The Skull of Truth

by Bruce Coville

  Suddenly he felt something jolt through him, a feeling of ice and electricity and hope and release.

  “Uh-oh, Toto,” said Yorick. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

  “We weren’t in Kansas to begin with,” replied Charlie.

  “Sheesh. If you think Truth is annoying, you ought to try living with you.”

  The mist began to thin.

  “Home,” whispered Truth.

  Charlie gazed around him. To his left was a wall of shifting, swirling mist. To his right reared a wall made of crystal, its surface alternating between areas so smooth and clear they were like mirrors, and other places studded with outgrowths so sharp that simply looking at them made you want to bleed.

  Behind him was a wall of solid stone—which baffled him, since they must have just walked through it. The floor was made of stone, too, though in places he saw pools of water, or lapping flames, or holes that seemed to open into a great abyss. If the place had a ceiling, Charlie couldn’t see it; the opening above them seemed to go on forever.

  Truth walked to a spot halfway between the mist and the crystal, a square marked out by four large urns. Tongues of fire licked from one of them. Dirt was piled high in another. Charlie couldn’t tell what was in the other two.

  Positioning itself in the center of the square, Truth seemed to dissolve. But only for a moment. Suddenly it was a girl again, the one who had met them at the graveside.

  “Thank you for coming with me,” she said softly.

  “Why have you brought us here?” asked Charlie. The question was not angry or fearful. It was just a question.

  Truth, now a handsome young man, smiled. “I wanted to invite you to live with me.”

  “Me?” squeaked Charlie.

  Truth laughed, a sound beyond description.

  “Not you. Your friend.”

  Charlie wondered where the voice was coming from, for Truth had become a large stone. Then he realized that Truth had called Yorick his friend, which surprised him until he thought about it.

  “Why do you want me here?” asked Yorick.

  “I’m lonely,” said Truth. “And I know two things about you. The first, Yorick, is that you sought me in your youth. The second is that you almost found me—came as close as anyone ever has. But you flinched at the last moment, and thus did not pass the test. I had hoped you would. I had been rooting for you.”

  “Flinched?” asked Yorick.

  “When the old woman you worked for in the forest asked if you thought she was ugly, you could not bring yourself to tell her the truth. And so she could not bring you to me.”

  “But that wasn’t bad,” said Charlie. “Yorick was just trying to be kind.”

  “Kind and unkind are no concerns of mine!” thundered Truth. “Nor am I concerned with good or bad. Many good things are not true. Many bad things are. I cannot change that.”

  With a hiss Truth transformed into a column of mist, stretching upward farther than Charlie could see. In a voice that sounded like swirling wind, and that seemed to hold the same sob that sometimes underlies the wind, it began to chant:

  I am old as air, new as a baby’s breath.

  I am a prison. I am the key.

  I am the knife that cuts, the salve that heals.

  I am a weapon.

  I am a gesture of peace.

  I am longed far and hated, cursed and loved, sought and despised. More lies are told in my name than there are birds in the air.

  I bring pain and I bring relief.

  I bring sorrow and I bring joy.

  I am what I am.

  The column of mist began to spin. As it whirled, faces appeared in it, constantly changing, shifting.

  “Stop!” cried Charlie.

  Truth stopped.

  Charlie looked at it in surprise. No one spoke for several minutes. Finally Charlie said, “I thought you’d be more . . . solid.”

  The column of mist laughed. “Pass your hand through me,” it said in invitation.

  Charlie hesitated.

  “Go for it, kid,” whispered Yorick.

  Charlie stepped forward. The column was nearly two feet thick. He reached out, pulled his hand back. Biting his lip, he tried again. Extending his hand, he thrust it into the mist and began to move it sideways.

  He got about halfway through when he ran smack into a core so solid it made stone seem soft. A shot of fear surged along his arm, seemed to shake his body. His mind reeled with scenes of horror and beauty. Sighs and shouts, screams and murmurs echoed in his ears. Darkness filled him. Light filled him. He staggered backward, fearing he might explode.

