Joram’s Jarring Jest

Joram had learned the hard way about the power that stories can have in shaping the truth. He also knew it was futile to argue with a 9-year old girl. 

“Grandfatherrrrr,” the girl pleaded, her eyes wide with the innocent curiosity of youth. “Tell me a story.”

Joram sighed heavily, the lines on his face deepening in the firelight. “A story you say.” 

The crackling fire hurled long shadows on the hut’s walls. He prodded at the embers, causing a flurry of sparks to fly up, as if attempting to summon the past. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, grandfather, please!” 

Joram continued staring into the fire for a long time. “You should be wary of stories, my girl, and those who tell them,” he finally said. “Words have incredible power. Lies and jokes can grow into truths if enough people believe them.”

“But grandfather, your stories are so wonderful! They always make me laugh.”

“Therein lies their power — in the emotions they evoke. Sadly, some people use it to serve their sordid agendas. I did too. Let me tell you about a day years ago when a simple tale I spun out of jest changed everything…”

***

The day in question had started like any other. At midday it had still been eerily devoid of mishaps, a rarity for Joram. He and a dozen others from the village were busy clearing new land for planting near the dense woods that bordered their village. While digging with his sharpened stick, a loud metallic sound reverberated in the clearing. Intrigued, he bent down and cleared the dirt to uncover the corner of a stone slab.

Joram could feel the eyes of the other villagers on him as he pried the stone away, uncovering a small, hidden burial site. Among the findings were a rusted copper spearhead and a ceremonial headdress adorned with feathers and small bones. A murmur of awe passed through the crowd as they peered into the ancient past laid before them.

Seeing a chance to break the monotony of the day, Joram lifted the spear, striking a dramatic pose. “Behold, the remains of the great warrior chief of our ancient lands, guardian of our valley, the mighty hunter and fearless leader!” his voice boomed, and a ripple of laughter spread among the others as they gathered round to hear more, drawn in by the spectacle.

Encouraged by the attention, he embellished his story. “This is the tomb of King Alore! Long may he reign! Legend has it that King Alore once fought off a hundred invaders single-handedly on the slopes of Mount Varnar,” he declared, gesturing wildly with the spear as if fending off invisible foes. “And it is said his arrows could turn corners to strike foes who dared to hide from his wrath!”

“How do you know it’s King and not Queen Alore?” Valeria called out with a smirk. She was well known in the village for her sharp wit and even sharper hunting skills.  

“Because he was buried with his beautiful long spear! And we all know men are better hunters!” Joram quipped with a wink. “No mere queen could wield a spear so grand or wear a headdress so bold!”

“Is that so?” Valeria shot back with a challenging grin, her voice ringing with confidence. “Our hunting tallies would tell a different tale.”

A burst of laughter rang out in the field. Joram smiled sheepishly, for he knew it was the truth, and everyone reluctantly returned to their labour. 

***

Back in the village, news quickly spread of Joram’s discovery, reaching even the ears of the influential village council. The council, which consisted of a small group of elder and respected women and men, was gathered for their weekly gathering to discuss village matters. Today, however, the atmosphere was charged with an unusual urgency spurred by the whispers of Joram’s curious find. 

Cato, who had long sought to strengthen his influence over village affairs, saw an opportunity in Joram’s discovery. As he steered the conversation toward the artefacts, his eyes gleamed with excitement. “Friends,” he began in a steady and demanding voice, “I’m sure you have all heard of the ancient burial site discovered by Joram today. The objects he found speak of a leader, a king among men, with great prowess and authority.”

A murmur of interest stirred among the council members, which encouraged Cato to continue with even more enthusiasm. “Could this not be a sign? An omen, perhaps, that our village is destined to return to the old ways, when leaders were chosen for their strength and valour?”

Mahala, who had been listening intently, narrowed her eyes slightly, and spoke up in a quiet but exacting tone. “Or perhaps it’s just another one of Joram’s stories. His jests are famed for their whimsy, not their historical accuracy.  It’s just an old grave. And there’s nothing about it that tells us the warrior was a man. It could just as likely have been a woman.”

Cato smiled. “True, but consider the size of the spear, it indicates it was used to hunt large game — men are naturally stronger, and so it’s only normal to assume–”

“Some of our best hunters are women. There’s more to it than pure physical strength; we all work together as a team. Can we focus on more pressing matters now, like the imminent famine?”

