Gertrude was another ring.

No, that’s too simple.

Gertrude was a young metalsmith who made Randy and fell in love with her work, which her work reciprocated by falling in love with her.

Too creepy.

Gertude was a bracelet (?), a necklace (?), a nose ring (?)

Maybe, but where’s the drama in that—true love transcends jewelry type?

What if Gertrude was a dagger!

Yes, now we’re getting somewhere. One was meant to be a decoration, to adorn the slender finger of a beautiful young noblewoman. The other was meant to kill the very same woman. They meet at midnight in the deep dark. A fancy room by candlelight. The assassin enters, and before the noblewoman can scream he stabs! His dagger (Gertrude) catches the light—as does her ring (Randy). The meet-cute at midnight. Love at first glint. Oh, the danger! The suspense! Will she live? Will she die? Will the dagger and the ring ever see each other again? They belong to different families, vastly different item types. Can their love transcend? Yes, but in a most tragic way, as both in hopelessness choose to be melted down rather than to exist apart. Or, perhaps, When Randy Met Gertrude. The attempted assassination of the noblewoman was just the beginning. The two items meet time and time again, but each time they fail to profess their love for each other. It’s never the right moment. Never the right place. Until, one day, it's too late.

And so on and on my imagination runs as Tabatha of Thask and a group of emaciated farmers armed with rather misshapen pitchforks escort me toward the Godhead, which, it turns out, is that very big unidentified structure silhouetted against the sky I saw in the previous chapter.

One mystery solved. Another begins: what is the Godhead?

From up close, it looks like a statue. Am I really supposed to talk to it or is the “talking” a metaphor and I'm supposed to think my story? Does it even matter what I say, or does my success or failure ultimately depend on what the villagers believe: if they believe my story was sad enough, the Godheads's tear (or “tear”) drops and the village is saved. Is it all a meaningless act which may or may not coincide with a change in the weather? What is belief, really?

Something factual: there are indeed stairs carved into the side of the Godhead. “So, I climb the stairs until I get to the ear and then literally say my story into the Godhead’s ear?” I ask Tabatha of Thask.

“Yes. There's a small platform to stand on.”

“Do I say it in my normal voice, like I'm using now, or do I yell it, or whisper?”

“Speak normally. If there's a problem the Godhead will tell you.”

“Like tell me tell me, or more like tell me symbolically by my reading of a change in the atmosphere-kind of thing?”

“You're asking if the Godhead has a voice,” says Tabatha of Rask.

“Yes,” I say.

“Godhead,” she says—upwards, “do you have a voice?”

The answer is a booming, “I do,” which sounds like a loud, low wind reverberating in a colossal cave. “Why would I not have a voice? I have always had a voice.”

“I asked for the benefit of a new storyteller.”

“Storyteller,” the Godhead says to me, which gives me goosebumps, as I have never been spoken to by a deity before, “ascend with your tale. I possess both voice and ear, but please do tell your tale into my left ear, as I believe my right has been impaired by the recent construction of a bird's nest.”

“Good luck,” says Tabatha of Thask as I place my foot on the first of many steps.

I look up.

The stairs wind their way around the Godhead, who's so tall that everything above His chin is obscured by clouds.

The stairs are also narrow—and slippery.

And there's no guardrail, so I lean against the Godhead as I ascend him, because falling off would be embarrassing and almost certainly fatal.

Mmm, the Godhead purrs. “That scratches an itch, storyteller.”

I’m afraid to look down, but I do, and I see figures small as pin pricks on the browned barren ground. I hug the Godhead even more after that, and continue ascending until I’m also obscured by clouds, and when I look down, I see only whiteness, and when I look up, the same, and it feels like I’ve fallen upwards into a reservoir of milk. I’m not sure how much time passes, but slowly the clouds thin out and I find myself above them. It is a strange sensation, like finding oneself in another world, in which the clouds are the new ground and the only other presence is the Godhead, now revealed in all His glory.

I see above me his ear, and the platform that Tabatha of Thask had mentioned.

By the time I reach it I’m out of breath.

I sit.

“Well met, storyteller,” the Godhead says.

“Hello,” I say.

“Do you bring me a sad tale of woe and great misfortunes?” He asks.

“I hope so,” I say.

“Excellent. First, please tell me your name, and the title of the tale which you have brought.”

“My name is Grom and I’m going to be telling a story called the Tragedy of Randy and Gertrude."

He instructs me to begin.

“So, uhm, once upon a time there was a ring. No, well, before the ring there was a ringmaker. But before as in before in time, not before as in in front of, so before in time there was a ring there was a ringmaker, and she made the ring, and the ring’s name was Randy.” If you can’t tell, I’m nervous. The story, bare bones as it is, was a lot smoother in my head. “Randy was a good looking ring and expensive and he was made to look good on a lady’s finger—”

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“Pause, storyteller.”

“Is something the matter?” I ask.

“I seek clarification. First, is this a story about a ring, not a human or a God or some other sentient being? Second, what is the significance of the ringmaker, if any? If none, why have you included her in your story. A ring suggests a ringmaker. Will you continue further into the past: a ringmaker is also made, so who was the ringmakermaker? Third, I do not like the name Randy. Perhaps this is personal bias, but Randy is not an epic name. I prefer epic names.”

