I think my ma would be disappointed in me. Well, proud of me too, but also disappointed in me. She's the one that taught me why it's right to be honest, to be kind, to be fair, to be just. She told me a lot of things about it that I don't think I could repeat clearly. Maybe if my sister Aelfwyn were here, she could not just repeat it but explain it well; she was always as smart as I wasn't. All I remember is two things.
First, that you don't do it because it's going to benefit you right now; you do it because it's right. Right means it's better for everyone, not just me, maybe not me at all -- it might be worse for me. Right means it's better for all the time, not just right now, maybe not right now at all -- it might make things worse right now.
And second, that even if you don't do it because it's going to be good for you right now, it will be good for you. You might have to go through some hurt, some loss, some tragedy even. But in the long run, over a lifetime, making dishonest choices does come back to get you, and making honest ones does too. It might just be because people who are selfish, dishonest, or treacherous, find themselves in the company of other people who are selfish, dishonest, or treacherous, and eventually suffer from their greed, lies, and betrayal. It might be that you get into dangerous business: the world's full of enough dangers, without also having to have the betrayal of your friends, and the opposition of the just, added on top.
It all sounds like such a jumble when I try to explain it to myself. Like a topsy-turvy pile of sticks that might look like it holds up, but you know the moment someone comes along and attacks it, it will all fall apart. Ma was better at making it sound true, strong, unassailable. I bet Aelfwyn could make it into a tower of stone, though perhaps one I couldn't climb, let alone defend.
I know I couldn't explain it at all, let alone defend it, to Haritha when she made the argument that the real reason I played at being honest was for my own benefit, which isn’t any less selfish than her own dedication to mischief, dishonesty, and immorality. She seems to think it's all so I can feel better about myself. And she points out, with daggered words that cut me deeper than I want to admit to myself, how my honest life has left me alone, far from home, with no coin and little hope of surviving the next year, and nothing but a failure to report if I do make it back.
Of course she's right. And of course there are ways that dishonesty might seem to make things better. I could get coin more easily if I were to steal. I could avoid the dangerous return trip entirely, or at least put it off until I could do it in relative safety. I could even find some old lantern and claim it's the one I was sent for, and who would know otherwise? Even someone as foolish as me can think of a dozen ways I could lie and have a happier today. Even ignoring the most obvious one: not walking away from her, not choosing to be alone.
But honesty isn't about helping myself, and even if it were, it wouldn’t be about helping myself today. All those lies would give me a moment's happiness, a day's, a year's, but all of them would come back to make things worse. Not, as she imagines, because they would gnaw at me, make me feel guilt and remorse. They would, probably, but that's not why. No, they'd come back in ways that undermine the happiness they brought. Coin I stole would be stolen from me since I'd be consorting with those who steal. Avoiding loneliness by someone who'd leave another for me means inviting the more pointed loneliness when she left me for someone else.
After our discussion last night, which I suspect will be the last time we ever speak -- or at least the last time it's more than just a courteous hello -- I wonder how right I am to feel disappointed in myself. Or how right my ma would be to be disappointed in me. She'd be proud that I wasn't tempted, not even by a pretty girl offering promises of affection, to set aside what's right, not even for a moment. She'd be disappointed that I did such a poor job of explaining or defending being right, or convincing her she should do the same. But I wonder if even Aelfwyn could have convinced Haritha. I think there's only one thing that will ever convince her, if even that does, and that's feeling the sharp end of deception's misfortune enough more times that she can no longer avoid realizing how much of it came from her own choices.
Aelfwyn, in winter; in summer her hair turns more golden, burnished blonde.
