range over the plaza. The buildings ringing it were four and five stories, wooden, painted brightly and well-maintained. The first floor of each was a shop—a café, or chocolatier, or bookstore—and above were rooms to rent; few of the town’s denizens were able to afford to live on the plaza. Atop a sign for a cheese shop sat a jackdaw and a sparrow, so close together as to be noticeable, and I was struck by the oddity of the pairing. 

“I noticed, as well, and for the first time, the scene depicted within the fountain. A circle of figures, some half-human half-animal, with goats’ legs or lions’ heads, chasing a group of humans, youths, I thought, though I couldn’t be sure, as the metal of the sculptures was worn in spots to smoothness. Those humans closest the rear looked back at their pursuers, while further up they looked out, seeking a path of escape. At the front of the pack, though, they looked forward, at the chimeras before them, the humans becoming the pursuer, and the lion-headed creature looked back at them, its mouth a rictus of fear, its mane tangled and tossed as it fled. And so it went with them, on and on, the circle unbroken. I sat beside the humans, in the center of their group, and the figure nearest me appeared to meet my gaze. It wore an expression on its face of profound boredom, or possibly exasperation. Its creator had shaped it so that it seemed aware it was being observed, but so weathered were its features that interpretation was indistinguishable from speculation. Though perhaps the exploration of that curious border was ultimately the— 

“I stood. My own thoughts had begun to vex me and I crossed the plaza to the bakery, to soothe myself with butter and puff pastry. All that remained were biscuits, however, so I bought two, one for me and one for him, but did not return to the fountain. I sat at one of the tables outside the shop waiting as long as I could bear, the temperature dipping as the sun did, the early evening air moist on my skin. 

“I related all of this to Theopanu Theodeyum that night. I said, ‘He didn’t show up. I sat and waited for an hour, finished my biscuit, then ate his out of spite. I couldn’t understand it. We had a plan.’

“‘They always do in the romantic meta-farce.’

“‘What about the parody black…’

“‘The parodic black comic romance?’

“‘Yeah. Do they always have plans in that?’

“‘They do indeed.’ 

“‘I see. Well, we’re no closer to knowing which of the genres we’re in.’

“‘Actually, that it’s down to two already is atypical. We’re only two signposts in.’

“This time I looked at her without speaking, and she sighed, then continued.’

“‘Normally it’s the third signpost which whittles four possibilities down to two, before the climax ultimately reveals the play’s true form.’

“‘So we’re not necessarily in a parodic black comic romance or a romantic meta-farce?’

“‘It’s technically possible that we could be in an anarchic pseudo-anthology. The cast of characters is simply too small for that to be feasible, though.’

“‘And the other?’

“‘The apocalyptic ironical romance. But unless our advance team has been seriously remiss in their duties I believe we can rule that out. So the third signpost doesn’t matter to us all that much. Nothing in what you described about today aligned with the set phrases or symbols, anyway.’

“‘Could the third signpost have something to do with the fountain in town?’

“‘The “Cycle of Pursuit”?’

“‘That’s it.’

“‘Likely not. It’s standard Thengurian iconography. Not traditionally associated with any of the forms. Writers liked to add such things, religious symbols, mythic figures, and so on, to suggest depth and add “resonance” without actually signifying anything.’

“‘Hmm. The biscuits, maybe?’

“‘Tace Rhetarfaut, I told you the third signpost isn’t relevant. We know the possibilities already.’

“‘I understand. There were just so many moments which struck me. The reflection of the mountains in the lake, the figures in the fountain, the birds on the cheese shop’s sign, it feels exciting to me to be surrounded by potential semions!’

“As I spoke her head whipped up, and she looked at me, her eyes wide and wild and wholly unlike herself.

“‘The birds?’ she said.

“‘Yes. A jackdaw and a sparrow. They sat together on a sign. A cheese shop, I think. They seemed an odd pairing and I wanted to remark to him about it. But…’ I shrugged. ‘Like I said: he didn’t show.’

“‘No. No, no, no. He’s with the Bureau, or some other potential antagonist, we know that. You’re in love, we know that.’ She spoke to herself, looking up at the ceiling, as though trying to remember something.

