Steadfast Bone-Snapper

My grandson the scriptor, the triumph and hope of our sorry little family, has asked me to supply him with the story of my life, now that I can no longer perform my official duties; to tell him how it was with us, as he puts it, but mostly, I believe, to make me account for myself: to explain to him how I could persevere for so many years in my abominable occupation and still consider myself a proper human being.

Very well. The work of my life has always been double: to perform the duties imposed upon me by my masters so that no complaint could be lodged against me; and to redeem our family name, so that we should no longer suffer the ignoble reputation with which my profession is benightedly encumbered.

I will not at this time burden my high-minded but nonetheless loving grandson with the ridiculous happenstance through which our clan was thrust from its humble but respectable position in society. But I will tell how it came to be that I, through hard work and impeccable conduct, gained sufficient respect, within our sometimes small-minded community, that it became possible for him to be given the opportunity for a better life. In fairness, I must say that he has prospered in his work through his own admirable behavior, and also that his unconscious attitude of superiority to me is forgivable: first of all, it is no more than what everyone else believes; and second, as I have said, he is a loving soul in spite of the arrogance that seems natural to persons of his age and early attainment.

My father, who served as executioner, grave-digger, and night-watchman in the tiny town where I was born, was able, through his acquaintance with others of his trade, to help me win an apprenticeship, when I was sixteen years old, in the Office I served as Rectifier for over thirty years. Before that, I was employed as his assistant, learning the tools, the knots, and the holds, helping with the carpentry, and practicing with his second sword on stray dogs.

It is not amiable work, but it is essential. As long as there is evil done in this world, it must be redressed, or it will spread without check. And someone must perform that preventive function, however distasteful the thought of it may be to the refined sensibilities of philosophers and artistes. As the Remnant say, there are laws in this world, and we live by them.

At one time, that world formed a coherent, intelligible whole; evildoers simply could not prosper, since it was their actions, not what they pretended or avowed they were doing, that people believed. Now, it matters less what a person does, or even what others say they think about it, but by what name the deed comes to be known, and once a person's action is given a title, this name can give shelter to scoundrels, whose position (in a society more concerned with what things are called than with what is actually done) prohibits such creatures from being reached by justice. It has been my duty all these years to be the point of the sword of justice, but that sword is simply no longer long enough.

In my youth, if men and women did their work, the society we formed with that work was whole and sound. Those who did not do their work languished, and were gradually sloughed off by the rest. A scriptor, like my grandson, was not required, because everyone knew everyone else, and what they had done, and what others said they had done, and what to make of what those others said, because we knew those others as well. No documentation was required.

A scriptor's work interferes with this power of discernment in people to decide for themselves what is true and what is not, based on their experience of the particular circumstance, of the event itself, and of life in general. The scriptor's work — the creation of a text — permits a tyrant to proclaim, 'This is what took place, this is what was done, as it is here written. Whatever you believe to be the case, this is the truth.' You cannot argue with a text, for text has no ears to hear, no mind to judge, no heart to forgive.

You may say that a person who was not right there, when this or that happened or was done, cannot know the truth concerning the event or deed, but must rely on a second-hand account from someone who was. Yes, but if I know the person giving the account, and if I am attentive to how that person tells the tale, I will know what that person believes to be true, always remembering that a person can be wrong. But you cannot lie to a person's face without betraying this fact, and liars only get away with their crimes when their listeners are either distracted by their own desires or complicit in the crimes themselves, oftentimes both.

You may object that some liars are so good at their craft that they can fool anyone. Not so: the first thing I heard in my mother's womb may have been her beating heart, but the second thing I heard was her voice. When I emerged from that wonderful place into this terrifying domain, the first thing I saw was the face of the midwife, a stranger. I have spent every day of my life since then reading faces and interpreting their utterance; and if I have not learned by now how to do that properly, whoever tricks me with a lie is entitled to whatever reward can be wrung from it.