Shield of Thunder

CHAPTER EIGHT LORD OF THE GOLDEN LIE

Banokles was still grumbling as they climbed the cliff path, but Kalliades closed his mind to it. Thoughts of Piria were troubling him. Banokles was right. He did like her. There was something about the tall, slender woman that touched him deeply. She was proud, strong, and defiant, though it was her loneliness that affected him most, and he sensed in her a kindred spirit.

Yet why was there such a price on her head? He already knew she was not a slave, but she was a runaway. Odysseus had said that the bounty on her was many times greater than that on Banokles and himself. If that was true, it must have been set by a rich king. And she could not have come far in that small sailboat. He thought of the lands and major islands round about. Odysseus was king of Ithaka and the islands around it, and Nestor was lord of Pylos. On the mainland far to the west there was Sparta, but that was now ruled by Menelaus, brother of Agamemnon, and he was as yet unmarried. And she could not have come that far, surely. Idomeneos, the king of Kretos, was here, and he obviously knew nothing of the runaway woman. If he had, he would have recognized Piria as he had walked past her to the campfire.

Then he remembered the great temple. They had sailed past a large island, and on the cliff top he had seen an astonishing sight: what appeared to be a colossal horse, staring out to sea. He had learned from the pirates it was the Temple of the Horse, built with King Priam’s gold. “An island of women,” one of the crewmen had told him, “all princesses or girls of noble birth. I wouldn’t mind a few days there, I can tell you.”

“No men at all—not even soldiers?” Banokles had asked.

“Not a one.”

“Then why isn’t it raided?”

The man had looked at Banokles scornfully. “The high priestess is Mykene, and the women are all daughters of kings. An attack on Thera would bring galleys from every city-state and every kingdom in pursuit of vengeance. They’d scour the seas until the last pirate vessel was burned. No one goes near Thera.”

Kalliades paused in his walk up the hill. Banokles looked at him. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking.”

Piria had to have come from Thera. Kalliades knew little about the temple there, but Banokles had been interested and had questioned the pirates about it. As they walked, he said, “You recall that island we passed, with the horse temple?”

“Of course. An island of women.” Banokles grinned. “Be good to be shipwrecked there, I think. Gods, you’d never want to be rescued, would you?”

“Probably not. Do the women ever leave the place? To get married or go home?”

“I don’t know. No, wait! There was a girl last season, someone said. Sent off to Troy. That’s it! Sent to marry Hektor. Don’t recall her name. So yes, they must be allowed to leave.” Banokles walked on, then stopped. “Although somebody else said that a girl some years back was killed for leaving without permission. Why are you interested?”

“Just curious.”

They crested the cliff and saw Odysseus walking down the path on the other side, the pig ambling beside him. He was heading toward a beach where four ships had been drawn up.

Kalliades scanned the area. There were close to two hundred men on the beach. In the bright light of their campfires he could see that some of them bore wounds. Others were eating and drinking. “I think they are the pirates who attacked King Idomeneos,” he said.

“Then why is he going down to them?” Banokles asked. “You think he knows them?”

“Could you recognize a man at this distance?”

“No.”

“And the ships bear no markings. I do not think he knows them.”

“Then it is madness,” Banokles said. “They’ll kill him—and take that golden belt. And they’ll eat the pig,” he added.

“I agree, and Odysseus must know that, too. He is a clever man, and he has a plan,” Kalliades said. “And by all the gods he has nerve!”

Banokles muttered a foul oath. “You are thinking of following him down there, aren’t you? What little luck we have left is in a pot, and you are about to piss in it.”

Kalliades laughed. “You go back, my friend. I have to see how this plays out.” He moved on. After a few moments Banokles caught up to him, as he had known he would. The big man walked alongside him, saying nothing, his expression set and angry.

Kalliades saw Odysseus glance back, but he did not wait for them. He and Ganny went on, then strolled along the beach. Several pirates looked up, then nudged their comrades. A crowd gathered, staring at the odd sight of an ugly man in a gold belt and a pig in a yellow cloak. Odysseus walked on, apparently unconcerned by the interest.

Kalliades and Banokles were some twenty paces behind him when a lean figure stepped away from a fire and stood in Odysseus’ path.

“Whoever you are, you are not welcome here,” the man said.

