Stories Lie by Jonathon Mast

The stories promised, “Care for the land, and the land will care for you.” Shadib went out to the fields. He continued the trench. The sun beat down on him. The dirt did not give way to hoe or shovel. They’d had to sell the oxen last season to provide food for the children. Now it was his muscles or no muscles. The children had offered to help. He’d told them no. Marin had asked to help. He’d told her no. A man is tied to the land. The man cares for the land. The land gives its produce. That was the way of things. That was the land’s promise. The land lies. Shadib flung the hoe at the dirt. Again. Again. Sweat stung his eyes. These fields said they should provide. They did for his brother. His perfect brother. But then his brother died in a flash flood. And Shadib wasn’t good enough. “Your fields lie to you.” He grunted as the hoe bit into the ground, barely breaking the surface. Again. Again. “Care for the land, and it will care for you.” The fields lie. The stories lie. They tied him to the land. It’d be better for everyone if someone better ran the land. It would be so much better for Marin. For the children. “If only the stories could be undone.” Shadib wiped sweat from his eyes. Dust blew from the desolate field. He scanned the hilly horizon, wondering whether he had really heard a voice. He hadn’t even realized someone was speaking out loud, he had concentrated so hard on his work. He spotted a man leaning against the trunk of the withered tree that topped a hill just over there. The voice had sounded much closer. The man wore the simple dark trousers and dirty shirt of many who lived in Cassun. His nondescript features made it hard for Shadib to remember if he’d ever seen the man before. Didn’t matter. He was on Shadib’s land. He dropped the hoe and plucked up the nearby scythe. Neighbors had reported they’d spotted goblins. You could never be too careful. He trudged over the cracked dirt to the man and the dubious shade of the leafless branches. “What brings you to my land?” The man looked confused. “What? No traditional greeting?” “Donara kis. Now, what are you doing on my land?” He smiled. “That’s better. I’m here because the fields lie. Do you hear their promises? They say it should produce a crop. It should be thick with waving wheat. But look at it.” Shadib frowned. He didn’t have to look. “You haven’t answered the question.” “Indeed. I was looking for someone as sick of lies as I am. And I found you.” Shadib’s frown deepened. “You never answered my greeting.” “You’re right.” “They say that only someone touched by dark refuses to answer the greeting.” “That is what they say,” the man answered. “Who are you?” The man stood up, dusting off his legs. “It doesn’t really matter.” “If you’re on my land, you matter to me.” “That much, I’m sure of,” he nodded. “You’re bound to this land, aren’t you? The stories say that a Cassuni can never leave their family’s land, and the stories can’t be ignored. They’re promises that force you to keep them. But I wonder. Would you like to be free, Shadib? Would you like to be free from the lie this story told, that said if you just worked the land, if you were just faithful, you’d have all the grain you needed?” Shadib leaned on his scythe. His useless scythe. He’d used it once since his brother died. He didn’t answer the stranger. “You see, Shadib, the tales bind me, too. I’m tired of it. Maybe, just maybe, between you and me, we might both be free. I just need someone else who wants to be free.” “Who are you?” he asked again. The stranger deflated a little. “Why do you keep on asking that? You’re not going to like the answer. And then you’re going to try and kill me, and it’s just an annoyance, isn’t it?” Shadib narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?” “If you must know, I am Garethen.” “Fieldblighter!” The scythe seemed to come alive in Shadib’s hands. He swung it at the Father of Droughts without thinking. Garethen didn’t even dodge. He simple stood there as the scythe passed through him. He burst into ash that scattered on a sudden wind. Shadib watched as best he could to make sure no cursed ash remained in his fields or were caught in the withered tree’s branches. He was already cursed. He didn’t want to be cursed further.