“‘What is it?’

“‘The pastry. What was the pastry? On the first day, yesterday, what was the pastry you shared?’

“‘Cheese and pepper?’

“‘Is that a question?!’

“‘Cheese and pepper!’

“‘And is that all?’

“‘Is what all? I don’t understand. Yes, that is all we had.’

“‘Is that all that was in the pastry? Are you certain? You must think carefully.’

“‘Yes, it was a cheese and pepper pastry.’

“‘Good. Good.’

“‘Oh. And honey.’

“‘And honey?! Why did you not say so!’

“‘I have no idea! When was I supposed to say this? What is—why is honey a problem?’

“‘Don’t you see?’

“‘No, obviously I do not!’

“‘A pepper and cheese pastry with honey? A jackdaw and a sparrow above a cheese monger? This isn’t a Thengurian parodic black comic romance or a romantic meta-farce… It’s a Thengurian romanti-comic tragedy!’

“Neither of us said anything then, me because I didn’t know what this meant she because she was struck by the horror of this revelation and presumed I was as well. 

“‘And what does that mean?’ I said.

“‘It means I’m not the Meddlesome Scold I’m the Blind Mentor! You’ll betray and murder me, or your romantic interest will betray his mentor and murder me, but either way I get murdered and you abandon the Arcalumis Society!’

“‘I would never do that.’

“‘That’s what you say now, but some revelation will challenge your previously-held loyalties or make you reconsider your priorities. Knowing what will happen can’t change that. It might even make things worse, as the foreknowledge will make the crumbling of your will even more tragic. This is very bad. Very, very bad. First the advance team fails to recognize the locality’s epistemological principles, negating any potential significance of research conducted within it, and now we’re in a Thengurian tragedy, beholden to its laws.’

“‘All that separates a tragedy from farce is whether or not there’s honey on a pastry?’

“‘Yes!’

“‘Why is it something so small?!’

“‘Because they were bad playwrights!’ 

“‘But there are meant to be two possibilities, aren’t there? We’ve passed the first three signposts but there’s still the final one to reveal the true genre. A Thengurian romanti-comic tragedy or…?’

“‘Or a neo-farcical meta-romance. Which are just a mess. No, everything here has been too clean for that. Much too clean. This is a romanti-comic tragedy. I’m sure of it.’

“‘But how has any of this been comic?’

“‘The humor would derive from you arguing about what sort of fate is in store for you.’

“‘… That doesn’t seem very comic at all.’

“‘The Thengurians were not a funny people.’ 

“‘But isn’t it possible that—’

“‘Yes of course.’

“‘You didn’t even let me finish!’

“‘“If the point is the subversion of expectations, then the author’s goal is to guide us to a particular genre, and then do the opposite. But, knowing that we know this as well, perhaps it’s a double feint, and the true genre is the one they’ve been leading us to the whole time. Perhaps, though, knowing that this is what we expect…” And so on and so on. Is that about where you were headed?’

“‘No! Yes…’

“‘When you’ve studied these things enough, none of that makes any difference. This is a romantic-comic tragedy. I guarantee it.’

“‘But if it is a neo-farcical meta-romance–‘

“‘Which it’s not.’

“‘—what are the possible endings? How could this resolve?’

“‘Happily, most likely. I would be embarrassed but would accept that embarrassment as a lesson. You would be reconciled with your romantic interest. Seemingly-insurmountable challenges would be revealed as superficial and the situation would comment, probably obliquely, on some societal convention regarding relationships and responsibilities.’ 

“‘That doesn’t sound so bad.’

“‘It’s not going to happen. We would need some elements of farce already, assassins disguised as nuns, clumsy attempts to conceal a fortune, wildly incongruent elements, general buffoonery. You’ve witnessed as much of these past four days as I have. You know that no such elements are present.’

“‘I still think that if this is obviously a tragedy because it’s so tidy, wouldn’t the ultimate subversion be that it’s actually just the meta-romance?’ I was grasping desperately at possibilities because I didn’t want to leave this locality, this world, this town. I wanted to stay here with him. 

