In Truth

I must make it clear that not all of this can be entirely accurate. Put another way, some of it will be true and some of it, quite frankly, will not. I am certain that the early parts of my childhood dictated hereafter can be deemed as entirely accurate, as they have appeared to me every day since with a visual clarity greater than any professional photograph, and an emotional voracity more vivid than any painting. Later memories, such as the War of Culture, the Destinies War, or even the first days of our great and noble free government, I cannot be certain are accurate. In truth, anything written here could be a lie, but this I swear: that everything written will be as accurate and accountable to my own version of the truth as the absolute limits of my humanity will allow. I can honestly offer nothing more than this.

Minister Jeremiah Montero

Minister of Communications in the United Socialist Government of Verdiad

***

Part 1 – People’s Victory

I

I was born in a small village in the north of Saint Sebastian’s province, which if translated accurately, should be known as Spring-River. The true meaning of the name has always eluded me, as any rivers that had ever run by our village during Spring, or any other season for that matter, had evidently long since dried up, and there is certainly no spring gushing water. My life story would be a different one entirely if there had been, but there is not.

I know this because there were many days of my childhood which were spent travelling to neighbouring villages to beg for use of their water supplies; some days were equally spent helping my father to carry wood, animal hide, or in some more fortunate years crops that we had grown ourselves, in order to trade with the other villages. These days are held in my memory as both good and bad. It was good that we did not have to beg, because no one can deny that begging is an ugly business, but there was always a sadness in thinking that the things that we had worked hard for were not going to us but to others who had no real need for them. The villages and towns that controlled the water supplies were always the richest – their markets were the largest, their farms were the most fertile, their leaders and governors had pockets that were lined with the most gold and jewels and riches.

I should perhaps explain, for those that do not already know, that the Socialist State of Verdiad has not always enjoyed the inclusivity, freedom, and equality that exists now. In these early days, the days of my childhood, poverty was widespread. We lived in what could be deemed a ‘feudal’ state. Over many centuries, rich landowners had appointed themselves as governors and leaders in towns and villages, and just to survive poor workers like my father worked on the rich man’s land, or travelled miles across the country to trade their own goods with these parasites at extortionate rates.

I was however always proud to accompany my father, and many of these trips would be spent listening to his wisdom. At the time it was customary to nod, or sigh, or mumble “yes papa” and “no papa” at appropriate times, for you are a child and he is your father. But as I grew up I came to realise that these were not just words that had sunk into me inactively like stains on clothing. Instead, the words he indebted to me grew inside of me, sprouting more profound thoughts later on and eventually blossoming and crystallising into the beliefs that I hold so dear to me – that is, the beliefs of our ruling government, the United Socialist Party, whom I serve in government as the Minister of Communications.

I am often prone to wishing that he were alive now, to witness his illustrious knowledge put into practice for the good of all men, women and children first hand, and I think that he would smile at me with eyes brighter than Verdiad’s noonday sun if he saw it.

Sometimes, often late at night when I suffering from one of my many bouts of insomnia, I feel Papa’s ghost close to me, reaching out a cold, slimy hand, and I hear his voice not as his own but as a sanctimonious preacher criticising the glorious work that we have done to achieve equality in our country. In the morning I ponder over these dark tidings and realise that they are most likely the work of some unresolved issue within my own personality; some darker side to my own nature that doesn’t know truth and beauty, only sorrow and self-indulgence. I am comforted knowing that I have control over this side of me, and that the ghost is not my father at all, for he would be as proud of our great nation and its vast achievements as I am.

From those youthful days, wandering with my father to beg or to trade, there is one memory that is clearer than all others. It brings me comfort, and I often recite his words to myself when I am alone in my office, being haunted by the dark spectres of sorrow.

We had paused by the side of the dirt road between our own village and some other one whose name now eludes me, and as we were catching our breath he patted my head delicately and ruffled my hair.

Papa was a powerful looking man. He had tanned, broad shoulders, and large rough hands. His face was dark and weathered, but constantly defiant. He used to run his fingers through his bushy beard when he spoke sometimes, and his voice was low and crackled like a campfire.

