Broken Stones is a work of fiction. Any events, places, individuals, or companies depicted in Broken Stones are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Mentira Valley’s long season of bad karma and general misfortune ended with a barely perceptible turn of the wheel of fate. Repairs were underway to restore the broken and cracked cobblestone roads. New shops and houses could be seen in various stages of construction. Even the persistent drought relented under a blanket of gentle and serendipitous rain. This newborn confidence had been sparked by rumors of gold in the rough slopes above the valley, followed by the inevitable appearance of hard-eyed men looking to profit from gleaming opportunity. When the truth was discovered – the golden rocks were in fact common pyrite – the hollow men silently withdrew in search of more favorable prospects. A lesser place might then have succumbed to the cold grasp of entropy, but Mentira’s strength was based on more than the mere possibility of mineral riches. The siren call of wealth, once exposed, allowed the residents of Mentira to recognize their valley as an unusual and spectacular setting and simply a fine place to live and work.
Yet not everyone is equally able to catch the rising tide. Consider Rabio. One might search the world over and never gaze upon a more somber and cheerless visage. Rabio occupied a small earthen-colored home along an unremarkable stretch of cobblestone road near the edge of town. He was meticulous about his daily chores, fixated on the myriad of minor acts that form the incidentals of life. Utterly opposed to disorder, he maintained his bungalow in a state of such brutal cleanliness that every exposed surface was left with a faint but undeniable chemical presence, like sterile gauze on skin. Rabio would spend hours organizing his meager possessions into an uninspired Cartesian array of straight lines and right angles.
Rabio’s one saving grace, the thing that kept him from dropping entirely off the visible human spectrum, was his ability to create small but finely detailed models from match sticks. He was exceedingly clever with his hands and could render minute recreations of almost any real-world object. His neighbors would often remark upon the precision of these tiny forms and the patience required to make them. Perhaps motivated by such praise, Rabio was known to suddenly and awkwardly reward the surprised admirer with the model in question. Whenever he shared his creations in this way, he felt oddly invigorated; a connection with things and people external to his limited existence.
But for reasons known only to Rabio himself, even these nascent social efforts were becoming increasingly rare, like the flickering scenes from another life. More and more often Rabio would sit stiffly on his hard flat couch and stare longingly outside, wishing for something to do; something manifest and grand. The days stretched into weeks and the weeks to months and still Rabio would sit and measure his fate, occupying the space behind his window; lifeless as the cobblestones littering in the street. The little matchstick figures grew faded with age and welcomed no new members to their world.
Rabio would have been surprised to know that his neighbors actually liked him and found his odd mannerisms endearing. It hurt them to see him imprisoned in his austere sanctuary, so they set about thinking of ways to reverse his decline.
Caught up in the new confidence sweeping Mentira, they approached Rabio one day and said, “Why don’t we build a castle on the highest hill in the village? Mentira is now growing, and we need such a symbol. It would be the first to catch the dawn and the last to see the sunset. Your ability to make such wonderful small things will surely scale to the large and prominent.”
Rabio’s first thought was to reject this outrageous idea out of hand. But the more he considered it the more tempted he was, remembering the toy blocks from his childhood and the fortresses he made. When he built things others could envy it mattered not that the blocks were too large or his hands too small.
Afraid to expose these fragile hopes he said, “I would like to do this thing but I’m afraid I don’t have enough stones – and I would need a lot of stones.”
Collectively they agreed that, if they could find the needed stones, they would all work together and help create the first Castle Mentira. They talked into the night and hit upon plan, a solution that was literally right in front of them. As Mentira’s roads were replaced there would be no shortage of worn and broken cobblestones there for the taking. Mentira’s recent dismal past would itself provide the source material for this new symbol of strength and rebirth.
Rabio was ecstatic. He saw this castle as a way to enliven his dreary life and finally build his dream. He told his neighbors that in return for their help and kindness they could come to his castle freely and make use of all the wonderful facilities. At the time his neighbors thought nothing of this strange statement; they assumed that Rabio was just vocalizing the enthusiasm they all felt. It was only later that they realized he had meant exactly what he said, but by then it was too late to alter the fateful path. Rabio, you see, had begun to imagine the as-yet unborn castle as his own future home, unique and beautiful with gleaming ramparts and soaring turrets.
