Under the sky upon this earth there is a nation that almost covers its continent. It has an ocean to the left and an ocean to the right and many things between. In a certain village in this nation there lived a man who loved the truth.
 
He loved the truth as he might a woman; as real as flesh, as beautiful as a kind thought. (For those to whom it is visible, truth is the most beautiful thing imaginable. Or so I imagine.)
 
He was, by profession a scribe, and by preference a scholar. His school was the truth, and these were his studies.

The truths of birth and death..
The truths of faith and irony.
The truth of war and, rather less often, the truth of peace.
The direct truths of youth and the nuanced truths of age.
The truths of love, and marriage, and similar incongruities.
 


At frequent intervals during his long and intolerable day of scribing, he would glance frequently and covertly at the clock, urging the moment when he might hurry home to his studies. Once there he would spend hours reading and setting down his thoughts. All throughout the night the wet ink flowed and gleamed in the candle glow, and the words grew page upon page.
 
And then he would slump across his desk for the few remaining hours before sunrise. In the morning, before going to scribe another day, he would post what he had written on his door.
 
Then the people would come to read what he had written, feasting on his thoughts and seasoning them with understanding and favor. Often they would repeat certain phrases, passing them among themselves as though they were chocolates. And they believed that which they read, because to those with eyes the truth is always immediately known and called by name. Or so I am told.
 
The scribe was not an equivocal man. He called a hat a hat and a cat a cat. Such precision at times resembled bravery, as when he would comment on the actions of the King; saying the King has done a good thing, or the King has done a bad thing.
 
His courage was thought admirable, for there were stories of some who had suffered for such honesty. But perhaps these were merely tales put about as encouragement to circumspection.
 
In any event, the scribe was lauded for his heroism, though he would characteristically demur: "I cannot honestly say," he would respond, "Whether it is bravery or obsession — or even whether there is a difference."
 
And the days passed.
 
One day the scribe received a large envelope containing a beautifully inscribed letter laid on luxurious parchment. The letter appeared over the King's seal and expressed in neutral though resolute manner the King's desire that the scribe present himself at court the following morning.
 
That night the scribe found it hard to concentrate on any truth other than his apprehension over his looming meeting. He was fairly certain that it was not to be a commendation of his works thus far, and he did what he could to fashion a few explanations that might ameliorate accusation or worse.
 
* * * * *

When he arrived at the palace a courtier escorted him to the greatroom wherein all were received. Immediately a party of palace guards entered from across the room and marched directly toward him.
 
"Oh, boy," he thought, "Here it comes." But the guards marched past him and into another room.
 
His relief was transient. Soon after the King appeared, attended by a covey of retainers. The King sat and beckoned to the Scribe, who approached quickly, preparing himself for what he prayed would be nothing more than mere reproof.
 
To his great surprise, there came none. Instead the King received him with warmth, and bestowed upon him gracious smiles and praiseful introductions to the court. "This," he said, "Is a man to keep us on our toes. I have much to discuss with him today, and I want all to listen closely to what he says."
 
And, with that, the King launched into a thoughtful examination of the issues that most affected his domain, soliciting the scribe's opinions on each, and interrupting frequently to urge his courtiers to "Write that down! Write that down!"
 
By late afternoon they had dispensed with all but the smallest issues, and the King declared a celebration. Whereupon hey proceeded into the dining hall where had been laid a great feast. They celebrated into the night, with all paying fierce attention to the scribe's pronouncements.
 
One especially lovely young woman let him know in many little ways that she might find his attentions agreeable.
 
At last the last glass was filled, the last song sung, the last entertainer endured, and the evening dissipated. But before dismissing the court, the King passed to the scribe a gift of commemoration, a pen.
 
Did I say a pen? I meant to say a magnificent pen, a breathtakingly beautiful pen. Too expertly made to be cheapened with vulgar gems or superfluous adornment of any kind, it was sheathed simply in an iridescent shimmering shell of pearl. Substantial but not unwieldy, perfectly balanced and alive to the touch, it seemed to invite caress.
 