“I am welcome anywhere, donkey face,” responded the Ugly King. “I am Odysseus, king of Ithaka and lord of the Great Green.” He looked past the insulted man and called out. “Is that you, Issopon, skulking by the fire? By the gods, why has no one killed you yet?”

“Because they can’t catch me,” replied a burly warrior with a black and silver beard. Heaving himself to his feet, he walked out to face Odysseus. He did not offer his hand but stood alongside the lean pirate who had first spoken. “I did not know you were in these waters.”

“The Penelope is on the next beach,” Odysseus told him. “As you would have known had you the wit to put out scouts. You boys look as if you’ve been in a fight, but since I hear no singing or bragging, I guess you lost it.”

“We did not lose,” the first man snapped. “It is not over yet.”

Odysseus turned and stared at the four galleys on the beach. “Well, you didn’t fight the Xanthos,” he said, “for I see no fire damage on your vessels.”

“The Xanthos is not sailing this season,” Issopon told him.

“You are wrong, my friend. I saw its black horse sail only yesterday. But no matter.” Walking to a nearby sailor, Odysseus leaned down and lifted the man’s jug of wine from the sand. Raising it to his lips, he drank deeply.

The silence grew, and Kalliades felt the tension within it. No one seemed to have noticed his arrival with Banokles. All eyes were on the Ugly King. For his part, Odysseus seemed utterly relaxed. He drank a little more, then patted Ganny, who slumped down beside him.

“Why is the pig in a cloak?” Issopon asked.

“I’d like to tell you,” Odysseus answered, “but poor Ganny here is embarrassed by it.”

“It was the Witch Queen, wasn’t it?” someone called out.

“Should never stare at a witch’s tits,” Odysseus agreed. “No matter how beautiful they are. No matter how plump and inviting. Ganny knew this. We all knew it. But when that cold wind blew and her nipples pushed out against the gold of her dress… well, it was just too much for the boy.”

“Tell us!” another man called out. That was followed by a chorus of entreaties. The noise startled Ganny, who lurched to his feet.

“Can’t do that, lads. Ganny here would die of shame. But I can tell you a tale of piracy and a fleece that rained gold, and a man with no heart, and a woman of such purity and beauty that wherever she trod, flowers sprang up about her feet. You want to hear it?”

A great roar went up, and the pirates settled down on the sand in a great circle around him. Kalliades and Banokles sat down among them, and Odysseus began his tale.

For Kalliades the time spent on that beach was a revelation. It was an evening he would never forget. Odysseus’ voice deepened, the sound almost hypnotic, as he told the story of a voyage many years before. He spoke of storms and omens and a magical mist that shrouded the ship as they sailed close to the coast of Lykia. “I was younger then, almost a boy,” Odysseus told them. “The ship was the Bloodhawk, captained by Praxinos. You might remember the name.”

Kalliades saw some of the older men nod. “Aye,” continued Odysseus, “the name lives on, usually in whispers on cold winter nights. He was a man possessed, for he had heard of the Golden Fleece, and it haunted his dreams and his waking.”

No one spoke as Odysseus told his tale. Not a man moved, not even to add fuel to the fires. Kalliades closed his eyes, for the words of the storyteller were forming pictures in his mind. He could see the sleek black ship and its blood-red sail and almost feel the coldness of the mist settling around it as the wind died.

“Now, the fleece had a strange history,” Odysseus said. “As many of you will know, there are men who use fleeces to collect gold in the high mountains of the east. They lay them down under gushing streams, and the gold dust and fragments cling to the wool. But this fleece was different. A wise old woman once told me that it came from a changeling, half man and half god. One day, as he was being hunted by angry men, he changed himself into a ram and sought to blend himself into a flock of sheep. However, the shepherd boy saw him and alerted the pursuers. Before he could change back, they fell upon him with swords and knives. Not a man among them wanted to eat the cursed meat, but the shepherd boy skinned the carcass and sold the fleece to a man hunting gold. And that, lads, was where the legend began. He journeyed into the mountains, found a likely stream, and laid the fleece below the water. Soon it began to shimmer and glisten, and by dusk it was so laden with gold that it took all the man’s strength to draw it clear. And that was only the beginning. He hung the fleece to dry and then began to brush the gold from it. He brushed and he brushed. Four small sacks he filled, yet still the fleece glimmered like stolen sunshine. All the next day he brushed and he brushed. Eight more sacks were filled. And yet the fleece was still full. Having no more sacks, he carefully rolled the fleece and sat back, wondering what to do. Other men began to come down from the mountain, complaining that all the gold was gone. Not a speck of dust remained. The man was no youngster, and he was not consumed by greed. He took his sacks down into the valley and used his gold to have a house built and to acquire horses and cattle. He bought a wife and settled down to a life of quiet plenty. He had a son, a beloved son, a child whose laughter echoed in the valleys like springtime. One day the son was struck down with the plague. The man was in despair, for the boy, who was the sun and moon to him, was dying. A workman on his farm told him of a healer who lived in a mountain cave, and he journeyed there, bearing his son upon his back.”

