James Maxey - Greatshadow

Until the day of that Final Account, all that we know of the contents of the Book have been learned through prayer. Truthspeakers spend years on their knees in the temple, their faces pressed to the floor, weeping, sweating, laughing, screaming as they plead with the Divine Author to reveal even a few lines of sacred truth to them. After years of effort, the Truthspeakers go out into the world to spread the received revelations.

The Truthspeakers gain certain gifts as a result of their devotion. The most powerful Truthspeakers can see the falsehoods of the world and correct them. For instance, if it’s raining, and a pious Truthspeaker understands that the One True Book foretold that the day would be sunny, he simply tells the sky it’s supposed to be blue. The clouds will part and the sun will come out. This may be hyperbole; I’ve never personally witnessed a Truthspeaker pull off such a feat. But, I have witnessed another magical gift. It’s impossible to lie to a Truthspeaker. Believe me, I’ve tried.

The monks run a vineyard where they produce the sacramental wine used in certain church rites. The wine isn’t intended to be used recreationally, but when I had my first sip at age ten, I appreciated the warmth that spread through me as I swallowed, and wanted more. By age twelve I’d sneak out at night to the pitch dark wine cellars to finish off entire bottles, luxuriating in the mellow heat that spread through my body and washed over my mind in a soothing wave. I’d lie on the frigid stone floor in the darkness and dream of using grandfather’s bone-handled knife to hack away vines from ancient statues in steaming tropical jungles.

Alas, the monks kept meticulous track of their inventory. A Truthspeaker was brought in to investigate the missing gallons. I’d heard from other orphans that you can fool a Truthspeaker if you can fool yourself. You couldn’t lie, but truth wasn’t always black and white. I was certain I’d be asked if I’d stolen the wine, and, technically, I hadn’t. The wine didn’t belong to any one person. It was property of the Church, and I was a member of the Church. It was no more a theft for me to share the wine than it was to drink water from the communal well. I trusted I could slip through this loophole if the Truthspeaker interrogated me.

I remember the moment that I’d been brought into the room where Father Ver waited. He was middle-aged then, his close-cropped dark hair speckled with gray at the temples. His skin was pale from spending most of his life in a cave. There was a large callus in the center of his forehead from decades spent rubbing it against the floor. His eyes were sunk back into his skull, hidden in shadows. The interrogation room was lit by a single candle which sat on the table between us, and the light flickered like twin stars in the void of his eyes.

Despite his stern expression, I walked into the room with a confident swagger. I sat down and faced him, unafraid to meet his gaze. I waited for him to speak to me. Seconds passed and he said nothing. I slid back in my chair, prepared to wait him out, but turned my face away. It was uncomfortable to look at someone so directly without saying anything. As the seconds passed into minutes, I’d glance at him and always find his eyes locked on my face. I began to fidget. I could feel his stare boring into me. I started sweating. My palms were clammy as I wiped away the moisture on my brow. I trembled as I worried he might mistake my discomfort for evidence of guilt. Which was absurd, I reminded myself, since I hadn’t stolen anything. I wanted to tell him this, but my tongue had grown thick in my mouth. If my rubbery limbs had possessed the strength, I would have fled the room. Instead, some horrible internal magnet kept pulling my gaze toward his. I felt as if my face wasn’t truly my own, but was instead a mask I’d all but forgotten I was wearing. The Truthspeaker’s eyes were peeling back that mask to reveal the sinner beneath.

After what felt like hours, he spoke, in a low, gravelly voice. “You are the wine thief.”

I collapsed to the floor, my tongue leaping to life: “Yes! Oh yes! Yes! It’s true! I stole the wine!”

Hot tears erupted from my eyes as I wept, my body wracked with sobs. I was vaguely aware of Father Ver rising and walking around the desk.

“You will stop crying,” he said, standing before me.

Instantly, I stopped. It was like he’d reached in and flicked some unseen switch that commanded my tears. I reached out and hugged his ankles, groveling as I pressed my cheeks against his sandal-clad feet. “Forgive me,” I whispered. “Forgive me.”

“You will stand,” he said.

Though my body felt hollow, gutted by guilt and shame, my muscles moved to obey his words and I rose.

Father Ver frowned. “There’s a weakness in you,” he said. “Unfounded hope is the source. Your grandfather paid you a visit two years ago.”

“Y-yes,” I said, sniffling.

“He filled your head with tales of vanished kingdoms, pygmy tribes, and lost treasures. Seductive visions for a boy your age. You’ve turned your eyes from the path of righteousness and now dream of life outside this monastery.”

I wiped snot onto my sleeve and said, “My g-grandfather is going to t-take me with him next time.”

“We both know this isn’t true,” said Father Ver.

I swallowed hard.

“If your grandfather wanted you, he could have taken you on his last visit. You aren’t our property, boy. We’d welcome one less mouth to feed. The truth is plain; Judicious Merchant loves the jungle more than he loves you.”

I wiped my cheeks and whispered, “He… he said the jungle is too dangerous for a child.”

“Do the pygmies not have children? In any case, your grandfather is a free man, still in possession of remnants of your family fortune. He need not live in a jungle like a savage. He could have raised you in comfort on some modest country estate. His actions show what he truly loves in this world. It isn’t you.”

I dropped to my knees, doubled over, feeling as if I’d been kicked in the gut.

“Your thirst for wine comes from your love of falsehood. In your intoxication, it’s easy to feel as if the dreams you cling to are real. It’s time to let go of your childish embrace of fantasy. Truth will never be found digging among the ruins of failed civilizations. Truth is revealed through prayer and obedience to the church. The great adventure for any man lies not in exploring the ruins of distant jungles, but in navigating the ruins of his own soul. Your soul in particular is a treacherous labyrinth. Your father, mother, and grandfather all live, yet you are an orphan. What a heavy burden, to be so unloved. I understand why your dreams seem more attractive than your piteous reality.”

I dug my nails into my palms, trying to make the pain blot out the words. I sniffled. “H-how can… how can you say such cruel things?”

“It is a measure of your weakness that you mistake truth for cruelty,” said Father Ver. “Within the One True Book, your life has already been written. I know nothing of your future; there is too much contained within the Book for one man to study it all. I have no certainty of your eventual fate, but slaking your blasphemous thirst with sacramental wine is a poor omen. My informed speculation is that one day you’ll die drunk on some distant shore, leaving your bones to rot in an unmarked grave.”

He walked to the door and rang a small bell to summon the monks. He didn’t look at me as he said, “If I were the sole arbiter of your fate, you would be hung. A boy who is a thief will almost certainly grow into a man who is something worse. Alas, the brothers will sanction no punishment more severe than flogging. You will receive ten lashes a day with a braided leather whip for the next seven days.”