The Truth Spinner. Rhys Hughes
human I became! I started as a promising baby and never looked back! In my youth I was curious about everything, a real sponge for knowledge, but I was disturbed by the way the world kept changing. I wondered how I might trust a universe that simply wasn’t stable. So I looked for certainty in mathematics and logic and other abstract systems of thought.
“In other words I turned into a philosopher, a rationalist, a teacher of the young people in the city where I dwelled. And while I lived in this fashion, debating in the public squares, going to symposia, that bottle full of the juice of my previous body stood patiently on its shelf, waiting for the moment when it would serve another purpose, a purpose devised by that evil Pythagorean so many years earlier. I was oblivious to this fact, unaware of the schemes of my former self, but I doubt that knowing would have made a difference; I was too committed to wisdom for its own sake and I continued teaching.
“Athens was a glorious city at that time but constantly threatened by external powers and internal dissent. The last thing its rulers wanted was a maverick wise man, a radical sage, agitating the people and opening up their minds. I was arrested and condemned to death for impiety. The year was 399 BC. An executioner was chosen to descend into the cellar of a particular house and fetch a bottle from a shelf. Yes, it’s true. In Ancient Athens condemned prisoners were compelled to drink hemlock. That was the species of plant I had once been! I was plucked by the herbalist who was employed to make poisons for the authorities and in the official judicial repository I had lingered.”
“You were Socrates!” exclaimed Paddy Deluxe.
Castor inclined his head. “I don’t like to brag, it’s a very inelegant thing to do, but you’re right, I once was Socrates, the wisest philosopher of olden times. I’ll tell you about my final moments, if you like, but first allow me to point out that I was wise only in the sense that I knew I knew nothing. That’s what I always claimed, but paradoxes like that annoyed the prominent Athenians and turned them against me. I was also suspected of being a potential traitor. It’s true I opposed democracy and saw much to admire in the tougher Spartan system, but my loyalty to Athens was unwavering. The trial was a farce but I accepted my fate philosophically. As a philosopher, what else could I do?
“Trials in Ancient Athens were different from what they are in modern Wales. There were no judges: the jury was supreme. To ensure fairness, juries were huge, 501 men were present to decide my case. After I made a speech in my defence and the prosecutor, a chap named Meletus, made a speech against me, the jury voted on my guilt. This didn’t go in my favour, 280-221 was the outcome. Oh dear! But what would the sentence be? Our custom was for defendant and prosecutor to each suggest a penalty. I proposed a fine of 30 minae (about £1886 in today’s money4) and Meletus proposed death. Another vote was taken and the result was 360-141 in favour of death. Charming!
“But the truth is that I contributed to my own martyrdom every step of the way. I could have resigned from philosophy and avoided the trial. Even in prison I had a chance to escape: my friends bribed the guards but I refused to go. I did everything in my power to ensure my execution. My followers assumed this was because of my superior moral courage, my desire to live within the rule of law, my disdain for earthly experience. Even I was unaware that I was really paying for other crimes, crimes not mentioned at my trial, crimes in my past, that were committed in my previous life as a wicked Pythagorean, and that the death sentence was his justice rather than the justice of the state.”
“Did drinking the hemlock hurt?” asked Frothing Harris.
“It wasn’t a comforting beverage,” said Castor in a quiet voice, “unlike beer or whisky, but I can’t say there was unbearable pain. I drank the bowl dry and then walked around a bit. Plato was there, a close friend, a bit humourless but not a bad sort, and when I felt suddenly weak he helped me to lie down on a pallet. Then the executioner came and pinched my foot, asking me if I could feel anything. ‘No,’ I answered. He pinched my legs at regular intervals up to my thighs. ‘Still nothing,’ I remarked. He nodded and said, ‘When the numbness reaches your heart, you’ll be gone.’ And that’s exactly what happened. I died and my soul left my body again and went elsewhere, but I don’t know where. Of all my numerous incarnations I only remember those three, and it’s an amazing coincidence that they all happened in sequence in the same country.”
Paddy and Harris conferred together. Finally they said:
“We believe your story because we both read about the death of Socrates in a book and it was exactly as you described. If you weren’t Socrates there’s no way you could have got the details right.”
“Glad you’re not naïve in any way,” commented Castor.
“What will you be reincarnated as next time?”
This was a question Castor didn’t like. “I might make a reasonable guess, based on a tally of my sins against a tally of my virtues, but it would require lots of work and take the mystery out of the process. Reincarnation is an enigmatic business and shouldn’t be controlled too much. I’ve already meddled more than enough with it. Look at what I managed to do with those three sequential lives! I planned my own murder in the first, ended my second as a bottled poison, consumed that poison in the third. It enabled me to kill myself without committing suicide. What else lets us get away with such blatant paradoxes?
“Buy me a drink, I’m feeling generous,” he concluded.
3 It is equal to the sum of the scares on the other two snides.
4 At the words “in today’s money” both Paddy and Harris clenched their teeth and growled.
When Wales Played Asgård
The glory days of Welsh rugby were in the 1970s, everyone knows that, and the general feeling is that such heights of sporting excellence can never be equalled. Castor Jenkins knows better. Not only were they equalled recently, but actually bettered, and he was the man who made the miracle happen. At least that’s what he says, but there’s no evidence to back up his claim, because the bravest game Wales ever played was an away match and took place not on Earth but in the supernatural realm of the Old Norse Gods. Only a return match in Cardiff against the same side will provide conclusive proof.
Castor explains the entire sequence of events in the following manner: “It was just after a crushing defeat against the All Blacks in the Millennium Stadium and I was waiting in the station for a bus back to Porthcawl, feeling rather low, cursing myself for wasting my money on a ticket, when I fell into conversation with a man also waiting in the queue. There was something unusual about him but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was the horned helmet, bearskin coat and broadsword slung at his belt, maybe not. Plenty of people use match days as an excuse to dress up in unconventional clothing.
“We boarded the bus and because the vehicle was crowded we ended up sitting next to each other. At first we talked about the game in a half-hearted manner, in the same way one might talk about a broken washing machine or bicycle puncture, but then I forgot the rules of discretion and bewailed the fact I wasn’t responsible for picking the Welsh side. I felt sure I could select a winning team if I was given a chance to do so. The main difficulty, I admitted, was that my ideal team consisted of players already dead. ‘That isn’t necessarily a problem,’ replied my companion, and I arched my eyebrows at that.
“He lowered his voice to a whisper and went on to explain that he wasn’t really a mortal man but Ullr, the god of skill, hunts and duels from Norse mythology, and that he had powerful contacts in Asgård, the Viking version of heaven. I knew in my heart he was telling the truth; there was something compelling about his whole demeanour, and I felt proud to be sitting next to him. I think he was pleased by my easy acceptance, and he grimly grinned in a reassuring way, if I might be permitted a paradox. Then he closed his eyes and recited, ‘Hann er ok fagr álitum ok hefir hermanns atgervi. Á hann er ok gott at heita í einvígi…’ and though I understood not a word, I nodded in agreement.
“‘That