The Translator Who Stayed Too Long: A Parable about Outsourced Voice
By Jereme Peabody
The explorer was named Arin, though he had not spoken his name aloud in weeks.
He had grown up between river towns, where accents bent like reeds and words often missed their mark.
As a child he learned to listen first, then speak carefully, and even then his meaning sometimes arrived late. He would need a translator in order to go further.
Arin hired a translator from the Border Hills market square.
The man was slight, patient, and carried a leather book with no writing on its pages.
He was asked only to walk beside Arin and to listen.
I can speak for myself, mostly, Arin said.
The translator smiled and nodded.
I will only smooth the edges, he said. I will keep your meaning intact.
At the first village, the translator leaned in when Arin spoke, then repeated his words more gently.
The greetings sounded warmer. The pauses were well placed. People nodded and invited Arin inside.
At night, by the fire, Arin felt lighter. Doors had opened without effort. He had not needed to repeat himself.
The next day, Arin asked a question at the toll bridge. Arin began to speak and tried to use the same cadence as the translator. His words stumbled. The translator finished the thought for Arin.
Arin did not try again.
That was helpful, he said later. The translator bowed slightly.
Your words were clear, the translator replied. I only smoothed out the edges so others could hear it.
They crossed fields and forests.
Each evening the translator offered to practice, repeating Arin's words back to him in improved form. The phrases returned sounded far wiser than Arin remembered forming them.
They came upon a town of glassmakers.
A fair woman asked Arin where he was from. Arin answered the best he could and the translator gave his words voice.
She turned to the translator instead of Arin.
He has walked far, the translator said. He is thoughtful and careful with his words.
Arin felt proud, though he was not sure why.
Later, alone, Arin tried speaking the sentence again. They came out tangled.
He cleared his throat and tried once more, shaping the sounds as he had heard them.
They did not hold.
At the mountain pass, the winds were loud. Fearing being misunderstood, Arin suggested the translator speak for him entirely. It was easier that way, he said, to be heard above the noise.
The translator agreed.
And the translator’s voice carried across the stone.
Everyone listened.
It sounded calm and certain.
That night, Arin dreamed of echoes chasing one another through a long hall. Each echo was smoother than the last.
In the city of banners, Arin stood before a council. They asked him why he had come.
Arin opened his mouth
and the translator spoke.
The council nodded. Questions followed, and the translator answered them all, weaving Arin's story into something balanced and complete.
Arin watched his own hands. They were steady.
At the journey's end, the road narrowed into a single path leading to a quiet gate.
Only explorers were allowed beyond it.
No companions.
The translator stopped walking.
This is where I wait, he said kindly.
The gatekeeper looked at Arin.
State your purpose, he said.
Arin inhaled. The words waited, distant and unshaped.
The translator stepped forward.
We have walked far, he said calmly.
We have learned how to speak so others will listen.
The gate did not close behind the translator as he continued down the path.
Arin watched his own feet. They did not move.