“Nilo, Nilo,” he said, for that is what he sometimes used to call me though it is not my name. “Nilo, there will always be injustice in this world. It is as permanent as the sun, the land, the sea. It is unchanging, it is eternal. When a man works all of his life to feed his family, when a man is ambitious, when he is strong, when he is determined and stubborn and smart, yes Nilo when he is smart, well there will always be someone else who differs from him in every conceivable way. It could be his neighbour or his brother, it could be a stranger that in his whole life he will never meet. It could be his very own father Nilo. There will always be someone that is weaker, someone that has no vision, no aim, no clarity. This is a kind of injustice, and it cannot be changed. This is injustice of a natural order, of a kind that only nature can judge Nilo.”

I remember nodding, as a child should so, and quietly agreeing with him. He continued:

“The greatest thing that a man can do with his life is to try his utmost to ensure that there is as little injustice in the world as possible. When people tell you that these things are matters for nature, as I have just told you Nilo, you must understand that it is your goal to be as powerful as nature. It is every human’s goal to be a God. And the greatest way that you can achieve this, and honour nature in all its glory, is to limit the injustice to as few as possible, as best you can. This aim is the only aim that is divine. This is what life is here for, and what gives it purpose. Do you understand?”

“Yes papa. Of course.”

“Of course Nilo, you don’t. How could you? You are a child. But one day you will, I am sure of this.”

I remember many other days of my childhood clearly, but this day is surely the one with the greatest clarity in my mind. I can smell the dirt, and our sweat, and I can feel the sun, and I can hear the rope rubbing against my shoulder and feel how sore it was as my father spoke to me. I remember this day better than all the others not just because of Papa’s words, but for another reason as well; it was the only day that I have seen my father lose his temper and hit a man square on in his face, and threaten a man with a knife.

We had arrived at one of the neighbouring villages with our satchels upon our shoulders. My mother had made the satchels many years before out of cloth that was given to our family as a gift from the people of Spring-River for the birth of my sister, Gabriella.

My dear, sweet Gabriella died in the War of Culture, as so many people of kind heart and strong character did, but I still have the cloth satchel somewhere. It is kept in the bottom of my wardrobe, since it is a personal treasure, and strictly speaking the politics of our country forbid personal treasures of this nature. All treasures per se, belong to the United Socialist Party, and the party shares all of its treasures to everyone, since everyone is a member of the party.

Having said that, I do not feel shame at holding on to it. I know for a fact that our great leader President Hugo has locks of his eldest daughters hair in a jar in his desk, small curling blonde hairs from when she was a baby, before innocence was wiped away with bloody rags. I know because he has shown them to me.

I have sometimes wondered to myself, in darker moments, why I still have the cloth satchel tucked away, but I do not have Gabriella. Sometimes it is hard to understand how the world can let an inanimate object survive the rages of human scorn and the tides of change, but take the life of a young girl who has so much to learn and so much to accomplish. But these thoughts are foolish, and these thoughts are useless. And President Hugo’s baby daughter’s hair is of no use to anyone but him anyway, so why should it belong to everyone?

I digress, my humble apologies. I will do that from time to time, but it is only natural.

We had arrived at one of the neighbouring villages, ragged and tired. We were sticky with sweat and our bones ached. I do not know how my father felt, but I do know that that day I felt as though I would fall apart there and then; just collapse in a heap of bones and rubbery skin in the middle of the village, and no one would even notice.

We made our way to one of the enormous market-houses, great buildings made of wood that housed many people. It was a beehive for the dishonest. People shouted and cried, screamed obscenities, prices and deals, and all of the words bounced off of all of the other words and made a man weak with fear and confusion.

At the entrance a market-governor dressed in cotton shorts and a thin shirt that let the air brush against him, asked us what our business was. It was customary to give this man something before being allowed in to conduct business with the other traders. This man was important, and each powerful village had a similar cretin at the door to their market-houses. If you failed to give him something for himself you would not be allowed in, and if you were not allowed you would not be able to trade. In our case that meant that we would go home without water, without grain for planting, and without our dignity also.