In response to the scribe's stammered gratitude the King assured him that the gift was only such as would suit a man of his perspicacity and talent, and that he was to accept it as a sign of admiration and friendship. Moreover, said the King, it would serve to admit him to the palace on what the King hoped would be many subsequent visits.
 
The scribe had never seen anything as wonderful as his new treasure. During the ride home he took it out and admired it over and over. He felt as if he had been born into a new life.
 
* * * * *

And he did indeed become a frequent and much-admired presence at court. And of his company and his wisdom it would be hard to say which was the more highly prized.
 
And, though it is true that his critiques had little discernible effect upon the actual course of governance, it was certainly not for want of their provision.
 
Word of the scribe's royal friendship was received with great excitement in the village. Rarely did a day go by that he was not feted or otherwise honored. Such celebration of celebrity he found at first discomfiting, then bearable, then expected and, finally, essential.
 
As he better fit his new status, he became more referential of his royal association. At first obliquely: "At court the other day...," then less so: "The King and I think...," or "As I endeavored to inform the King..." And each day his star was higher and brighter than the last.
 
But something was wrong.
 
A little thing at first; a feeling of wispy disquiet, in time it grew into sleepless preoccupation, and eventually he understood: his writing of late lacked some quality that had once made it special, but now left it insipid and flat. This was especially true of his commentaries on the King.
 
There was mystery in this. Whatever he wrote somehow acquired a tenor both opposite and proportional to his intentions. Mild disparagement became subtle commendation. Stern rebuke contorted into fulsome praise. How had he not noticed this before?
 
It occurred to him that since that first day at the palace he had used only the pen given to him by the King. The one, he thought, must have something to do with the other. But was that possible?
 
As an experiment, he took a clean sheet of paper and wrote upon it "The King is bad." A shuddering chill shook through his body as he read what he had written: "The King is good." With racing mind and fear and disgust he flung the pen away as though it were a snake. That night he slept not at all.
 
The next night he went again to the palace. He did not carry the pen. When he arrived, instead of the customary bluff and cheery greeting from the guards at the doors, he was met with stony silence. He could not be certain they actually saw him. So silent and unmoving were they that for a time he wondered if they had been somehow enchanted — a fancy quickly dispelled by the immediate resumption of their customary heartiness as they admitted a boisterously high-spirited party of visitors.
 
As the favored revelers passed through the heavy iron doors the scribe caught a glimpse of the bright conviviality of which he had only recently been a part. Before the doors closed the young woman he had met earlier appeared and looked out in his direction, but seemed not to see him — as though he were not there. As indeed, he realized, he was not.
 
In the cold light that fell upon the once again inanimate guards the scribe imagined a new future; one devoid of delights once unknown but now indispensable. What was he to do? He had shed his old existence and he could not imagine wearing it again. He returned home unsure of continuing his life.
 
In the morning he retrieved the pen.
 
The days passed because that is what they do.
 
He became a different, if not a better, man. "Truth" was now a word he seldom spoke. And when he did, it was to brand it as just another form of lie. The proof of his sincerity in this assertion was evident in his continuing work, all of it misleading King-flattery that subtly proclaimed his own importance and assured him continued access to the life he now craved.
 
It was not that he did not tell the truth, it was that he did not tell enough of it, which was somehow worse than a lie. From this new perspective the King was never wrong, merely more correct on some occasions than others.
 
As all know, truth is an eel that squirms in the mind; one moment grasped, the next not. That is why the truth is almost always a surprise, while a lie by nature and intent is not. A lie is always dull, and that is one way to tell the difference.
 
And so the scribe became dull, and among the dull he became famous. Whereas to those who read more than the words they read he had become a famous liar — as soulless as he was predictable, mocked and unread and believed by no one.
 
But such assessments did not concern the scribe, for he had long since ceased to believe in himself, and when that happens it no longer matters what others think. Or so I believe.