Odysseus paused and lifted the jug of wine to his lips, drinking deeply. Even in the silence the spell of his story continued. No one moved. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he told them of the woman in the cave. “Young she seemed, and beautiful, serene as the sunset. She gazed on the dying boy with eyes of love and laid a slender hand upon his brow. Then, with a low sigh, she closed her eyes and drew in a long, deep breath. All fever left the child, and his eyes opened. He smiled at his father. So great was the father’s relief that he returned to the woman later and gave her the magical fleece.

“Now, Praxinos had heard this story, and he was determined to find the cave, the woman, and the fleece of everlasting gold. Others had tried, it was said, but none had succeeded. For the woman was so pure that no man with even a speck of goodness within him could bring himself to cause her harm. This did not concern Praxinos, for there was nothing inside him but bitterness and bile. He would have the fleece and kill the woman. This he vowed. One of the crewmen told me he even made a blood pledge to the darkest of the old gods, Kephelos the Devourer, the black-fanged Lord of Shadows.” Odysseus shook his head. “Perhaps it was he who sent the mist that wrapped itself around the Bloodhawk like a shroud. We rowed on, slowly and carefully, expecting at any moment to see land or to feel the sea floor scrape beneath our keel. But we did not. Around us we could hear ghostly singing and whispering, our names being called by spirits of the night. Ah, lads, it was a frightening time, and I do not know on what sea we sailed that night. Come the dawn, the mist disappeared, and we found ourselves upon a wide river flowing through a mountain range.

“‘The fleece is close by,’ Praxinos shouted. ‘I can feel it calling to me.’

“We found a landing place and moved ashore. Praxinos split us into hunting parties, and we set off in search of the healer’s cave. There was me and old Abydos, plus a youngster named Meleagros and a Hittite called Artashes. Abydos was a foul-mouthed sheep shagger and one of the ugliest men you’ve ever seen, while the rest of us were little better. Not a handsome one in the group. We walked up through woods of scented pine and across a pretty meadow full of yellow flowers. That’s when we saw it. There was a cave and a large crowd of people sitting on the grass outside it. They were villagers, and they’d brought gifts of food for the healer. Must have been fifty people there, old and young, men and women.

“Well, there were only the four of us, so we wandered up to the cave and made no threatening moves. I looked inside. And there she was, sitting on a rug and talking to an old man and his wife. Beyond her, on the wall of the cave, shining like golden fire, was the fleece. We all saw it and fell under its spell. Before I knew what I was doing, I walked into that cave, jaw hanging, and stood there gawping. Abydos was beside me, slack-mouthed. The young Hittite whispered something that sounded like a prayer, and Meleagros reached out and touched the fleece, and his finger came away coated in gold.”

Odysseus fell silent once more. He seemed to shiver at old memories, then shook himself. “Then the woman rose from her rug. She was no longer young, but a finer-looking woman you never saw. She walked over to old Abydos and laid her hand on his shoulder. He smiled at her. Now, I’ve told you he was an ugly man. But from that day on he was no longer ugly. Strangest thing, for his features did not change. He looked exactly the same, only there was no ugliness in him. ‘I welcome you,’ she said, and her voice was like honey, smooth and sweet, a sound you could feast on. Now, Meleagros had a boil on his neck, a great angry thing, leaking pus. She touched it, and the redness faded away, leaving only clean, sun-browned skin. Well, not one of us even thought of going to find Praxinos. But then, we didn’t have to. Just before dusk he stormed into the cave, sword drawn. We had no time to think and certainly no time to stop him. He rushed across the cave floor and plunged his blade into the woman. She fell back with a cry. Then he wrenched the fleece from the wall and fled with it back to the ship.