“‘No no no. That’s an obvious subversion.’ 

“‘But then wouldn’t the real subversion be–’

“‘Tace Rhetarfaut. Stop. Breathe. Tell me, what was your dissertation?’

“‘Why does that matter? Why does that matter now?’

“‘What was your dissertation called?’

“‘“Dancing in the Stark: Message Clarity, Guns for Hire and Little Worlds Falling Apart in the Nude Ballet of Interwar Alterna.”‘ [Ophen Precteldey’s note: I have been unable to find evidence of this paper, either in Dissertation Records or in citations by other scholars, though it was, of course, published Pre-Calibration, and as such the likelihood of finding reference to it is vanishingly small.]

“‘Interwar Alterna? I’ve heard that the government subsidized the arts solely to antagonize religious fundamentalists, and that the avant-gardism of their dance was a product of that manipulation rather than having any genuine artistic impulse.’

“‘That’s simply not the case, and that perception results directly from Nitrian propaganda. Subsidization began only after the turn to the avant-garde, as, realizing they were losing the support of the Church, the government threw their lot in with social radicals and artists, hoping to galvanize popular–’

“‘That’s impressive expertise, Tace. Expertise earned through research and diligence, and I now accept the accuracy of your position.’

“‘I’m glad. I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.’

“‘Just as you have your expertise, so I have mine. Will you accept my expertise on the Thengurian High Forms of theater?’

“‘Oh. I see.’

“‘Tace Rhetarfaut, I am sorry. Truly. Love is a precious thing. But this one, what you feel now? It can only end poorly. We won’t know for a certainty until the climax when the ultimate form will reveal itself, but by then it will be too late. You’ll betray Arcalumis, you’ll betray me, I’ll be dead and you may well die too. There is only catastrophe awaiting us if we stay here. The laws of the form, the laws of this locality, you know as well as I do, they can’t be denied. Knowing will not help us. We can only leave.’ 

“I sat quietly for a moment. Somewhere, I imagined he was sitting in similar stillness, though he would know nothing of what I knew, of the way the laws of the universe would drive us toward tragedy. A man of the Bureau, a member of Burel Hird, if that’s what he was, would have none of the expertise necessary to understand what was transpiring. No one in the near-infinite span of the Simulacra would, no one in any society, not even Arcalumis. No one except Theopanu. The coincidence was hard to ignore, hard to excuse as anything save design. Possibilities fell away from me, reality girding my actions, and I felt the universe close in around me. 

“‘Tace,’ Theopanu said, ‘I understand this is not easy.’

“‘No,’ I said, ‘no it is not very easy.’

“‘Though Alfid Ferilynarfaut more-or-less tricked me into wasting my dissertation on Thengurian dramas, he was not my introduction to them. I found them on my own, fell in love with them, or in love with one playwright, on my own. The first time I read him…’ She stopped, collected herself, a wholly uncharacteristic emotion making her voice quaver. ‘It cracked open my mind, wider than I even understood at the time, and changed who I was, who I became. The end of that first play, the main character steps to the audience and gives a monologue. Such things were… It was both revolutionary dramatically-speaking and very nearly so politically, as well. It’s hard to explain how challenging such a thing would’ve been to a Thengurian audience. 

“‘The words themselves, I committed them to memory the moment I read them; I knew I had to carry them with me, always. They’ve always brought me a sort of comfort, and they may hold some meaning for you, as well. Would you like to hear them?’

“‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Of course. Please.’

“She spoke then, solemnly, her voice pitched low, as in some arcane incantation.

“‘“We would like to think the Boundary ‘twixt Circumstance and Self is demarcated solidly by Will and Want and wealthy Guardsmen, immune to Fate’s cruel bribes. 

“‘“The truth, though, is dispiriting for all of us who hope to subvert our plays’ conspiracies—throw off the Drama yoking us to the Stories we’ve been scribed.

“‘“We will say whatever’s written, the words I’m speaking now, but every claim of full volition fails, refutes itself, confounding all delusions of free will undenied.

“‘“But then, so too, do all of you obey the dictates of your Script, though the Ink that binds so viewlessly is less so written than experienced, easy to elide. 

