Tales from the Universe
Moral Dilemma: When someone who has repeatedly misled you finally tells the truth about something dangerous, how much responsibility do you have to believe them—and how much responsibility did they have to preserve the credibility they now need?
Sella lied beautifully.
That was the problem.
Bad liars eventually train people not to believe them.
Sella trained people to believe her.
When she was nine, she convinced half the village that a traveling prince had secretly given her a horse.
She provided the horse’s name.
Color.
Temperament.
Diet.
The location of the stable.
She described the prince.
She described his guards.
She even complained that owning a horse was considerably more work than she’d expected.
For three days, people believed her.
Then her father asked to see the horse.
Sella admitted there wasn’t one.
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“It was a good story.”
Her father stared at her.
“That is not what stories are for.”
Sella disagreed.
At eleven, she reported seeing a white stag in the cemetery.
At twelve, a giant fish in the river.
At thirteen, she claimed the abandoned mill contained a tunnel leading beneath the village.
People investigated all three.
Nothing.
Sella found this hilarious.
Eventually the village developed a rule.
If Sella said something extraordinary had happened, nobody moved until someone else confirmed it.
This worked extremely well.
Until the night something extraordinary happened.
Sella was seventeen.
She was returning from her aunt’s house after dark.
The road passed the old quarry.
Something moved below.
Sella stopped.
At first she thought it was a person.
Then it stood.
Too tall.
Its arms reached nearly to the ground.
Its skin reflected moonlight like wet stone.
The creature climbed from the quarry.
Sella ran.
She reached the tavern barely able to breathe.
“There is something at the quarry.”
Nobody looked up.
Sella grabbed Toma the butcher.
“I’m serious.”
“That improves matters.”
“Toma.”
He smiled.
“What is it this time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dragon?”
“No.”
“Ghost?”
“No.”
“Giant fish?”
People laughed.
Sella slammed both hands onto the table.
“Listen to me!”
The room quieted.
“There is something coming toward the village.”
Toma studied her.
For just a moment, Sella thought he believed her.
Then he asked:
“White stag riding it?”
The tavern erupted.
Sella ran home.
Her father was reading.
“Get the axe.”
He looked up.
“What happened?”
“Something came out of the quarry.”
He continued reading.
“Father.”
“What kind of something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course.”
Sella grabbed the book from his hands.
His expression hardened.
“I am not joking.”
He looked at her carefully.
“How do I know?”
The question stopped her.
She had no answer.
A dog began barking outside.
Then another.
Her father looked toward the window.
Sella whispered:
“That’s how.”
Something screamed.
Not a dog.
Her father stood.
The creature killed six goats.
Destroyed a fence.
Tore the door from a smokehouse.
By the time the villagers gathered with weapons, it had disappeared into the woods.
Nobody died.
That became important later.
Because it allowed everyone to be angry without also having to grieve.
The next morning, Sella stood before the village council.
Toma would not look at her.
The council head cleared his throat.
“We owe you an apology.”
Sella crossed her arms.
“Yes.”
“We should have investigated.”
“Yes.”
“Your warning was accurate.”
“Yes.”
He paused.
Sella waited.
Then he added:
“Your history made evaluating that warning difficult.”
Her anger exploded.
“So this is my fault?”
“No.”
“That is what you’re saying.”
“No.”
“You didn’t believe me.”
“That was our mistake.”
“Because I lied before.”
“Yes.”
“So my fault.”
The council head rubbed his forehead.
“Two things can contribute to the same disaster without being the same kind of responsibility.”
Sella hated him for saying something reasonable.
The creature returned three nights later.
This time everyone believed Sella.
She hadn’t seen it.
That didn’t matter.
The village prepared.
Fires.
Spears.
Lookouts.
Nothing happened.
The following night, same thing.
Nothing.
For a week, everyone barely slept.
Then people began relaxing.
Sella noticed tracks beside the river.
She reported them.
A hunting party investigated.
Nothing.
She heard something behind the mill.
People searched.
Nothing.
She saw movement in the northern field.
Nothing.
Each warning was sincere.
That didn’t help.
The old problem returned wearing different clothes.
Toma confronted her.
“You have to stop.”
“I’m not lying.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
“You’re seeing it everywhere.”
“It could be everywhere.”
“It could also not be.”
Sella stared.
“You want me to wait until someone dies?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
Toma had no answer.
That frightened both of them.
The creature appeared again a month later.
This time Sella was not the one who saw it.
A shepherd boy did.
He ran into town screaming.
People responded immediately.
The creature was cornered near the river.
It was enormous.
Terrifying.
And injured.
An iron trap was clamped around one leg.
Someone had set it in the forest years earlier.
The creature snapped at anyone who approached.
Toma raised his crossbow.
Sella pushed it down.
“What are you doing?”
“Look.”
“At what?”
“The leg.”
“It killed six goats.”
“It has a trap on it.”
“That doesn’t make the goats alive.”
“No.”
Sella approached slowly.
The creature screamed.
She nearly ran.
Instead she stopped.
Waited.
Then moved again.
It took an hour.
Three people helped.
They removed the trap.
The creature limped into the forest.
It never returned.
Nobody discovered what it was.
Sella found this deeply unsatisfying.
Years later, Sella became a courier.
People found this funny.
The village’s most famous liar became responsible for carrying information accurately.
She was excellent at it.
Her reports were painfully precise.
She separated what she’d seen from what she’d heard.
What she knew from what she suspected.
What was likely from what was merely possible.
People learned that when Sella said:
I know this,
she meant it.
When she said:
I think this,
she meant something different.
And when she said:
I don’t know,
she did not decorate the empty space.
One afternoon, a young courier asked why she was so particular.
Sella told him about the quarry.
He laughed.
“So the lesson is don’t lie.”
“No.”
He looked surprised.
“No?”
“That’s a child’s version.”
She tightened the straps on her bag.
“The village should have checked.”
“Even after everything you’d made up?”
“Yes.”
“That seems unfair.”
“It was.”
Sella smiled.
“Danger doesn’t become imaginary because the messenger is unreliable.”
The young courier thought about this.
“Then what did you learn?”
Sella looked down the road.
“That credibility is a tool.”
She adjusted the bag onto her shoulder.
“I treated mine like a toy until the night I needed it.”
She started walking.
The young courier followed.
After several steps, he asked:
“Was there really a giant fish?”
Sella looked at him.
A very old smile appeared.
He groaned.
“Sella.”
She laughed.
And kept walking.
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