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.