“‘“It is Hist’ry, it is Nature, it’s the confidence of Friends. Parents, Partners, Lovers, hate your Enemies expended on an ending that was ever silently circumscribed. 

“‘“So in tallying the Ledger of all your Actions’ debits, much is owed to Forces far beyond your own Self’s paltry remit.

“‘“Even now, as I break free, rhythm shattered, meter scorned, assonances thrown aside—though, for most, unmourned—and take hold the Ancient Blade, heft the haft, our Doom a’raised, to strike my Lover, strike Myself, strike off the Ledger this calculus of daily hopes and failures, I enact no novel stratagems, I make, in truth, no choice. 

“‘“Because the man who stands before you is the man who wrote these words, speaking with my voice.”‘

“For some time I said nothing. The window frame creaked quietly as a breeze swept in from off the lake. I could almost smell the scent of the mountains in the gentle whistling, an improper seal in the jamb letting the night trickle in. Beneath me, the mattress bore my weight well, rustic but well-made, and the pillow rustled as I shifted, its filling made of buckwheat hulls, comfortable, though loud. 

“‘That was what you fell in love with?’

“‘Oh, for the…’ Theopanu sucked her teeth in exasperation. ‘Well if you didn’t want to listen you could’ve just said so.’

“‘That was what persuaded you to devote so many years of your life to Thengurian dramatic forms?’

“‘I’m not sure you’re fully grasping what the author is really doing here.’

“‘That’s probably it.’

“‘If you understood the context…’

“‘Right. Of course.’

“‘The whole socio-political milieu this was first performed in? The accepted dramatic conventions of the time?’

“‘Sure, yes.’

“‘That they were even able to get this approved by the Imperial Dramaturge is remarkable.’

“‘I can imagine.’

“She looked at me without speaking and I couldn’t stop myself from laughing.

“‘You know what?’ she said.

“‘Hmm?’

“‘Good night.’

“‘No! Let’s talk more about emotional potency of tortured verse!’

“‘The betrayal begins even earlier than I expected.’

“‘Everyone knows the most moving, powerful ideas can be stated in rhyme.’

“‘I liked you more when you were afraid of me.’

“‘Well how long can you expect a protagonist to stay scared of the Blind Mentor?’

“She just stared at me then, and I expected some arch retort, but she said, ‘That is certainly true,’ and I had to laugh again. ‘Well I’m glad I was able to provide some levity, but tomorrow morning we gather the little research we’ve been able to accrue, we Calibrate [Ophen Precteldey’s note: A presumably primitive form of the technique—perhaps simply used by field researchers during this era to assist in the recall of meaningful findings.] and we go see Kinful Verilar to send us home.’

“I may have grunted in response, or said nothing. I cannot recall. I asked her then a question that I perhaps should not have. A question that was politically dicey then, and remains so now. A question that has gnawed at me since I asked it, and has, for periods, driven me into a state not far off from madness. [Janys’s note: Even this buffoon understands!]

“I said, “‘Do you believe it? What the character said? In the monologue?’ 

“‘What do you think?’

“‘I think you chose Theodeyum as your mentonymic.’ 

“‘Well I certainly wasn’t going to take Alfid Ferilynarfaut’s name! Talking me into years of Thengurian nonsense… No, certainly not.’

“‘You know what I mean, though. Deyum. [Ophen Precteldey‘s note: There is perhaps context now lost to us which explains this, but in the absence of a discipline of that number the meaning here is unclear to me. [Janys’s note: Is it, Ophen? Is it?]]

“She sighed, then said, ‘Of all the ways that free will could prove to be an illusion, I can think of worse ones.’ 

“We lay in silence, then, as I considered her words, and Theopanu, I imagine, fell asleep. Several times I felt moved to ask her something, to urge her to elaborate, but I was unable to do so. Something in her tone stopped me—resignation, despondency, I couldn’t identify it then and far too many years have passed for me to speculate anew. I don’t believe Theopanu Theodeyum was a woman who dwelt overmuch on things beyond her control; there was enough that was within her purview to keep her occupied. 