“We didn’t go with him. We were reeling from what we’d seen. Then old Abydos knelt beside the dying healer. There were tears in his eyes. Meleagros dropped down beside him. ‘I wish I had magic for you,’ he said. ‘Magic like yours.’ And he laid his hand on her brow. And you know what? That damned boil suddenly flared up again on his neck, and the wound in her chest seemed to close a little. There were some people close by. I swung to them. ‘Did she heal you?’ I asked them. They nodded. ‘Then have the courage to give back the gift,’ I urged them. One by one they came forward. It wrenched the heart to see it. One old woman touched her, and the crone’s hands began to twist grotesquely, her arms shriveling and withering. Another man leaned over her, and a huge growth appeared on his throat. And all the while the healer’s wound was closing further, shrinking. At last she sighed and opened her eyes. We helped her up, and she gazed around at the cripples and the dying all about her. Then she spread her arms, and a golden light blazed throughout the cave. I was blinded for a moment, but when my sight came back, all the sickness and suffering in the place had passed. Everyone was well again.”

His voice faded away.

“What about the fleece?” a pirate cried.

“Ah, yes, the fleece. I was angry as I headed back to the ship. I had decided then to gut Praxinos like a fish, throat to groin, and throw his body into the river. A lot of us felt the same way. When we reached the Bloodhawk, we saw him sitting in the captain’s chair, the fleece on his lap. We scrambled over the side and advanced on him. The light was fading now, and we heard him cry out: ‘Help me! For pity’s sake!’

“That was when I saw his hands. They had turned to gold—not covered in dust but solid metal. And as we watched, we could see the gold flowing slowly up his arms. Old Abydos moved alongside him and rapped his knuckles against Praxinos’ right leg. It clanged. I looked into the captain’s eyes then. By all the gods, I never saw such terror. We just stood there. He was dead before the gold reached his face, yet still it spread until even his hair was gold thread. Once it was over, we eased the fleece from his knees. Not a speck of gold remained. It was just a fleece.”

“What did you do?” another man asked.

“Nothing we could do. Abydos took the fleece back to the healer, and we broke up Praxinos and shared him among us. I used most of my share to have my first ship built. I did keep one small piece to remind me of the perils of being too greedy.”

Odysseus dipped his hand into the pouch at his side and pulled out a finger of solid gold, which he tossed to the nearest man. “Pass it around, lad. But don’t hold it too long. It is cursed.” The seaman looked at it in the firelight, then handed it swiftly to the man beside him. The finger of gold passed from hand to hand, coming at last to Kalliades. He held it up. It was perfect in every way, from the broken nail down to the creases at the knuckle joint. He offered it to Banokles. “I don’t want it,” the big man muttered, leaning back. Finally it was returned to Odysseus, who dropped it back into the pouch.

“Another tale!” a young pirate shouted.

“No, lad, too tired tonight. But if you are heading northeast, you can beach with us tomorrow. I’ll likely be in the mood for a tale then. I’ll be traveling with King Idomeneos. He’s also a fine storyteller.”

“He’s the man we are hunting,” said the first man who had spoken to Odysseus upon his arrival.

“I know that, donkey face. It is a foolish mission. You think to take him for ransom. And who would pay? Idomeneos has two sons, and both would like to be king in his place. They wouldn’t give you a copper ring. They’d let you kill him. Of course, honor would then insist they brought the entire Kretan fleet in seach of you. Memory tells me it is more than two hundred galleys. They’d scour the seas.” Then Odysseus chuckled. “But I read men well, and I see you already know this. Therefore, your quest is more about blood vengeance than ransom. What did Idomeneos do to you?”

“I don’t answer to you, Odysseus.”

“True. You’ll answer to them, though,” he said harshly, gesturing toward the waiting pirates. “They sail for plunder, not revenge. No profit in blood.”

“He stole my wife and killed my sons,” the pirate said, his voice shaking. “And when he’d finished with her, he sold her to the Gypptos. I never found her.”

Odysseus was silent for a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice had lost its harshness. “Then you have reason to hate. No man would deny that. If anyone took my Penelope I would hunt them down and see them suffer. A man can do no less. But it is a personal matter, and the men with you will risk death for no reward. Idomeneos did not take their wives or slay their sons.”