***

Water. A little bread. Not enough. His brother’s children gobbled what little there was at the table. Marin sweated near the stove. Shadib sat on a wooden chair, bought in better times. When his brother ran the farm. The house had a simple majesty. Wood walls. More than one room. Extravagances on a dying land. He eased back in the chair. He had spent the rest of the day praying. Garethen. Stories said he was the Prince of Goblins. That couldn’t have been him. Of course not. No one really believed those old tales. But what had he seen? What had possessed him to attack the man? He hadn’t even thought about it. It was all reaction. It must have been some dream. Someone knocked at the door.

2 © Jonathon Mast Marin turned and cocked an eyebrow at him. Shadib shrugged. The children grinned. Any visitor was exciting. Shadib grunted as he stood and shuffled to the door. The door groaned as he swung it open. The man who had scattered into ash smiled at him in the light of the setting sun. “Shadib! Good to see you again!” He clapped Shadib on the shoulder. “Aren’t you going to welcome me in?” Shadib stared. The kids crowded around his legs. “Hey! Who is it, Uncle? Whoa, you’re thin! Why are you so handsome? Where do you know Uncle from? Are you a king? He’s not a king, Poleh! Look at him! He’s just some man! But kings can dress up that way when they’re sneaking. Uncle knows kings!” Marin was at his side. “I am sorry. We don’t get many visitors. Donara kis. Who are you?” “Someone that met Shadib today out in the fields,” Garethen answered as he entered the warm room. “We were talking about the tales that bind us.” “Ah, yes. The tales.” Marin glanced at Shadib. “We keep them simple here. An elf passed through the village years ago, gathering as many as he could. There weren’t many. He didn’t stay long.” “I find the simplest tales the strongest.” Garethen shrugged. “You must be Marin. I’ve heard of your beauty.” “Really?” Marin raised an eyebrow again. “I’m guessing you didn’t hear that from my husband’s brother.” Shadib finally blurted, “You’re not welcome here!” “Shadib!” Marin admonished. Garethen raised his hands. “Marin invited me in. I am here now. And I wanted to talk to you more about those tales before you go and, well, dismiss me again. And please don’t. It was quite painful and annoying.” He looked over to the woman. “You see, Shadib here killed me. But I scattered into ash and reformed at my fortress in Ban Maraseth as I always do. And now I’m back. You can’t kill Garethen for good.” He grinned. Marin’s face paled. The children dashed to hide behind Shadib’s legs. “Garethen?” they whispered to each other. Marin glared at Shadib. “You met Garethen on the road?” “Yes. I slew him with my scythe.” “Yes, yes, as I said, quite annoying. But I don’t hold it against you. You see, that’s what the tales say you must do. And those tales, they hold such power, don’t they?” The stranger grinned. “I realize you don’t think they actually have any sway over your lives, but they do. Stories are alive, and they bend us to their will. Think about it. Would you ever kill a man like that? Of course not. Not mighty Shadib, a good and honorable man! But when you heard who I was, you couldn’t control yourself. With one mighty swing, you slew me. And that’s how it goes in all the tales, doesn’t it? Gerethen is revealed, and the hero strikes him down with one blow. And so it was.” Marin slid over behind Shadib. “Or like this. You probably never really thought about me before. Didn’t think I was real. And yet, look at you. The stories say I’m frightening. And so I am.” He paused. “And I am tired of it. Do you know how exhausting it is to be frightening all the time?” At that, Poleh rushed out from behind Shadib’s leg. He snatched the boy. “Let me go, Uncle! Let me get him! You killed him! Now it’s my turn! You can’t let him go! He’s the Dark Lord!” Garethen offered a sad smile. “See? The stories say that the Dark Lord is hated and feared. And