“When I awoke the next morning, she was already downstairs, taking her breakfast in the public room. I joined her and we exchanged some pleasantries, nothing more. She didn’t acknowledge our circumstances, or our conversation the previous night, and I declined to bring them up. I couldn’t help but think of them, though, as I deconstructed one of the inn’s hearty, dark breakfast rolls, peeling away its glossy exterior to reveal the meaty crumb beneath. 

“We were almost halfway to the university before I realized that it was not, in fact Theopanu Theodeyum I was walking with, but her carapace, as she had traveled from the locality at some point prior to me waking up. Her credentials were not expertly-forged at all but genuine, as the body the Simulacrum had created for her in this world was a scholar as well, and so it was simply obeying the dictates of its own circumscribed nature: to head to the university and research. I would learn later that that this was always the case for Theopanu, that in whatever locality she found herself in she would inhabit an academic carapace, a history of degrees and education and expertise created for her the moment she arrived. Whether this was a traveler quirk or evidence of the Simulacrum’s whimsy I doubt anyone can truly say. 

“What this meant in the moment, though, was that she must have believed I was a greater danger than she had let on, and was willing to sacrifice whatever research she had not committed to memory naturally. Knowing her, it may well have been all of it, Calibration unnecessary for a mind as capacious as hers. She no doubt slipped out in the middle of the night because she feared I would do the same, that Kinful Verilar would be unable to move me out of the locality because I had fled to my lover. Which meant she was planning an emergency summon of me, undertaken from Arcalumis territory. I would have no warning, would suddenly find myself back in my own body, within the Carapacological Ward of the University, one second here, the possibility of love still real, the next in a different universe, a familiar one made awful by his absence. 

“I fled, rushing back to town, hoping against hope I would somehow be able to find him, would somehow be able to arrange things to ensure we could find each other again. My mind raced, frantic, trying to conjure from nothing some viable plan and failing, utterly, in the attempt. I felt bereft, even before I was taken away from him, a dread for the loss I knew would come. I resented Theopanu, as well, for her confidence in the wisdom of her analysis and for her inflexibility. I felt no temptation toward betrayal, and could not even imagine a scenario where one would make a shred of sense.

“I didn’t know if he was Burel Hird or Firmāre or even Harraka, and yet it didn’t matter. I wanted only to be with him, right then and forever. The only strategy I had conceived of was wild, foolish: I would have him, or, more accurately, whatever summoner he had with him, mark me. Even if I was summoned back to Arcalumis, they could summon me away again, could summon me to him, whatever world he was in, whatever body. It didn’t matter to me. I simply wanted to be by his side.  

“It was, like I said, foolish. To allow myself to be marked? I might as well have thrown open the Arcalumis vaults or handed over the keys to the Archives. The mischief that could be made if a scholar were to be marked by another society? Unimaginable. That allowing myself to be marked would, of course, constitute the very definition of a betrayal did not occur to me then. Or, perhaps it did and I simply chose to ignore it. I couldn’t say. There was little room for introspection within the clamor of my panic. 

“When I arrived back in town, I first checked the inn he had been staying at but was unsuccessful—he was not there, and the innkeeper would tell me nothing of his clientele. I attempted, clumsily, to bribe him, which may have contributed to his hostility. I headed, then, toward the plaza, my second, and last, hope. It was crowded, and in the center, atop one of the statues in the fountain, a man balanced, shouting, though in the tumult his words were lost. I passed the bakery that had started it all and asked the baker if he had seen the man I had been with, and, when he indicated he had not, asked him if he knew the details of the situation unfolding in the square. 

The circus Theopanu Theodeyum and I had seen earlier had infiltrated the university, or was running some sort of a scam, the baker didn’t fully understand. What was clear, though, was that, through trickery and guile, the university’s provost was now engaged to the circus’s elephant, and this arrangement evidently had legal force. The elephant, and its legal guardians, the circus owners, were now entitled to pursue conjugal reparations should the provost seek to break off the engagement, or half of the man’s estate, should he choose not to. 