With that the Ugly King prodded Ganny with his toe, then set off back toward the cliff path. The pig stood for a moment, then ran after him. Kalliades and Banokles followed.

“That was a fine story,” Kalliades said. “Where did you really get that golden finger?”

Odysseus looked tired, and his reply was toneless. “It is mine,” he said, waggling his index finger. “I had a goldsmith make a cast for me last summer and then fill the cast with gold.”

“How many pirate ships will come against us now?” Kalliades asked.

“Probably two, three at worst,” Odysseus said. “Issopon is a wise old fighter. He heard my words and will draw his galley from the action, I think. Donkey face is another matter entirely. He has a need for blood. And I cannot blame him. Idomeneos always was a cruel and selfish man.”

Piria slept a little, but her dreams were troubled. She saw again the day she and her brother had gone swimming for the last time in the rock pool beneath the marble boulders. Three years older than she, at fifteen Achilles was already a handsome young man, strong and athletic, delighting in his prowess with javelin and sword. He was also a fine rider and wrestler. Father adored him, pouring compliments upon him and showering him with gifts. Piria was never jealous. She adored Achilles and delighted in his successes.

On the day of the last swim the shaded rock pool echoed with their laughter. Such sounds were rarely heard within the palace high on the rocky hillside above them. Father was a hard man and quick to anger. Servants and slaves trod warily, and even retainers spoke in low whispers.

Awake now, in the light of a golden dawn, she felt the dream still clinging to her like sea mist upon rock. Piria shivered. He had not been cruel when she was young. Often he would sit her on his knee, twisting his fingers through her long fair hair. Sometimes he would tell stories. Always they were harsh tales of sword and blood, of gods donning human form to bring chaos and destruction to the world of men. Then a change had come over him. Looking back, she understood now that it had mirrored the pubescent change in her. His eyes were on her often, his manner becoming more surly and cold. Piria had been perplexed at the time.

On that terrible day understanding had arrived like a lance. She had been sitting naked with her brother when their father had stormed down the rock path, shouting abuse at her, calling her a whore. “How dare you cavort naked before the eyes of a man?” he screamed.

It was mystifying, for she and her brother had swum naked together throughout childhood. Father’s rage was towering. He ordered her brother to dress himself and return to the palace. When Achilles had gone, he grabbed Piria by the hair.

“You want to cavort with men, slut? Then I shall teach you what that means.”

Even now she could not suffer the memory of the rape that followed and closed her mind to it, her eyes scanning the beach, seeking something to divert her.

Odysseus was talking to a stout merchant who was walking around the pig enclosure, examining the beasts. Kalliades and Banokles were standing apart from the crew, talking quietly. She saw the black man Bias approaching her. He was carrying a breastplate of leather and a round leather helm.

“Odysseus told me to bring you these,” he said. “There is likely to be a fight, and that will be preceded by a rain of arrows.”

“Who are you fighting?”

“Pirates.”

Fear welled up in her, but she did not show it. Instead, she thanked him, removed the cloak of Banokles, and slipped on the breastplate. It was crudely fashioned, but it fitted her well. The helm was too large, so she put it aside. Moments later she saw Bias take another breastplate to Kalliades. As he donned it, he saw her looking at him and smiled. She looked away.

Odysseus approached her. “Best you get aboard,” he said.

“Did you get a fine price for your pigs?”

“No. Had to pay Oristhenes to look after the wounded we have to leave behind. Idomeneos assures me he will repay me, but the man is a miser with a poor memory when it comes to settling debts. I am still waiting for a wager he lost twelve seasons back.” He smiled and shook his head. “Kings! Not one you can trust farther than you can toss an ox.” He fell silent then and stood staring back at the pigs.

“I think Ganny will miss you,” she said.

Odysseus laughed. “He squealed when I took that yellow cloak from him. I think he had grown to like it. I may visit him next time I’m sailing these seas.”

“He will be smoked meat by then,” she said.

“No, not Ganny! Oristhenes assures me he will be treated like a king among pigs. He will be happy here.”

“And you trust Oristhenes to keep his word?”

Odysseus sighed. “I trust in his sense of self-preservation. I did not sell Ganny to him. Ganny is my pig. Oristhenes can use him for breeding, and for that he will ensure he is well fed. Oristhenes knows me. He will do as he promises.”