3 © Jonathon Mast that’s what you see here. It’s just all so, well. I admit, it can be amusing at times, but it grows old.” Shadib clutched the boy, who continued to struggle against him. Garethen stood and paced to the oven and gazed at the glowing cinders within. “I’m tired of it. I’m tired of being chained by these tales. And so are you, Shadib. That’s why I came to you today. The stories say a Cassuni man will work his family’s land. You don’t want to be here. But the tales tie you to the land. You couldn’t leave if you tried. The tales would conspire to keep you trapped here.” Shadib didn’t answer. Poleh finally gave up the struggle but glared at the visitor. “But I’ve come up with a delicious solution for both of us, Shadib. We can escape the tales that bind us. So, I want to offer you a choice. I give it freely. You may choose to take it, or you may choose to reject it. I will return tomorrow evening. I want you to think about how much you wish you could leave this land. How much you desire to be free. And consider what you would pay to be rid of this forsaken land.” And with that, he walked out of the house. In the distance, thunder boomed in a dry sky.

***

“Uncle, did you really kill him? Are you going to kill him again tomorrow? How could he come back? Why didn’t you let me attack him? Because Garethen’s the Lord of Death, stupid. You can’t really kill him! Uncle? Is he right? Do you want to leave?” The children tumbled over themselves. Shadib, though, sagged against the wall. Garethen was right. He’d give anything to leave. Marin collapsed into the chair. She breathed heavily. “Children. Lie down.” “But we can’t sleep! We want to hear about Uncle slaying Garethen! Is it his fault the land is so bad? Is Uncle really going to leave? Are goblins going to attack? Can we use swords?” Marin’s face took on a blank expression and she stared at the children. They scurried to the back of the little hut, taking off their work clothes and scrambling into nightshirts to lie down on their straw pallets. Their old straw pallets. Straw should have been replaced. Beautiful house. No money to maintain it. No money to get the children what they should have. Not enough straw growing to provide fresh mattresses. Shadib’s hands couldn’t work this land. Marin watched them go. As soon as they were lying down, she heaved herself to stand. “Shadib. We need to walk.” Shadib nodded. They exited the house, closing the door behind them. Marin led the way up one hill to a stunted tree. “There. The children won’t be able to hear us,” she said. “Now, you want to tell me what happened today?” Shadib shrugged. “A stranger tried talking to me. He wouldn’t tell me who he was. When I insisted, he told me he was Garethen. And I slew him with my scythe, just like he said.” “And you didn’t tell me why?” “I didn’t think Garethen was real.” He turned away. “Is he right about you? Do you wish you weren’t here?” Shadib didn’t meet her eyes. “So he’s right.” She looked toward the fading sunset. “This was your father’s land. You’re tied to it. You can’t leave.”

4 © Jonathon Mast Shadib shrugged. “Why do you want to go?” He breathed in. “I shouldn’t be here.” “You’re right. Your brother should be here. My husband should be here. But he’s not. And now the land calls to you.” She looked like she was about to say more, but she closed her mouth. Shadib gazed over the fields in the failing light. “What if it didn’t?” he asked. “What would you do?” “I would go. I would leave you in peace.” “You would find no peace without the land.” He pressed his lips together. “Do you want me to stay?” “What I want doesn’t matter.” Her words came quickly. He turned to Marin. “Yes. It does.” “If what I wanted mattered, I never would have married your brother.” Her eyes searched his. He held her gaze for just a moment. “I’m staying,” he said. “Garethen is the Lord of Drought. Making a deal with him, no matter how attractive, is a bad idea.” “But you’re thinking about it anyway.” He shook his head. “We should go back. The children are probably ripping the place apart.” “We didn’t decide anything.” “What is there to decide?”

***

Shadib went back out to the fields. What else was there to do? The trench had to be dug. The hoe struck the ground again. Again. Sweat dripped down as he poured his life into this land. As he worked to pull a better life from it. A thousand times he swung the hoe. A thousand times a little dirt moved. Harder. Put in more strength. Put your back into it! But he and the land were still lying to each other. The wooden handle of the hoe shattered. Splinters flew in every direction. Shadib screamed. Everything he touched broke. Everything he cared for fell apart. Maybe he should make the deal with Garethen. After all, he couldn’t make things any worse. And whatever tragedy Garethen brought on him, he deserved.

