History

A story I am currently handing in in a portfolio... It is about the ability to change the past by lying, and how getting caught up in that can change you as well.

The grass gently slithered past as we walked through the eerie woods, I suppose we were the ones moving through it, but in this twilight hour everything seems fluid, normal seems a weird concept, so the grass slithered on around us and we made our way to the centre. I had heard a rumour about this place; they say that this was where the battle was won, about five hundred years ago, ten thousand men walked this land, they say lots of things, but ten thousand is a lot of things. As we walked through we could catch glimpses of the moon, she was rounder than yesterday, fatter, plump. Not me, I was thin, perfectly so.

I wonder if the moon shone that night? I mean you would think that you would need light but maybe not, I ask this out loud. They take the bait and I casually elaborate. Ten thousand fought here, on this spot, I say, the forest echoes still, a shriek and shatter, punctuate my words. A visible shiver ripples through the group and a quiet susurrus of voices echoes back the cry.  Not one amongst them question how perfectly punctuated I was, I suppose birds do shriek, and animals are clumsy. I wonder to myself if it was forest before. Probably not, the trees are young, but strong. Hot blood coursed through them once, I say, maybe still does. We were edging nearer, there is this clearing you see, it’s wonderful, a perfect circle, and in the centre is a memorial, a stone. We don’t know who placed it but it’s a rock from the battle itself, I say. It’s huge, a boulder, perfectly flung way back from the battle. It killed the general, one shot and the battle ended. Well could have. That’s the story.

 I like it here; it’s peaceful like an empty building. You know it used to be busy. I told them I found this place last week, when I was hiking, a glint in their eyes gives away their awe. All the plants here are sunset red. It is autumn. Blood red. I like this clearing, it is beautifully empty, carefully thinned of plants and life. No one notices that everything is too perfect, the plants look too wild.

There was a meeting of all those with high positions. Ages ago now, but well within a human lifetime. People were contacted, my company was founded. The problem was simple, the town had far too little going for it. The solution was even simpler. My company runs behind the scenes in every aspect of town life now. We’re treading a fine line between crime and history, but the most beautiful part is no one will ever know. I got this job on my twenty-third birthday; it was all very secretive; my parents still don’t know where I get my money from. I think they think I sell drugs, or myself. I suppose I do sell my ideas. The company liked the idea of battles and blood, I can still hear the meeting with the creative department; “Blood Sells”. I suppose I could be called a playwright, or a story teller. If I was officially hired by my “customers” I would be similar to those people you see dragging around helpless people on ghost tours; the only difference is I know for a fact my ghosts aren’t there.

We’re here now, the group seems interested. Moonlight is gently caressing the boulder, it catches the light perfectly and their faces light up. I delve into the dark details surrounding the site, the fighting and the war. They are eating up the details. The blood soaked flowers and trees. I found this group in town; I pretended I was doing a survey. Or was I doing a survey? It doesn’t matter they believed whatever it was, and now they are here. They ask about the general and I tell them about his downfall. This time he was from France and heir to a throne. They never really ask which throne, or where in France. Then again I never really let them, my job is to sell. I like my job. I get to be an authority on history, on a history anyway. The shriek of a bird calls again. It’s perfect. Recorded bird sound is better than the real thing. It’s not native to this wood. Then again neither are these plants, or the trees in the grove. But they grow here. I tell another ghost story related to the plants… a boy fallen in battle with a flower from his lover, how it is said that it blossomed red in mourning. Spread and flourished. I wonder if a boy had ever died here. Probably, does it really matter though? When I think they are full of history and heartily scared I walk them back. Slithering between them, and the boulder. I touch the rock. It feels real, solid. It feels like it was flung from the back of a battle; like it could have killed a general in a war.

Really I only tell them what they wish to hear. They come to this town, and then they tell their friends. Their friends come and bump into someone else, very much like me, then after that maybe people head out on their own, maybe with an honest hiker, to find the boulder. When asked, the townsfolk warn people not to go into the woods, they say it is haunted by a General and his men. You see more people will come if you tell people to go away. This town went from nowhere on the map to a hive of tourists. Spread only through word of mouth, lots of mouths admittedly, in various towns. The town is now bathed in a bloody history, and the company makes a tidy profit from the increased revenue a proper history affords.