Boy Who Cried Wolf
Nelson Lowhim
Picture a boy in the fields: a shepherd, this boy, he herds his sheep, keeping an eye out for those wolves which would dare to eat his livelihood. Now, let’s look at the story we all know: boy grows bored. He cries wolf. Mocks the townspeople for coming to help. They leave. Our boy does this again. Laughs so hard he can’t breathe, we’re told. A few days later, he cries wolf because there is a wolf. But now the townspeople refuse to come to his aid, either having been spurned and refusing to be laughed at, or assuming there is no wolf or, perhaps assuming the boy is human and his tenor has changed, think it’s a wolf but hate the boy enough to never want to help him again, perhaps explaining to themselves how they could claim ignorance— how could they be sure it was a wolf? Either way, the wolf eats sheep, our boy becomes a beggar or dies.
That’s the story we think we know. Essentially a tale of morality that claims that one shouldn’t make false claims. Or else. It would be good if everyone followed such a moral rule. But any knowledge of this world would show that this isn’t so, that it really depends on how you frame the false claims. Therefore, my problem is with the supposed consequences of lying. Or false alarms or false worlds we spin for people.
Think on the story of the boy and wolf. Whatever the culture of the boy and the townspeople, the culture must see a fight against wolves to be dear enough that anyone yelling the very word wolf will automatically conjure up a people’s militia.
That the boy managed to poke fun at this social contract seems to be one of the main reasons he was punished: the false alarms alone aren’t bad, but if you do it for a variable everyone places a lot of value on, you will be punished.
Yet even that analysis pales in comparison to the original set of wolf stories from Tanzania. At Columbia University, at the top of Butler Library, there’s a rare books section and it is here that I read about the variations of the boy and the wolf, translated by an outcast of Venice. This translator was duly killed for the book and the ideas it held. The book itself was the conglomeration of several decades of research into Tanzanian stories over twenty thousand years old.
Found near the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro, this old civilization had stories in sets (no story was ever singular). Note: even this set was 1/1000th of what actually existed.
1
Once upon a time, there was a boy who attended to a flock of sheep. Bored one day, he decided to have a little fun and, the boy, he cried wolf. The townsfolk came a running to aid him and were surprised to find no wolf. The boy chuckled and the townspeople went back. The boy cried wolf again and was soon admonished by the townspeople. One day a real wolf did come by and the boy cried wolf and no one came and the wolf killed many sheep. Now the boy went to the townspeople and admonished them for what would they eat that year and what warm clothing would they have?
The townspeople agreed but said there had to be some punishment for crying wolf and the boy agreed and thus checks and balances were born.
2
Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived a couple of villages over from the last one and who cried wolf as many times as he wanted to because if any townspeople didn’t come he would admonish them as wolf lovers, people who wanted to see the village fall to wolves and starve and so everyone came no matter what.
3
Once upon a time, a few more villages over was another boy who would always cry wolf and when the townspeople came, he would thank them, for the wolf was always just frightened away by the sound of so many of them, and weren’t they great brave townspeople? The best townspeople? The very best townspeople, didn’t they remember the time when their grandfathers had chased off a wolf, killed it? And everyone nodded their heads, it was a story they all knew and it filled them with pride—maybe even a little ashamed that they didn’t have a wolf to fight—best to be vigilant you know, so they kept coming back when the boy cried wolf and he always knew what to say, silver-tongued bastard that he was. But soon he was calling wolf so much that the rest of the village fell to disrepair and soon the villagers rebelled, though not at the boy, he was too smart and would blame a witch or someone else and they would kill them or set fire to their houses, the poor scapegoats inside, and soon he had them set fire to the forest, but this really upset the balance of the forest and one day the village, weakened by too many wolf calls and the dwindling of human and natural resources (remember the burnings) when wolves attacked their village one night. The wolves lost. The people had guns, after all. But the biosphere was done and the village slowly died out.
Here we have a slight change to the story we know. In the first one, the social contract is maintained after it was realized that the boy tore the previous levels of trust while the townspeople still had to react to wolves.
The second one has the boy a little more intelligent, maybe used car salesman-esque maybe even conman-esque (and we all know that every great tradition is started by a conman). The boy uses the ideas people have about wolves and how they judge themselves (one can assume that manhood is most likely tied to reactions to wolves: fight, don’t think, and so forth). The boy on some level knows this and uses it to his advantage.
An exception to the rule we all know about: the conman who most people either fall for or accept. Of course, then, one would ask what tradition does this boy start? Well, the possibilities are endless: he now has the power to call people at his will. One day he might use this to better enrich himself outside of laughter.
In the third story, we have less of a variation from the 2nd, in that this is about another boy as conman and the consequences. Except that such actions result in the village slowly dying out. Another tale trying to tell a moral that may not happen in reality (or to which the townspeople would at least try to counter).
It does, ultimately, depend on the conman in charge and what exactly he does with this power of his. He could mend the village or use other methods to alleviate his actions, or use his power to direct the people in other directions.
Even if there were someone to counter him in the village, this could lead to a civil war—assuming the person had enough power (or hatred)—or the person could help alleviate the boy’s behavior.