  “I’m lonely,” said Truth once again.

  “I can see why,” gasped Charlie.

  “That’s why I fought my way through tonight. I came to ask Yorick to be my court jester. I could use a good laugh now and then.”

  “Yoicks!” cried Yorick. “When I asked Charlie to take me out of the shop, I never thought this would happen.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” said Truth, in a thousand voices. “What you expected is not the issue. I make you an offer—a home with me, where you can speak what’s true with no fear of harm or anger.”

  When Yorick replied his voice was unusually solemn. “I sought you as a youth, not to live with you, but so I could bring you to the world, which I thought was in need of you.”

  “As it is. But I can only touch the world in brief and fleeting ways. Were I to come sweeping across human lives, things would shatter around me. Look at Charlie: He touched my core for only an instant, yet he will never be the same. Had he flung his arms around me, pulled himself to me, embraced me, he would have lost all illusions forever. And how, then, could he have gone back to the world you know?”

  A silence filled the chamber.

  “Well?” asked Truth. “Will you stay?”

  “I’m thinking,” said Yorick. “I’m thinking!”

  Truth burst out laughing.

  “All right,” said Yorick, sounding pleased. “I’ll stay.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Charlie.

  “I’m sure. After all, what is there outside for me? I mean, I like you, kid, but it’s not like I’m ever going to have a big social life out there. And let’s face it, you’re not that fond of my jokes.”

  “And you think Truth will be?”

  “I have a very strange sense of humor,” said Truth. “Now, I think it is best for you, Charlie, to leave.”

  “How do I get home?” asked Charlie, thinking of the solid wall behind him.

  “Take the side door. It will get you home more quickly.”

  Charlie glanced to his right. Though he had not seen it before, there was a door outlined in the crystal wall.

  “Where did that come from?” he asked nervously.

  “The world is full of doors,” said Truth. “Most people just don’t see them.”

  “What about Yorick?”

  “Toss him into my center.”

  Charlie stood, unmoving.

  “Go ahead, Charlie,” said Yorick. “I can take it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I’ll ever be. Besides, could I say it if it wasn’t true?”

  He lifted the skull so he could look directly into its eye sockets. They were glowing as brightly as he had ever seen them.

  “Good-bye, Yorick,” he said softly. “I’ll miss you.”

  “And I’ll miss you, Charlie. You know, I hadn’t had a boy to pal around with since Hamlet was a pup. It was fun. Thanks for putting up with me.” Charlie started to say it was no problem, but couldn’t.

  He tried to say, “I enjoyed it,” but found the words wouldn’t pass his lips.

  Finally he said, “I learned a lot from you, Yorick. I’ll never forget it. Thanks.”

  He ran his hand over the skull’s smooth dome one last time. Then, feeling a little silly, but also feeling that he had to, he bent his head and gave it a gentle kiss. “Good luck,” he whispered. Stepping forw
ard, he tossed Yorick into the swirling column of mist.

  The skull disappeared for a moment. Then Charlie could see it again, whirling around, going higher, higher, ever higher up the column.

  And in his head he heard, “Oh, my. Oh, my! Oh . . .”

  The words ended, trailing into an extended cry, filled with delight and wonder, horror and astonishment.

  Then silence.

  Charlie stood and stared at Truth for a long time.

  Suddenly the column of mist began to chuckle. The chuckle built, and built again, until Truth was roaring with laughter.

  Charlie smiled and turned. Walking to the crystal wall, he opened the door and stepped through.

  He found himself in the magic shop.

  Mr. Elives was standing behind the counter, polishing it with a rag. When the owl on the cash register uttered a low hoot, the old man looked up and grunted. “Huh. About time you got here.”

  “He took the time he took,” said Ms. Priest, stepping from the shadows. Standing behind Charlie, she put her hand on his shoulder.

  “I notice you didn’t bring back my skull,” said Mr. Elives pointedly.

  “I never meant to take it,” said Charlie.

  “I didn’t say you did. But whether you meant to or not, you did. Are you intending to return it?”