“It was the provost in the square, the baker relayed, protesting to all the world that he had no particular fondness for elephants and that any covenant entered into under false pretenses was wholly devoid of legitimacy. To taunt the provost, the circus owners had promised a grand public performance from the betrothed, and from a side street came the sound of the great beast, a glimpse of nuptial blue flashing in reflection from shop windows, lookers-on jostling to see its approach. 

“It was then that I saw him, across the plaza, looking as harried and anxious as I no doubt did. He hadn’t seen me, though, it was clear, and I knew calling out to him would have no effect amidst the chaos. I thanked the baker without shifting my gaze and plunged into the crowd, ducking this way and that to ensure I never lost sight of him. The elephant drew closer and the provost’s denunciations louder, the mass of people in the square sloshing within its confines. Beneath my feet the cobblestones were slick; twice I slipped, but regained balance before I fell. 

“Halfway to him I paused. Behind him were a man and a woman—both seemed out of place. They scanned the crowd just as he did, observing neither the provost nor the circus procession, looking for something else. I stood by the fountain, the provost just above me, perched precariously, his tone that of a man unhinged. He had given up on persuading anyone of the righteousness of his position and was simply repeating variations of, ‘This is absurd!’ and ‘How can you accept this?’ over and over again. 

“I forged ahead, pressing now against the flow of the crowd, shouldering past bodies, pushing through the surge. In the midst of it all there was heat and a potent smell, the perfume favored by many of the locals, not dissimilar from too-sweet coffee, and the pungency of sweat beneath it. I was close to him, not more than a handful of paces away, and with a final stumble I was clear of the worst of the crowd, standing more-or-less alone. At last he saw me, and in the moment we looked at each other whole lifetimes seemed to pass between us. The woman behind him reached into her coat and he called my name, then began to say something else, something I never got to hear. 

“I took another step and found myself washing my hands, the only sound in the restroom the quiet rush of the water in the sink. In the mirror before me was a face—my own. The one you look at now. A hand was on my shoulder and in the mirror I could see the woman it belonged to, a woman I didn’t recognize. The emergency summoner. I was in the Carapacological Ward, the familiar smell of the university’s anise and honey soap in my nose, the walls their soothing, impartial gray. In the corner of the restroom stood Theopanu Theodeyum, her hands over her mouth, and I was able to see the exact moment that fear melted into relief in her face.

“‘Welcome home,’ she said.

“Though I escaped the Thengurian romanti-comic tragedy, I cannot help but think sometimes I am trapped within a story still. How many of my impulses are cultural conventions I’ve simply accepted? How many urges I’ve felt are my true desires and how many are wants I’ve been told I should have? It was easier when I knew I was in a tale. Then, at least, I could be sure I was governed by story. Now, though? Now I know nothing. I can only guess at the narratives which may guide me. I can only wonder at where the border is between myself and the story. And, even when I do feel a hand upon my back, pushing me down one path or another, how can I know if I truly am in a story, or have simply adopted one, forced myself into its shape, yearning for the comfort of its harness? 

“I told you I wasn’t a romantic. How could I be? How could anyone be a romantic, if they’re unsure whether their love is real or manufactured? What cartographer-priest could hope to map the boundary between self and circumstance? None that I’ve met would I entrust with the task. I know it’s possible to be guided by the universe to a place you would not otherwise arrive—I experienced it. Where is that border drawn? What pitiful fiefdom can I claim as my own? Do I own even the words I speak? The thoughts I have? If we are to be honest, must we abdicate even the smallest claim on autonomy? And what must I do to… to recur? I have been haunted every day by the possibility that I escaped the strictures of Thengurian dramaturgy only to arrive in some new composition, one whose rules are both alien and unknown to me. By the possibility that I should be Tace Rhetdeyum. By the possibility that I am authored, just as Theopanu suspected, just as her Thengurian poet proposed. What an awful, liberating, impossible thought, Ruus Hanzendey. What a wonderous calamity. [Janys’s note: If we errata this yesterday it would be too slow. To dredge it up? After all these years? How can it be anything but a direct provocation?] back ↪︎

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Released: June 15th, 2023

Ben Murphy lives in North Carolina with his wife and a small menagerie. Full Bio