The Boy Who Cried Horse (5 page)

“The Greeks are planning a trick!”

“Singerly songerly!” Paris roared and banged the table with his knife handle.

“He wants you to give us one of your poems, Acheron,” Helen cried. “Do it!”

“But…”

“Do it or we will be eating
you
in a pie at the next feast,” she snarled.

I’d lost my lyre. I had no song. I had to make it up as I went along. I began:

“
The Greeks they left a gift, a wooden horse;

It isn’t all it seems, you know … of course!

The horse is stuffed with soldiers, fully armed.

Once they’re inside our walls, they’ll do us harm.

Just leave the horse out there upon the plain;

Or Troy will die and never rise again!
”

Helen picked up a knife and threw it at me. I ducked and it slithered over the marble floor. “That is the worst poem I’ve ever heard. You should die for that!”

“But it’s the truth!” I wailed.

“Acheron, you are a poet and a storyteller. It is your job to tell us
lies
– tales about how brave Paris is, when we all know that really he’s a weedy little coward.”

“Cowardy whobee? Songerlees of bravebold Paris trulyful is!” Paris tried to say.

“You, Acheron, wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped out of a pie and smacked you in the eye. You can’t go making our feast gloomy with your tales of Greek victory,” Helen hissed. She turned to the guards at the table. “Execute the liar!”

I turned. I ran. I tumbled down the hill to home. I shook my mother awake and dragged her to the secret gate and out onto the windy plain.

We rested among the rocks that night and slept among the sweet scent of flowers, and the sweeter scent of freedom.

We awoke to the sound of squealing wheels.

The wooden horse was being dragged through the great main gates of Troy.

Endings

You know the rest of the tale, I guess. Once inside the city, the Greek soldiers climbed out of the wooden horse and opened the gates.

The Greek army returned, just as I’d said they would.

The rest was slaughter.

Paris and every man and boy was killed – except the one boy who was hiding in the hills, watching.

Every woman and girl was carried off as a slave to Greece. Helen was taken home to her husband.

The mighty city burned and fell. The walls cracked and crumbled in the heat. Troy died that day.

We lived among the ruins for many years. My mother died in time, as mothers do.

That was a lifetime ago. There is only one Trojan left to tell the truth.

The Greek poets sing their side of the story. I am left to sing mine alone. The song is of ‘The Boy Who Cried Horse’.

The trouble is I told lies. But I’m not lying now.

As Aesop the Greek storyteller said, “There is no believing a liar, even when he speaks the truth.”

You believe me, don’t you? I am Acheron the Liar. The last Trojan.

And that was my story.