  Charlie took a deep breath. Ms. Priest squeezed his shoulder. “I was going to,” he said softly. “I truly was. But I met someone else who . . . needed it more.”

  “I believe the skull has been taken to its rightful home,” said Ms. Priest.

  Mr. Elives grunted. “That’s all well and good, Hyacinth. However, the boy stills owes me something.” He paused and looked at Charlie carefully. At last he said in a sly voice, “But you needn’t worry about paying for it right this moment, Charlie Eggleston. I think I’d rather have you work it off.”

  “Work it off?” asked Charlie nervously.

  The old man shrugged. “I need an occasional errand done out in the larger world. I would be willing to accept your help as payment for the skull.”

  Charlie glanced back at Ms. Priest, but found no answer in her face.

  “Well?” asked Mr. Elives.

  Charlie took a deep breath. “All right. That seems fair.”

  The old man nodded. “Good. You can go now, if you like. Take the side door. It will get you home more quickly.”

  Charlie was startled to hear the same words that Truth had used when he was ready to leave its home. He stared at the old man. Was that a smile on his face? It was hard to tell.

  Turning, he looked at Ms. Priest.

  She nodded.

  Alone, he went through the side door—and found himself standing back in the cemetery.

  Above him the sky was filled with stars.

  The spring peepers were singing all around him.

  His heart felt strange. He missed Yorick already. Yet at the same time, he was relieved to be free of him.

  “Alas, poor Charlie,” he whispered.

  He rubbed his hands once over his bald and shiny head, then turned and started for home.

  Epilogue

  Charlie stood at the edge of Tucker’s Swamp, listening with pleasure to the sounds of life pulsing around him.

  “You almost ready?” asked Karen.

  “In a minute,” said Charlie. “I just want to let the fact that it’s still here—that it’s going to stay here—sink in. I still can’t believe we saved it!”

  “I can’t believe it was ever in danger,” said Gilbert. “People ought to be more careful.”

  “You ought to be more careful,” said Charlie with a smile. “You’re still pretty fragile, you know.”

  The fact that Gilbert had been fairly strong for the last couple of weeks made it all right to tease him this way. Charlie got a kick out of seeing the thin fuzz of hair that had sprouted on his friend’s head. Unfortunately, he also knew that there were still no guarantees for Gilbert.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the honk of a car horn. “Do you guys want to see this movie or not?” called Uncle Bennie.

  Karen and Charlie helped Gilbert up the hill to where Bennie was waiting.

  “That was a good movie,” said Charlie a few hours later. “Only it was really sad.”

  “Hey, it’s not called The Tragedy of Hamlet for nothing,” said Uncle Bennie, who was sitting next to him on the couch. “You expected maybe a happy ending?”

  “We thought it would have more about the skull,” said Karen.

  Bennie laughed. “The skull isn’t even a character! It’s just a prop.”

  “Alas, poor Yorick,” sighed Charlie.

  A honk outside indicated that Mrs. Dawkins had arrived to pick up Gilbert and Karen.

  “Thanks for bringing the tape over,” said Charlie, after his friends had left. “We’d been wanting to see what the whole story was about.”

  “Any special reason?” asked Bennie.

  Charlie shrugged. “A friend told me it was pretty interesting. He was right. But then, he never did lie to me.”

  “You seem to be doing better in that regard yourself,” said Bennie as he knelt in front of the VCR, waiting for the tape to finish rewinding.

  “Truth and I are on much better terms than we used to be,” said Charlie casually. “It makes things easier.”

  “You can say that again,” said Bennie. He glanced at his watch. “I better get moving. I promised to pick up Dave at the station. He’ll be finishing the late news in a few minutes.” He grinned. “Hope he doesn’t ask if I liked tonight’s show. I’ll have to tell him I was watching Mel Gibson instead. He hates it when that happens.”

  After Bennie left, Charlie said good night to his parents and went upstairs to his room. To his surprise, he found Roxanne and Jerome sitting on the bed, waiting for him.

  “What are you two doing here?” asked Charlie, a little nervously.

