"Nothing to see, folks, nobody's hurt ... no one to help, now move along ... nothing here ... just move along."
"But Sarge ... nobody hurt?"
"Not now, Pickle."
"But, Sarge, he's dead. She killed
him! He killed her! They're both dead!"
"Yes, Pickle, and there'll be hell to
pay, but they're dead, not hurt. If
he survived, he'd be hurt, but he's
dead. Killed, don't you see ... not
"...and bend reality, change it by mere direction of word." From his newly realized apprenticeship to truth, he was describing his day, the train, the deaths. When he spoke these days, it was as if words mattered, as if they had substance, were a carried weight, almost a burden. Neither death nor shame counted more than his adherence to truth. This was new to him; yet, he believed it now.
Words, it was obedience to them how they got their meaning. It was the sacrifice to them that enabled their shaping. They grow strong and precise under diligence and stewardship. Master them, discipline their use and they surrender, become a strength, a force to be reckoned with. Convinced at last, words bow to your will, and do the work of a hundred lies.
"Truth," he told her, "is a language like any other, and if a man does not speak the truth, then how can the truth be told him?"
"Yes, just as you can trust the magic in music," she said.
Music, divine and perfect, is a gift that's given to every culture. This belief was their secret, their excuse to travel ... that it was impossible to lie with music. Even lies, he believed. However you weave and spin them, dip words in music, and even lies lose their sting in ballads.
Words, and how to magic them; sing
them in a song that speeds them to
the heart, and everyone who hears
will feel them, and know them to be
true. They would drive hours to hear