Well my father, being an honest man in a dishonest village, offered the man in the rich clothes a fox fur that he had caught only the day before. I remember this distinctly, because I had also been with him when we had caught the fox. We had gone into the forests that skirt around the borders of our village, and I had watched as my father had captured the fox with a spear. I had been his lookout man, as usual, in case any of the men from any of the neighbouring villages had seen us, since we all had our own claims to the forest. These kinds of traditions, of skilled huntsman and forest claimants are lost now in some provinces, and in truth I miss them. Industrial progress is necessary for the progress of the United Socialist Party, and the progress of its people though, and without it we would be left with nothing, so I will not dwell on my sorrow or sympathy for too long.

“It will take three fox furs, along with the meat that I can smell from your satchels to get in here, villager. If not this, then nothing,” he said.

His face was a picture of barbarity. Here was a man that hated us only because we were poorer than him.

“Please sir,” said my father, “without our furs and our meat we will have nothing left to trade but the satchels themselves, and some sweet bread that my wife made for our journey.”

The market-governor smirked.

“I had not smelt the sweet bread. The price of entry has risen. You can add the sweet bread to the list as well.”

He held his fat belly and gave a loud guffaw.

“Please sir, you must understand that we can’t give you everything that you have asked for. It is absurd.”

With the habitual cruelty of a cat the man skulked down from his seat and curled around us like smoke, and repeated that it was the furs, the meats, and the sweet bread, or we would not be allowed in. His breath smelt strongly of garlic and wine, and I did not like the way that he put his arm around my father as if they were old friends when they were clearly enemies.

Aside from being obnoxious and cruel, he was also evidently drunk, and as I looked at him more closely I could see greasy spots and crumbs in his moustache.

The market-governor and my father had reached a stalemate, since my father could not give away everything that we had to trade. Papa tried valiantly to push past the man, shoving him hard in the chest. As he fell to the floor, the market-governor called out for help and three large, badly tempered men appeared from around the corner and continued to block our way.

“Please sir, this is unjust!” shouted my father.

“I don’t much like you, villager. You think that you can come here with your crappy goods and push past me.”

He got up and spat on the ground.

“You people are all the same, you think that the world was made for you. Well here is the truth peasant: it was made for me. This world was made for me, and for my compadres, and you are just a tiny speck of dust to me. You are insignificant, and you are a fool. You will not enter this market-house now, nor ever again!”

“Please sir,” my father pleaded, “I am here with my son. We live in poverty, and I cannot go back to the rest of my family empty handed. We have travelled a long way, we are tired, and we deserve to be allowed in. Please, have mercy.”

Again my father pushed forward. The three large men tried to grab his arms but he wrestled free, and began to shout about freedom for all men, and water as a basic human right. The men grabbed him again, harder this time, and he swung at one of them, knocking him down flat.

I could see now that he was desperate. He ran to the market governor, and reaching him he pulled a hunting knife from his pocket and held it to the governor’s neck.

“If anyone comes closer,” he shouted, “I will slit this filthy pig’s throat and drink his blood. We demand entry.”

After a few moments of panicked silence, one of the large men swung and tried to grab me. I ducked and ran to my father, and clung to his leg. He looked down at me with gently glistening eyes, his arm shaking with the weight of the knife and the pressure and the humiliation of it all, and seeing my face he calmed his voice to a whisper.

“I’ll give you the knife. I have another at home for hunting anyway. I will give you a fur and the knife, and you will give us entry to trade what we have for water and for grain. Yes?”.

The pig-cat-filthy-drunk-ugly-governor-bastard accepted, and my father let go of him. He dropped to the dusty ground clutching at his throat, his eyes wide with fear, and we walked slowly past him and the other men and into the great market-house.

I do not recall much of what went on inside the wooden market-house; I suppose the memory of it has been displaced by the one I have just described. But when we left the governor had gone, and another man had replaced him. He had the same curling mouth and sneering expression as the first, but he swayed a little less. His eyes were just as damning.

We never went back to that village, or at least my father never took me if he did go back. On the way home he kept mumbling about injustice everywhere, but I kept my head down and carried the water, knowing that the road was long and that the night would welcome us soon.