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Previously: Deshawn and his mom, declared prophets rather than witches, are cut free from the stake. However, the Merry Men arrive and cause chaos by trying to save them from the sheriff's men.
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Deshawn hid in the underbrush as the dragon set the rest of the forest ablaze. Trillions of genre-possessed neurons across the festival's attendees were simulating the flames, and so Deshawn could feel not only their light, but also their heat. He gripped his knees, sweating, shuddering.
Overhead, the dragon beat its wings, circling, its imaginary voice continuing to bellow, "...Emerge, young sojourner, and hear my charge! For destiny's winds call thy name. Fear not, for I bring a quest of valor and truth, a journey that shall test thy mettle and unveil thy true strength. Heed my call, brave one, for fate awaits thy answer! I do seek thee for a purpose most glorious and..."
Gran was up there too, in the sky. He knew he should look up at her, but he couldn't stop moving his head from side to side. Deshawn shook his head, trying to rid himself of images, even though he knew it wouldn't work. The images of actors pierced by arrows. The image of his mom, wailing, carried off by the wizard's companions, the Merry Men. The image of the knights, chomped on by the dragon. At least this last image had been hallucinatory. He was pretty sure those guys in knight costumes were still alive. But he was also pretty sure that those other guys struck by arrows were dead. The blood had been too well-rendered to be all in his head.
There was a sound in the distance: a siren. A firetruck's siren! Presumably it was here to handle the parts of the fire that were real. The sound was something to orient towards. He rose from plants he been hiding in and set in that direction.
It wasn't long before he heard the voice of an old woman. "Little boy! Wait!"
Deshawn slowed down. The woman came beside him and caught her breath. She walked, hunched, beside him, her hand wobbling as her walking stick pressed into the ground.
"Little boy––"
"I'm 15."
"And I am lost, little boy! Like you, I flee the dragon's fires. Would you help an ancient soul find her way out of the dark forest?"
Deshawn glanced in her direction. The old woman was covered in tattered cloth. It was difficult to make out her face.
"What archetype are you?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I mean, like, what medieval fantasy trope are you playing?"
Deshawn knew that while some crone archetypes were safe, others were not. The wise hermit, for example, would probably do him no harm. But the wicked hag might try to eat him.
"I'm sorry, young lad. I understand not your words."
"Are you a wicked hag?"
"My, my! Your locution cuts me like a sharp wind! But indeed, some have called me wicked, flung pebbles at my shadow, scorned the earth beneath my feet. They curse me not for my deeds, but for the blood that runs through my veins, for it sings of ancient roads and moonlit secrets. Yea, they hate what they do not understand, and so they hate my kind."
"Right, what kind is that?"
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"I am but one of the wandering gypsies."
"Gypsy. OK, thanks, got it."
He knew what his mom would have to say about the ethnic stereotyping of gypsies. He also knew that he had to be careful. He was dealing with the old gypsy woman archetype, which – in America – actually had more to do with mythology than ethnicity. If the old gypsy liked you, she might grant you a magical amulet. If she didn't, she might hex you for life. Of course, there were no such things as magical amulets and hexes, but that didn't mean this gypsy couldn't mess with him on a psychosomatic level.
Deshawn had read a theory about this stuff on forums. The theory was that archetypes were useful for organizing society. Or – what was the word?...adaptive. Over thousands of years, the groups that didn't use archetypes all died out (or got killed by other groups more likely). The ones that did use archetypes survived. And so the theory was that the human unconscious came pre-programmed to respond to archetype-related stuff in automatic ways.
That meant that if a witch like an old gypsy cursed you – even if you were a super rational dude – some part of you might really believe it. And then you'd start acting in ways that fit with being cursed, like making yourself sick or making bad decisions and stuff like that.
Deshawn didn't want to bet that he was immune to this effect...because he wasn't immune to most effects. More like the opposite.
So he assessed the danger. There were no other brains around to act as amplifiers for the gypsy's memetic effects, so that was good. But, on the other hand, Deshawn had also taken in a fair amount of fantasy media in his life – movies, novels, games – lots of stuff that included the gypsy archetype. So that was bad.
What were the other variables? What was it that he'd read? Oh, charisma. Charisma could increase the power of archetypical effects but he didn't really know how to tell whether someone was charismatic or not.
He must have been moving away from the gypsy, because she said, "You wouldn't leave an old lady to wander the forest on her lonesome, would you?"
Deshawn looked up at his gran. Gran smiled down, filling Deshawn with a tender glow. This lady was sorta like her. Even if she was possessed by a gypsy archetype, Deshawn couldn't just leave her alone in the woods.
He could take precautions. Precautions... Oh right: Deshawn already proven that modern language could counteract genre-possession. He could just use it again, but for himself.
He came up with an extreme modernity mantra: gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton. He began to say the mantra over and over in his head:
gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton
gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton
gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton
It had a memorable rhythm.
The woman noticed his new mental noise. She held up a gnarled finger. "You have some strange thinkings going on in there, young lad.
He didn't answer. The best thing to do would be to just keep walking towards the sirens in silence.
The woman stared up past the canopy, where the dragon was still swirling. "Say, that great creature yapping up above. It's wouldn't happen to be yapping about you, would it?" She must have felt a hint of his recognition. "Aye, the creature is yapping about you! Well, well...how interesting.... You must be destined for great things. My, to have such a majestic beast with a stake in your fate.... Won't you accept its quest?"
"No," said Deshawn, assuring himself that it would be fine to answer as long as he kept the mantra going:
gender-fluid internet Obama reggaeton
"And you haven't accepted a quest from the wizard either?"
Trepidation shot through Deshawn. "How do you know about that?"
"Oh, us old magical folk, we wander around and meet each other on a dusty road here or there."
"Do you know where he is? That wizard and his people are holding my mom hostage. Maybe my dad too."
"Hostage, you say? I much doubt that. He seemed a kindly old gentleman to me––"
"If you know where my parents are, please tell me. Do you know where they are?" Deshawn felt bad for interrupting an old lady, but he was scared for his folks.
"Hmm, can't say I know off the top of my head, but––ah...hmm..."
"But what?"
"There are higher powers that may know. Spirits. Ancestors. Divinities." Her eyes suddenly rolled back into her head. "Yes, the powers inform me that they have an answer to your question."
Deshawn knew what came next. If indulging this woman's archetype was what he needed to do to find his mom and dad, then so be it.
"Fine. I guess you have some sort hut around here, or, like, one of those wagon houses? Or maybe a cave?"
The woman looked around. She squinted. "Hmm. Yes, I recognize these trees. In fact, I do believe my shack is over yonder."
"Right, a shack. OK, we can go there."
The woman gave him a toothy smile. "Wonderful."
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Next release: The old crone is not what she seems.
Read ahead at Psychofauna.com