“Joram may have joked, yes,” Cato persisted. “But sometimes a jest is merely a window to a forgotten truth. I am only suggesting that we consider solidifying our leadership structure, to ensure our village can thrive in these troubled times. A council led by our strongest–”

“Which you assume means men?” Mahala interrupted, her voice cutting through the murmur of the council.

“Not at all,” Cato replied smoothly. “I merely suggest that we ponder the implications of this discovery. Let us think on what it means to lead, to protect and guide our community. Take Lipa, for example, she’s been asleep this entire meeting. Don’t you think it is time we replaced her?”

Mahala sighed, casting a resigned glance at Lipa. Her snores punctuated the silence, oblivious to the shifting tides around her. “Agreed,” she finally conceded. “That would be wise.”

***

“Tell me about your great discovery,” Cato began. 

Joram shuffled uneasily on the tree stump in which he was seated, after having been summoned there by Cato a few days after he found the burial site.

“I found the most magnificent spear and headdress. I think we should showcase it somewhere.”

“Yes, I heard. Everyone heard and is very excited about it. I believe you said it was of King Alore? Do tell me more about him.”

“Oh, uh, I was merely joking, Cato. Trying to make people laugh. None of that was true.”

“Are you sure? It sounded very… believable.”

“Quite sure. How can we know who was buried there? King Alore lives only in my mind. I like making things up to bring joy to the village.”

“Say, Joram, how would you like to have a seat on the village council? It just so happens that a spot has recently become available.”

“Me? No, thank you, I don’t think so. I appreciate the offer, but I’m hardly council material,” Joram said, fiddling with the edge of his tunic.

“Don’t be modest, Joram. Your charm wins many friends, a rare skill indeed. Think on the influence you could yield with the stories you spin with your mighty tongue. And of course, you will be generously rewarded .”

Joram frowned. “But what about the truth? My stories are just that — stories.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of stories, Joram. Think about what we can achieve. Together.”

***

Months had passed since Joram’s discovery, as Valeria strapped on her quiver, the familiar weight of her hunting bow in her hand bringing a comforting sense of anticipation. She loved the thrill of the chase, the camaraderie with her fellow hunters, and the cheerful laughs of children when they returned with their kill. But today, the village seemed quieter than usual. As she approached her regular hunting group, the air felt heavy, their faces tense and avoiding her gaze. 

“Is something wrong?” Valeria asked. 

“No,” Joram’s voice faltered. 

“Let’s get going then. We have mouths to feed.”

“You cannot come with us,” another blurted out, his eyes darting away as he spoke, and his body tensing as if expecting a blow. 

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“Sorry, Valeria, it’s the village council,” Joram said. “They say dividing our tasks by strength and skill will serve us better.  Men to hunt, women to gather food and care for the young.”

“I’m the best hunter in the village!” Valeria protested, her voice rising. 

“We know,” he said in an appeasing tone, “but they think this will… strengthen our community. Sorry, Valeria.” 

“And what do you mean ‘they’? Aren’t you on the council now?” Her eyes searched his for any sign of support. But he turned away, and one by one, the others followed, leaving only silence and a growing sense of betrayal hanging between them.

The group slowly started moving away, leaving Valeria standing alone with her bow in hand, the tension in her fingers betraying her calm exterior. The crisp morning air no longer felt invigorating, but rather as though it mocked her readiness, her bow now hanging useless in her hand with nothing to aim at.

***

“So you see, my girl. My story grew legs and arms and a will of its own. It walked amongst us, changing hearts and minds little by little, weaving a truth that was anything but.”

He poked at the fire, sending another cascade of sparks into the night. “All I wanted was to tell stories. It seemed harmless, a way to lift spirits, to mould our past into something grander. But my tales were used by others, twisted into reasons for why things should change, why men should rule. Why women like your Auntie Valeria should set down their bows.”

“Was Auntie Val really a good hunter?” the girl asked incredulously. 

“She was the best we had, until…” he dropped off, his gaze on the fire. 

“Until what?”

“Oh child, I learned my lesson too late. Maybe I have not learnt it at all. I continued spinning my tales for King Cato, even knowing what the consequences were. I was selfish and greedy. I hope things will be better for you, but I fear my actions will have long-lasting consequences. Be careful of your words; you never know which ones will take root and what they’ll grow into. And beware even more the words of others.”

“Yes, grandfather.”

“And always remember child,” Joram continued in a solemn tone, though he suspected his granddaughter had lost interest, “let the lioness tell her own story; the tale of the hunt will be different.”