***

When the sun wasn’t far above the horizon, Shadib turned toward home. He stripped and trudged into a small pond. The water was low, but still sufficient to rinse himself of the worst of the dirt and sweat. Marin had left a clean shirt for him at the water’s edge. Clean, he came to the house. His brother’s house. The house his parents had lived in. And their parents before them. His blood, surely. But he didn’t belong here. This was a home for successes. He stood outside, staring at the door. The pale wooden frame glowed in the last rays of light. Inside, he heard the children clattering. “It’s a good home. You belong here.”

5 © Jonathon Mast He turned. Marin stood at the corner of the house. She approached him. “This is your house,” she said. “This isn’t my land.” “It is now. And your brother has been dead over three years now. Long past the time of my mourning.” They gazed into each other’s faces. Shadib swallowed. “We have a guest coming.” “He is not welcome.” “He will come anyway.” “Yes. I will.” Standing about ten paces away, Garethen smiled at them. “And even on time. I don’t lie about everything. Or much of anything, really. And now, it’s time to talk about stories, isn’t it?”

***

Marin sent the children outside. “You may not return until you’ve captured fifty glow-beetles,” she commanded. They went out with much complaining. They also begged Shadib to kill Garethen again so they could watch this time. Poleh offered to do it himself. The visitor was much amused by this request. “Do you ask your uncle to kill everyone who comes?” “No one ever comes.” The children trudged out the door. Marin watched until they were at the top of the nearest hill. She shut the door and turned to the men. “Now. You’re here. Say whatever it is you have to say,” she said to Garethen. He nodded. “Shadib, you are trapped by the stories. They say you need to be a strong man and make the land produce for you and for your brother’s family. They wind their chains around your limbs so you don’t even see other choices. And if you chose to disobey the stories, they would be fierce in their retribution. “Marin, you are trapped by the stories. They say that a woman who loses her husband must mourn for him for years and years. You’d rather move on. You learned to love your husband, yes, but you’ve been alone long enough. And there’s even a man here you love, and who loves you.” Shadib’s eyes shot to Marin. She looked down and reddened. “Ah, but the stories. They say that you must remain celibate. No romance for you. So though you long for something else, you cannot. The stories chain your actions.” Outside, distant thunder rumbled. “And me? Well, I’m sick of being the Dark Lord. Everything I do must be evil. The tales tell it so, and so it must be. My goblins prepare for another attack. I’m scheming for ways to conquer this land. And as always, I am doomed to failure. It’ll look like I’m finally going to win, when an unlikely hero will rise, figure out some weakness in my plan, and slay me. That’s the way it always is. “Aren’t you sick of the stories?” Garethen allowed the question to linger in the air. “You’re not the only ones, you know. People all over these fields are tired of being forced to do things the way the stories say. They don’t even know what they’re rebelling against. They might think they’re fighting tradition or family or obligations, but really, they’re all fighting stories. “What if there was a way to tell our own stories?” Shadib’s mouth was very dry. He gazed at Marin again. She still didn’t meet his gaze. He looked over