The neighbors cleaned off their old carts and wheelbarrows and set about the grueling work of collecting cobblestones near their homes and moving them to the hilltop, trading one form of dust for another. Once the work began, each became immersed with the project and began to offer ideas on the basic design, the size of the courtyard, the height of the windows, and the color of the walls. They would meet and argue and meet some more. Though not even one of them had built an actual castle before, the undertaking became a common and shared goal, a goal that consisted of more than just stone and wood and glass.
But it quickly became apparent that real castles built of stone and wood and glass are wholly different from tiny castles made of matchsticks. Hearing this, Rabio began reminding them that they were merely the helpers, not the builders, and that they were merely assisting him in building his castle. Rabio was insistent on this and became quite angry when neighbors failed to understand these simple and obvious facts. With each such argument his neighbors began to see him more clearly and understood that perhaps Rabio had not come upon his lonely life by accident. Perhaps lonely lives seek out their predestined vessels.
As is often the case in the world that men and women have made, the most terrible disputes occurred over the smallest of decisions. Like vile spores these arguments grew and flourished in the fertile soil of suspicion and doubt. Questions of leadership and authority were raised along with their cousins, power and influence. Ownership and credit were asserted, blame cast, and the whole construction effort seemed weighted down by the monstrous anchor of self-indulgence.
Nearly a year after beginning and despite the inherent hostility and growing acrimony, the day came in late autumn that Castle Mentira was done, and a grand opening planned. Although barely on speaking terms, Rabio and his neighbors put aside their differences and prepared a feast fit for a king. As the last rays of the sun angled against the polished leaded windows, the great oaken doors swung open and all the Mentira Valley folks walked slowly between the carved lions. Once inside they marveled at the great hall, gazed up at the soaring arches and touched the ancient stone made new.
One by one they approached Rabio and his neighbors and said, “You and your friends have created a wonderful gathering place. The sturdy walls are fit, the roof does not leak, and all within are warm and dry and safe”.
In the spring when the flowers bloomed word continued to spread about the amazing place high in the hills above the valley. Even the hard-eyed men came again to set their blank gaze upon the castle – an opportunity lost – but soon departed when they were told that such symbols cannot be for sale.
Yet, in what should have been his moment of triumph, Rabio could not stop the growing resentment within. He saw his neighbors as mere accessories to his goals, and he utterly lacked the capacity to forgive. As he watched the popularity of the castle grow, he became increasingly angry and introverted. He refused to come to the castle, preferring instead his gloomy little house with its four drab walls. Day by depressing day he would turn away from the town and toward the gathering darkness within.
“This was my idea”, he thought, “All should know me and envy my castle in the sky.”
In his mind he saw his neighbors, his former friends conspiring to ruin his vision and take away what was rightfully his. They had taken it from him and twisted it into something he was loath to contemplate. Whenever Rabio glanced at the castle, instead of seeing the soaring arches and leaded glass windows, he saw a monument to a stolen dream. Rabio’s bitterness grew until hatred, suspicion and jealousy overwhelmed his mind. He began to plot revenge against those he believed had wronged him. He would crush all of them, all the blackguards and thieves that were at this moment (he knew) plotting to humiliate him further.
He began to travel about the valley and whisper to all who would listen that his neighbors were insidious and evil and had planned all along to steal his ideas.
“The castle”, he would say, “is cursed with the bad luck of thieves. Take care if you choose to visit”.
He invented fantastic schemes and weird tales which he pawned off to the townspeople as actual events. He planted the twin seeds of fear and doubt which would sometimes take root and grow into monstrous deceptions, infecting the unwary. Rabio eventually became unable to recognize real events from those he had fabricated. His utter and complete conviction in his fantasies made him seem, for a time, quite believable.
When the real castle on the hill became, to him, compromised beyond repair, Rabio built in his mind the perfect substitute – a house of lies. This house did not keep off the rain or warm the body or revitalize the spirit. Living in such a monument of deception brought him no inner happiness. Requiring no stones, he had constructed this bleak house lie by crafty lie, a sham structure empty save the indistinct and counterfeit shadows of myth.
Inevitably, as the truths emerged to cancel each lie one by one, the house of lies collapsed in upon itself like the frail thing it was, leaving no mark on the barren ground.
Someday you will pass a small earthen-colored home on an unremarkable stretch of road. You might wonder at the shrunken figure crouched within, staring out his small window at dreams unknown. Around his feet will lay small objects, twisted and misshapen, grotesque soliloquies to deception. Matchsticks without form or function, cast aside in a whispered cry of regret and madness by the last resident of the house of lies.
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