  “We’ve got a message for you,” said Jerome. “It’s from Yorick,” added Roxanne. “He sent it to the old man, and the old man asked us to bring it to you. So here we are.”

  “Do I have to sign a receipt?”

  “Nah,” said Jerome. “It’s not like it’s official business or anything.”

  The rats watched as Charlie unrolled the message, which was written on thick, soft paper.

  Dear Charlie,

  I thought you might like to know a little about my life with Truth, so I asked it to take a letter. I’d write it myself, only my handwriting isn’t so good, on account of my not having any hands.

  Anyway, life here isn’t exactly what you’d call a picnic. Truth is very demanding, and pretty particular. And since it’s writing that down for me, you can see it must be so. Fortunately, it does have a sense of humor.

  Despite my gripes, I am basically happy. For one thing, I’m not so lonely anymore. (I wasn’t lonely when I was with you, of course, but we both knew that wasn’t a permanent situation.) So this isn’t all that bad, despite the fussiness and uncertainty I have to live with.

  Now listen, I’ve got an important bit of news for you. Truth has decided to give you a little reward for taking care of me until it could come fetch me. Get this: It says it has arranged things so that you will be able to compel truth from people just like I do—with one big difference. Your “power” won’t be on all the time. (Truth says if it was, it would be more a curse than a blessing. I happen to know that this is so.)

  What a concept: Charlie Eggleston, Agent of Truth. Is it a good idea? Hey, don’t ask me. I’m just a fool. What do I know?

  Speaking of knowing things—do you know why the eggplant crossed the road?

  Write if you get work.

  Yer pal,

  Yorick

  Charlie started to put the letter on his desk. To his surprise, it dissolved in a crackle of energy that seemed to wrap itself around his hand. He could feel the energy race along his arm, tingling through him like some weird electric shock. He shivered once, and then it was over.

>   He thought about what the letter had said. Turning to Roxanne and Jerome, he asked carefully, “Has Mr. Elives mentioned me lately?”

  “Oh, he’s got big plans for you,” said Roxanne. Her eyes widened in surprise even as the words left her lips, and she clamped a paw over her mouth.

  Charlie smiled. It worked! Then, realizing exactly what Roxanne had said, he asked suspiciously, “What kind of plans?”

  “Special missions,” said Jerome. “He said something about sending you to Washington, D.C., on occasion.”

  Charlie’s smile grew broader. Charlie Eggleston, Defender of Truth and Special Agent of Elives’ Magic Shop.

  It didn’t sound half bad.

  In fact, it might turn out to be kind of interesting.

  And that was the absolute truth.

  A Note from the Author

  This book would never have happened if I hadn’t got caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

  Well, my hand wasn’t exactly in the jar when I got caught. I was crawling along the counter with one of my mother’s dense chocolate cookies, good but dry (I now think of them as “saliva suckers”), which I had removed from the jar against orders. When I heard my mother coming, I panicked and popped the entire thing into my mouth.

  Mom stepped into the kitchen, saw me on the counter, saw my bulging cheeks, and said, “Bruce, do you have a cookie in your mouth?”

  In a fit of brilliance, I shook my head and replied, “Mmmph. Mmm mmm mmph!”

  I was punished, not for snitching the cookie, nor even for stupidity (which would have been appropriate), but for lying. Or, perhaps more accurately, for trying to lie, since I was so spectacularly unsuccessful at it.

  The thing is, I was basically well behaved (this brings snorts of derision from people who know me, but I swear it’s the truth), and when I did get in trouble it affected me very deeply. In my case, I became unable to lie. I also became obsessed with truth, falsehood, the gray area between them, and how you negotiate this territory in the most ethical possible way. It can take a while for a writer to discover the themes that he or she is most fascinated with, but I have no doubt that, for me, truth is one of them. The inverse of this book’s Charlie Eggleston is Rod Allbright of Aliens Ate My Homework, who is compulsively truthful. (Actually, Rod is based on me—right down to the bit about l’affaire de cookie and its aftermath.)