6 © Jonathon Mast to the Dark Lord. “You have a way for us to escape the stories?” “Alas, no. You can never escape stories completely. You humans are a storied race. But you could tell your own. I have the ability to give you that choice.” “Your deals always come with a price.” “They do.” Garethen nodded. “And I present the deal to you in full clarity. There must always be a Dark Lord.” He grinned. “But it doesn’t have to be me.” Shadib gripped the table. “You want me to become the Dark Lord?” “Every story has a bad guy. I am tired of failure and lies. Exhausted, as I said yesterday. But if there was someone else, I could step down from my role.” “What do I get out of it?” “We trade stories. It’s just that simple. I become a farmer. I don’t have to lie to anyone but myself. You become the Dark Lord. You lead the goblin armies as you see fit. You are the nightmare that haunts people’s dreams. And you get to disrupt other people’s stories. For instance, if you wish to claim a bride...” Garethen let the idea float in the air. “Why us?” Marin blurted. “Because you’re also tired of your stories.” “You said many people are sick of their stories. They’re sick of the chains. What makes us special?” Garethen offered a sad smile. “I cannot see the future, but I notice patterns in the stories. The time for another great battle approaches. Shadib, you have been chosen to take part in that battle. You will likely die. That is how the stories go, isn’t it? The man is called to battle. He finally confesses his love for the woman the night before he leaves, and she her love for him. They part, planning to marry when he returns. And unless he is the great unlikely hero, he will die before he returns.” Marin paled. “If Shadib doesn’t take your offer, he’ll die?” “Oh, not by my hand, I assure you. At least not directly. I told you that at any given moment, I’m planning the next attack on your lands. Should my plans come to fruition, and the stories will make sure that it at least appears they will, you will be called to battle. And there, yes, you will die. Your part will be important, Shadib, but it ends in death. And Marin will be left alone. And this time the stories would certainly keep her alone forever. No second chance.” Shadib looked down at the table, over at Marin, back to Garethen. “How long do I have to think?” “I need an answer tonight, I suspect. The stories are already crawling at the edge of my mind.” Distant thunder rumbled again. “They don’t like I’ve called attention to them, you see. I don’t think I’ll be able to return here in such a friendly manner. The tales will find some way to keep me away.” Shadib stood. “I need to take a walk. I need to think.” “Certainly. I would expect nothing less from you. Go. Attack that ditch you were digging before. It might help clear your mind. Shall I wait here with Marin?” “No,” Marin said, standing. “I’m going with him.”

***

They walked beside each other. The nearly full moon cast silver light on fields of dirt. Despite the sounds of thunder before, the sky was clear. Somewhere in the distance they heard the children shout and laugh. They didn’t speak. Shadib looked around at the fields. If he stayed here, it was a death sentence. Even if Garethen lied

7 © Jonathon Mast about the stories, they would starve. He was no farmer. And Marin. She deserved so much better. She shouldn’t be alone. But if he became the Dark Lord? What then? Would he have to lead goblin armies? He would be just as trapped in stories; just different stories. He would fail over and over again to conquer human lands. But then, that would be good. He wouldn’t really want to destroy them. Could he turn this to good? Something grabbed his hand and he jumped. It was Marin. She held his hand. She didn’t look at him, but her arm extended to his. It felt right. Could he take his brother’s wife? Would that be right? He shouldn’t. The stories said that a woman should mourn for far longer. A good strong woman and a good strong man were a match, and once that match was broken, there was no hope for either to find another match. And even if that weren’t true, Marin should have better. Someone who could actually care for her. Someone who could actually tend the land. He pulled his hand back. She held on tighter. “Shadib, I choose you. You have been good and honorable. You haven’t once forced yourself on me or taken advantage of me. I want to be with you.”

***

They trudged back into the house. Garethen sat cross-legged on the floor. The children sat before him, eyes wide. For once they were silent. “And then, those vicious creatures said that they weren’t going to follow me anymore. Can you imagine it? But the leader said, ‘I am an albino goblin! And the vows of the green goblins mean nothing to me!’ And then he struck and killed me. Such ungrateful beasts!” The children cheered. “Oh, yes, cheer when poor old Garethen winds up dead. I see how it is.” He half-turned to see Shadib and Marin at the door. “They really hate me.” “You are the Lord of Lies,” Marin answered. “Well, yes, but that’s beside the point. Do you know how much it hurts when every child hungers for your death? Always out to kill the Dark Lord.” Poleh spat. “Stop trying to conquer our lands. Stay in the Black Sands.” “Yes. Well, then we get to the stories. They say I must be evil and a constant threat. And so I am trapped.” He shrugged. “But it was nice to tell a story to someone who doesn’t bow and scrape. Goblins are useful for many things, but intelligent conversation is not one of them.” The children mobbed Marin. “Mommy, Mommy, he’s so funny! Can we keep him? Can we kill him? Uncle, will you kill him again for us? Is he really that bad? No, he’s not that bad. He told us a story! But it was a story where the bad guy was a good guy. Can that be right?” Apparently, it was time to chatter again. Garethen stood. “Have you considered my offer? If you won’t take it, I must away to initiate several plans. Even a Dark Lord can only be one place at a time.” Shadib and Marin exchanged glances. He pressed his lips together. Finally, he said, “I’ll do it. I’ll be

