Cry Wolf

Well, I don’t see why I should say anything.

The wolves are storming the village and I’m down in the basement, because I knew they were coming. I knew, because I go out to the forest everyday, and sometimes, out in the forest, you see things, and sometimes you don’t.

Often, I don’t.

But you see, I get so bored, and so, sometimes, lately more so, I come back from the forest and I tell funny stories about things I may have seen in the forest.

You know, like a bunny that looks like a porcupine or a bush that looks like a lamb or a wolf that’s going to hunt down all the village children and eat them.

The thing is, I don’t like to tell people that I’m telling them a story until the story is finished, because I find that my creative process is hindered by having to add a caution to every tale wherein I let my audience know that what I’m about to say is a falsehood.

People don’t like listening to made-up stories, they like true stories, and I can’t help that. I can’t help that people have no taste for fiction. My only solution then is to give the appearance of truth only to surprise my listener at the end by disclosing that everything they’ve just heard has come directly from my outstanding imagination.

The trouble is that, oftentimes, my stories are rather dark and they all have a sense of urgency to them, which is something you want in a story, but if it’s a true story, that urgency can sometimes lead to action, and once it does, it becomes difficult to keep everyone focused on the narrative, because they think a wolf is coming to murder them.

I mean, honestly.

Now, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I have only told the wolf story two times, and the second time, I made the details so outlandish that I couldn’t believe anybody would take what I was saying as an actual warning.

Why, according to that version of the story, I was walking alone in the woods, me, a young lad of only twenty-seven, and suddenly, I was surrounded by the most vicious pack of wolves known to man. The way I tell it, it was only my quick thinking and swift-footedness that saved me, as I scrambled up a tree while the wolves circled down below.

Yes, my performance skills are exemplary, and that, matched with my unparalleled storytelling prowess, could conceivably fool one or two people, but never in my wildest dreams did I think the town would take to the forest looking for some wolf that never existed. I’m sure the way I tore my shirt and bloodied my own face by running into the statue of our town’s founder helped convince three or four more, but that’s all just basic theatrics.

When all those yokels returned to the village, realizing they had been duped, they were so angry with me, when really, they should have been angry with themselves.

“The fool should fix the fool not the fooler.”

That’s what my father used to say before he was run out of town for selling a digestion tonic that poisoned the mayor and several others. I will say that while all that death was unfortunate, they did all die with notable gut health, so technically, my father didn’t hoodwink them in that regard.

To try and ward off another con man springing up in their midst, they placed me under house arrest, which is just fine with me, because I was able to fashion this ingenious device that sets off a high-pitched frequency that perfectly matches the sound female wolves make when they’re in heat. Two or three sustained blows of that whistle, and the next thing you know, every wolf in a twenty-mile radius was descending on our little hamlet.

I thought this would be the perfect way to teach the villagers a lesson about not dismissing someone just because they tell a fib or two. Even if I was a liar, which I’m not, liars have an important role to play in modern society. They help teach us the value of discretion.

Someone tells you something and you decide whether or not you should believe them. If you decide correctly, you’re an evolved mind with a discerning personality and you never have to fret about getting into a skirmish, because you’ll know when to believe calamity is approaching and when it isn’t.

If you decide incorrectly, you deserve whatever befalls you. Whether it be not fleeing your home during an avalanche or failing to evict yourself from a village beset by feral canines.

What would you have me do?

Run around screaming that this time my story is one of truth and begging everyone in sight to believe me and take cover?

I would never debase myself in such a way. Not to mention the damage it would do to my vocal chords to try screaming out in the open air while running. Even with my stellar breath control, I’d be hoarse in under a minute, and then how could I ever hope to ace my audition with the local traveling puppet troupe?

Nobody would believe me no matter what I do, so I may as well do nothing.

Down here in my basement, I can already hear the cries as the wolves rip through the shoddy border fence as they seek their fertile female counterparts. I imagine they’ll be quite cross when they learn there are no such lady wolves here, and the damage they’ll do to the village will be substantial.

When the carnage and catastrophe has settled, I will emerge from my home, where I once lived with my father until he was exiled, and I will walk proudly to the center of town, stand upon the platform where all announcements are made, assuming it’s still erect, and ask in the loudest voice I have ever used--

“Well? Do you believe me now?”