Which brings us to our own day, and the politics that cry wolf in terms of terrorism, or perhaps in the form of a fear which can be aroused in the people, and then, as they’re distracted, used to pick their pockets. Of course, this makes me—as we enter year 18 of the longest war we’ve known as a nation—want to mock the very idea of the social contract which would, at the call or cry of a wolf, come running time and again when they didn’t have to, or when there were bigger problems out there.
I noted all this to a friend who humored me at the start, then moved to openly mock me as she didn’t believe me.
I was hurt, as only I could be, but I managed to turn the conversation back to the original issue of the boy who cried wolf. A child’s tale, she said, confused by my interest. And what of the book, the two men who were killed for revealing the depth of the original tale (not only our man in Venice in the 16th century but a man in Britain in the 19th century)?
She mocked me again, and I dug into my position, claiming that the very fact that the power of the day hunted this man meant there must have been truth and value in what he said.
Now, it was her turn to dig in: look around you, on the internet, everywhere. There are loud contrarians in every corner of the world. Some are even shut down by powers, but that doesn’t mean they have any truth to their side. In fact, I’d even go so far as to say that whoever is in power is the one who we should consider to have truth on their side. Otherwise how else would they win if reality was against them?
I hated her for her logic, though I couldn’t refute what she said. I balked at her conclusion and stated that all those in power were cons. Fair enough, she said, perhaps sensing that this was a somewhat futile door to push against. They may not all be cons, but your haterism makes you see that everywhere.
She went on picking me apart: you mentioned how the boy could be a conman starting a tradition as all traditions are started. Then all he is, all the author is or was trying to do, at best, is start from scratch a tradition, a conman’s tradition, which would benefit him and maybe his followers. See, I was once like you, but power is indeed a tradition.
I hate being bested in debate. I could see why men have preferred trial by combat. But I still managed to say that taking down power was, at best, necessary for society.
She rolled her eyes. Most likely, the man was just a punk kid and the Renaissance author slept with the wrong person or didn’t care to bend the knee at the right time: it could be that the story isn’t relevant to what got him killed.
Or it could be those in power hated the story and wanted him dead.
She laughed in my face.
We left it at that, though I simmered in my own thoughts at how she could so easily accept the status quo: but that only brought me more pain as her writing was loved and well-received everywhere while mine still wallowed in obscurity and, furthermore, was almost universally hated.
I still go back to the author and all the boy who cried wolf stories he unearthed. The version the Tanzanians enjoyed was especially beautiful: boy sees wolf stalking his sheep. Bravely, the boy confronts this one, but realizes it’s a werewolf. They make love, but the werewolf (or something like a hyena in their world) needs blood and afterward they fight, though the werewolf backs off and eats a sheep instead.
The boy, not knowing what to do, cries wolf. Townspeople come. He claims the wolf took one sheep, the townspeople, suspicious he didn’t call them earlier, leave.
He does it again at the next full moon. The townspeople now grow absolutely furious, though they don’t really know what exactly is going on, they start to think either the boy is playing games or is cursed.
The next full moon, the townspeople go up to see what’s going on. Except the boy is gone. Theories abound: some say he was eaten by a wolf or werewolf, others that some ghost got him. The people forever remain ignorant and divide his sheep amongst themselves.
The author goes on to explain how not only did the Tanzanians have several versions that won out over time, depending on the era, but how some could live side by side. For example, there was one about the townspeople being called a third time but finding the boy dead since they took too long to come up. The werewolf was angry and this time went for the boy’s throat (or, its love had weakened it, and now it was not strong enough to overcome its desire for human flesh), or the boy lunged at the werewolf and was thus killed.
Others have the townspeople killing the boy. Yet others have the townspeople laying a trap, then killing the werewolf. The boy cries and they seize and kill him too, or the boy remains stolid and lives out his days trying to tempt fate (in another set, he goes mad and rebels and is killed, or fights for the Emperor and is hailed a hero).
One story that never gained traction amongst the Tanzanians is where the boy continues seeing the werewolf, then joins him. Or the one where every visit requires a sheep as a sacrifice to his lover. In the end he dies in penury, the werewolf gone after the last sheep, or he is killed by the hungry werewolf.
I suppose with all these stories, one can see a sort of vein of humans reaching out to explain their world or to try and escape it. Or perhaps both.
I’ve been writing for a long time now and I don’t see why I just see apes speaking, lying and hoping to be heard. I see perhaps that was my mistake. And I see this for myself as well.
Nelson Lowhim is a writer, artist, immigrant & veteran. Short stories published in: Adbusters, Red Rock Review, Aaduna, Fearsome Critters, Queen Mob Teahouse, Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, BlazeVox, Omni, Wry Ronin, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Bread & Beauty Literary Magazine, Nine Line Anthology, Vet Lit: How We Remember War, Vet Lit II: So it Goes, SF Books, Seattle Poetic Grid, The Mantle, & Afterwords & accepted in other places. With many novels out to include: Ministry of Bombs, The Struggle, When Gods
Fail & Labyrinth of Souls.