The Kingdom Without Lies

The greater part of the truth is always hidden

— R. R. Tolkien

In a distant kingdom, the King, after consulting his sages and the oracle, issued a decree:

everyone was free to seek and proclaim their own truth.

That day it was officially declared that no universal truth existed.

“Let there be no lies, no pretending.

Be sincere, seek your own right and wrong —

but remember, the truth of others is no less than yours.”

The oracle foretold, “Thus will prosperity come.”

But who ever said oracles are never wrong?

At first, people truly became more attentive.

It seemed that life was getting better — but not for long.

Sincerity blossomed, and soon they found that some flowers smelled anything but sweet — sharp enough to sting the air.

The more people listened to each other, the less they liked what they heard.

And inevitably, quarrels began again.

“You never listen to me!” said one man.

“Oh, I do,” said another, “you’re just not pleased with what you hear.”

“I can’t keep changing my mind forever, even for you, my friend,” sighed a woman.

“You never really changed it!” her neighbor retorted.

People stopped lying and tried to be polite — yet truth did not bring peace.

Sincerity without sense may turn into a torch in a child’s hand.

“I like the mess near my house,” said a troublemaker. “It helps me relax!”

“But we like cleanliness,” replied the neighbors. “Our truth is no worse than yours — and there are more of us!”

“Don’t touch him!” shouted the local brute. “Better beware! Our ancestors solved everything with their fists. This method is older than your so-called order!”

By evening, a fight broke out in the capital.

People tried to calm them,

but only the guards managed to restore order.

Well, the guards — they, after all, had the highest right to be right.

One Adviser who worked for the King, watching this, wondered:

“When everyone is right in their own way, truth belongs to no one.”

And even if words are honest — who can say that deeds are?

He set out on a journey to find the answer.

He heard one farmer say that his truth was to work hard and earn well,

while another claimed that true freedom meant living without obligations.

He met healers, merchants, the young and the old — each had their own truth, their own morals, their own way of understanding life.

The farther he went, the clearer it became: when truth wears too many faces, it loses its own.

One hot summer day he climbed high into the mountains.

The valley lay far below, and on the summit,

close enough to touch the clouds,

stood an ancient, mighty tree — its roots gripping the stone, its branches reaching toward the sky.

In its cool shade, upon a smooth rock, sat an old Sage, gazing at the heavens through trembling leaves.

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The Adviser told him everything.

The Sage listened quietly and said:

“In nature there are no rival truths.

Look at the tree: it does not argue with the wind, nor fight the rain, nor seek to prove it is right.

It simply grows — and in doing so, it serves life.

You too, after your long journey, now rest in its shade.

All living things are part of one harmony.

If someone did create this world,

they placed within it

the law of balance.”

He paused, then added:

“Harmony lives within people as well.

Inside us meet the inner and the outer, the feminine and the masculine, stillness and motion.

When one of them takes control, misfortune follows.

If the outer suppresses the inner — violence arises;

if the inner breaks away from the outer — chaos begins.

So it is in a family: when one wants to be right and the other to be happy, both become unhappy.

The Dao lives between them, like the melody of a flute — beautiful only when the instrument itself is shaped by harmony.”

“But people need freedom,” said the Adviser. “Even within a family.

When something feels unpleasant, they call it evil and try to escape from it. That’s understandable.

Yes, not all difficult is evil, and not all pleasant is good.

But how can one tell true understanding from false?”

The Sage smiled.

“Look at parents — do they wish harm to their children? No.

Yet they teach what seems hard, and by doing so, they preserve life.

Does a tree seek to destroy the forest just because it wants more sunlight?

No. It shares what it can — light, water, and shelter — so that the forest may live.

Truth is not always pleasant,

but it gives roots.

The genuine truth is not the one that shouts the loudest,

but the one that preserves life, even when its voice is barely heard.

There are eternal truths — like roots: without them, everything dies.

And there are leaves — they change and whisper in the wind,

but they are nourished by the same sap.”

The Adviser was silent for a long time.

And he understood: truth is not in inventing one’s own laws,

but in hearing the law that existed long before us.

Without that ground beneath their feet, people will fall into the abyss,

imagining they have learned to fly.

He bowed to the Sage and returned home — to the kingdom without lies, yet without truth.

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Now he realized:

Truth is not a dispute between people,

nor an endless search for better arguments,

but the breath of the Universe —

through which speaks the design of Creation.

And even if no one accepts it,

the Universe keeps breathing just the same —

for it is the truth itself.

The Adviser walked his path with a calm heart,

for he now truly sensed:

only those who dare to touch universal harmony

will find the true gifts of sincere

and liberated life.

— Erian Lin Grant, August — October 2025