“Or you will kill him, Odysseus?”

“I would not kill a man over a pig. I might just burn his house and sell him into slavery. But I’d not kill him. But let us talk about you, Kalliope. Why did you run from Thera? It was foolish and beyond dangerous.”

“You think me some witless girl?” she snapped. “My time on Thera was the happiest of my life. No vile and devious men, no betrayers, no rapists. I am seeking a friend, for a seeress told me she would need me before the end.”

“The end of what?”

“I do not know. The seeress saw flames and burning and my friend fleeing savage killers.”

“And you will save her?” The question was asked gently, with not a trace of contempt.

“If I can, I will.”

Odysseus nodded. “I fear the vision may be true. A war is coming that cannot be long avoided. Your friend is Andromache. I met her on her way to Troy. Fine woman. I liked her. We made a pact, she and I, that I would always tell her the truth.” He chuckled. “Not a promise I made lightly. Storytellers fashion lies from truth and truth from lies. We have to. Truth is all too often dull.”

“Did she speak of me?” Piria asked before she could stop herself.

“She spoke of her love for Thera and how unhappy she was to be leaving. You love her greatly, don’t you?”

“She is my life!” Piria said defiantly, looking into his eyes for signs of contempt or disgust.

“Beware who you share that with,” he said softly.

“Are you not going to tell me that my feelings will change when the right man comes into my life?”

“Why so angry?” he countered. “You think I will condemn you? Love is a mystery. We embrace it where we can. Mostly we do not choose whom we love. It just happens. A voice speaks to us in ways the ear cannot hear. We recognize a beauty that the eye does not see. We experience a change in our hearts that no voice can describe. There is no evil in love, Kalliope.”

“Tell that to my father. Tell it to the priests, the kings, and the warriors of this cursed world.”

He smiled. “Ganny is a brave pig, and I like him. I would waste no time, though, trying to teach him the skills of sailing.”

Piria found her anger fading, and she smiled at the Ugly King. “Now, that is a good thing to see,” he said. They stood together for a little while, and Piria felt the warmth of the sun on her face and the freshness of the sea breeze in her cropped hair. She turned toward Odysseus.

“You said storytellers fashion truth from lies. How can that be?” she asked him.

“A question I have long pondered.” He pointed at Bias. “I once told a tale about a winged demon who attacked the Penelope. I said that Bias, the greatest spear thrower in the world, hurled a javelin so powerfully that it tore through the demon’s wings and saved the ship from destruction. Bias was so taken with the story that he practiced and practiced with the javelin and finally won a great prize at a king’s games. You see? He had become the greatest because I lied about it. And therefore it was no longer a lie.”

“I understand,” Piria said. “And how can the truth be made into a lie?”

“Ah, lass, that is something none of us can avoid.” Bending down, he scooped up the small clay plate on which Bias had brought her food the night before. “And what is this?” he asked her.

“A plate of clay.”

“Yes, clay. And it was fashioned by the hands of a man, using water and thick earth and then fire. Without the fire it would not have become pottery, and without the water it could not have been shaped. So it is earth, it is water, it is fire. All these facts are true. So is this a true plate?”

“Yes, it is a true plate,” she said.

Suddenly Odysseus struck the plate with his fist, shattering it. “And is it still a plate?” he asked.

“No.”

“And yet it is still pottery, still clay and water and fire. Do you think I changed a truth with my fist? Did I make it a lie?”

“No, it was a plate. You destroyed it, but you could not change the truth of its existence.”

“Good,” he said admiringly. “I like to see a mind work. My point is that truth is a mass of complexities, made up of many parts. What is the truth of you? The high priestess on Thera would say that you are a traitor to the order and that your selfish actions could bring disaster upon the world should the Minotaur awake and plunge us all into darkness. Is that the truth? You would say that you are driven by love to protect a friend and you are willing to risk your life for her. Would the high priestess accept that truth? If I hand you over to the order, the same high priestess will call me a good man and reward me. Will that be the truth? If I bring you safely to Troy—and it is discovered—I will be declared godless and cursed. I will be named as an evil man. Truth or lies? Both? It depends on perception, understanding, belief. So, to return to your original question, it is not hard to make the truth a lie. We do it all the time, and mostly we don’t even know it.” He glanced at the eastern sky. “The sun is up. Time to leave.”