8 © Jonathon Mast the Dark Lord.” “Splendid!” Garethen extended a hand. “All you have to do is shake to finalize the deal. You’ll be Lord of the Black Sands and all who live and die there. I relinquish my claim on them. I allow the stories to bind me to this land, to work it until I am no more.” Shadib looked at the hand. It was just a hand. Garethen didn’t have talons. He didn’t have dried cornstalks for fingers, as he’d been taught when he was young. It was just a hand. Just a plain, ordinary, human hand. Shadib took the hand. He shook it. Thunder shook the house. Rain burst outside. Marin ran to the door and peaked out. “What’s happening?” Garethen, though, laughed. “Oh, the stories don’t like this. They don’t like being cheated of the way things are supposed to be. Thank you, Shadib. Thank you so much!” He kissed the man full on the lips. Shadib spat. He turned to Marin. “Now the stories won’t stand against us. And I’m not nothing anymore. I’m someone. And I won’t use the goblins to conquer anyone. I’ll send them west. Far, far west, where they’ll never bother another person again. Let’s see the stories fight that!” Thunder boomed again. The house shook under a sudden battering of wind. Garethen grinned. “Oh, you truly make them angry. That’s not what a Dark Lord is supposed to do!” Marin shrunk from Shadib. The children ran and hid. “What’s wrong?” Shadib stretched out his hands to them. Garethen plunked himself at a table. “So, I suppose I should figure out how to plant seed, huh? It’s been a long, long time since I’ve done any farming. Oh? The family? Don’t mind them. It’s part of the whole Dark Lord thing. They fear and hate you now.” “What?” “They’ll probably try to kill you.” “But they’re my family! I’ve taken care of these children for three years! And Marin. Marin!” Another burst of thunder. The ceiling braces groaned. Marin stared at him. “Shadib. What happened to you?” Poleh grinned. “Can I kill you now?” The house collapsed. Shadib panicked. Weight pressed down on him. Wood and dust and so much dust and lumber. He pushed up through wooden planking and shingles and so more dirt and dust and finally he dragged himself up out of the rubble. The house was gone. Rain pelted him so very hard. His hands were bloody. He thought Dark Lords were supposed to be invincible. And there were the children pulling themselves from the rubble. Good. They were safe. But Poleh raised up a scythe from the destruction. “Uncle! You’re evil! You can’t be evil!” The scythe fell.

***

9 © Jonathon Mast Garethen dragged himself from the rubble and felt all the patterns of the stories reforming around him. “Ah. So I can’t cast off my title so easily, can I?” He looked down at Shadib’s corpse. “You know I’ll get the blame for this. I was actually trying to save you. I was trying to do something right for once. But the stories won’t let me, will they? As long as there are stories about a Dark Lord, they’re going to force me into evil. And they won’t let someone else take the title.” The storm raged around him. “Fine. I guess I’m the Dark Lord as long as there are stories.” He paused to consider. He smiled. Thunder boomed. And a woman stood behind him with a scythe. “You killed him!” Garethen spun. “Oh, no. It was the stories. Believe me.” “We would have been happy if you hadn’t come!” “Yes, yes, I’m evil. Go ahead and kill me. My ash will form back at my fortress and we can all get on with things.” The stories make promises. Make a deal with the Dark Lord, and it ends badly for you. And, as always, the unlikely hero slays Garethen. And so, Marin slew him. Stories always keep their promises.

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