“Is that all?” I ask.

“For now,” says the Godhead, and I attempt to address His points: “My story is about a ring, but it’s a sentient ring, one that talks and has feelings. I just haven’t gotten to that yet. It’s also not only about a ring. It’s also about—wait, what’s your view on spoilers?”

“I abhor them divinely.”

Good thing I asked. “In that case I'll say it's about a ring and a non-ring. As for the ringmaker, I don't think she's important. I mentioned her just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case I want to take the story in another direction as I'm telling it.”

“Do you mean to admit to me you do not know the story you are telling, storyteller? That is most unusual, but go on in your explanation.”

“I guess you might say there are a couple of stories I could tell, and I haven't decided which one I will tell.”

“But if you include the ringmaker and choose to tell the story in which she has no significance, by definition the story you have told is flawed for the inclusion of at least one insignificant detail.”

“But it could still be a good story,” I say.

“Imperfection should not be aspired to, storyteller.”

“No story is perfect,” I say and hear the Godhead rumble. It appears I'm making him annoyed rather than sad. “I don't intend to talk about the ringmaker’s parents because there's no version of the story in which they matter.”

“Why would the ringmaker matter?”

“That would be a spoiler—potentially—so I can’t tell you.”

“You may, as the version of the story with the ringmaker is not the version of the story you will tell me,” says the Godhead.

“But I don’t know that yet.”

“Forgive me. Sometimes I forget you humans have a very linear relationship with time.”

“You mean you can see into the future?”

“Hear, but yes. In a limited way.”

“So why even have me tell you a story if you can just hear the story I’ll tell?”

“Because I much prefer hearing you tell it in the present. The present is the land of emotion. Conceptually, you would not understand. I also do not enjoy listening in on the future—in this case, I did because you’ve told me there are several stories you could tell but only one you will, which piqued my curiosity.”

He’s right. I wasn’t going to tell that version with the ringmaker. “If you must know, in that version the ringmaker and Randy fall in love with each other.”

“What is this ringmaker’s name?”

“She doesn’t have one.”

“Then how could you have possibly told that version if the ringmaker does not have a name? The story is incomplete so you could not have told it.”

“I would have given her a name.”

“Which name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You humans frustrate me sometimes,” says the Godhead. “Regardless, whatever the ringmaker’s name could have been, the idea of a human falling in love with a piece of jewelry is creepy and I do not like it. I even am inclined to have a more negative opinion of the story you will tell for the reason that you even considered such a distasteful premise. But, in my Godheadness, I shall let it pass."

“Thank you,” I say. “There was also an issue with the name: Randy. I just want to be clear that Randy is a real ring and that’s his name, so that’s why it’s his name in the story.”

“So the story you are telling is a true story?”

“No.”

“Then you could very easily have changed the name of the ring to something more epic.”

“It’s fiction, but it's about a real ring.”

“A real ring whose name is Randy but who was not really involved in the events portrayed in the tale?"

"Exactly."

“Why would you choose to compose an untrue story about a real ring named Randy when you could have just as easily composed an untrue story about an unreal ring named something else?”

“I don’t know. I guess you might say that the real Randy was my inspiration.”

“Anyway, go on.”

I go on with my story, explaining the backstory of the hatred between jewelry and weapons, and the brutal meet-cute at midnight during the attempted murder of the noblewoman, when, “Pause,” says the Godhead.

“What is it this time?” I ask.

“This tale you are telling, it reminds me of something, a tale told to me once by another storyteller. What was his name… Shagspeare, Shakeshaft? Something like that. Tell me, storyteller, this ring and dagger—do they both die at the end?”

“Spoiler.”

“Very well. Let us get this over with. Continue.”

I perform another few minutes of the Tragedy of Randy and Gertrude.

“I am very sorry,” interrupts the Godhead again. “I tried, but I simply cannot endure it. Please do not take this the wrong way, but you are not an effective storyteller. Indeed, you are a rather poor one. Your story, I have heard it before. Your delivery is amateurish. So when you present me a well-worn tale told in a poor way, I can assure you it will not make me cry.” He pauses. “There. I listened ahead and: No, I don’t cry. Thank you for the attempt. Now please remove yourself from my ear.”

I knew it wasn’t going well but that’s still kind of abrupt. “No one told me you’d be so critical,” I say. “I thought you’d more or less just listen.”

“When you’ve heard as many tales as I have, you cannot help but become a critic. I mean you no disrespect. To you, your tale may be fresh and imaginative. To me it is not. End of story—literally,” says the Godhead.

What else can I do? I gave it my best shot, and my best shot wasn’t good enough. If I had a stat for storytelling, it would probably be less than 1.

The Godhead chuckles.

“And now you’re having a laugh at my expense,” I say.

“No, not at your expense, storyteller. At your idea: a storytelling stat—would that not be something? Clever.”

I must have been unknowingly narrating again. “Sorry,” I say. “I meant to think that, not say it. It is apparently a problem I have, unconscious narration. I should probably see somebody about it. One of these days it’s going to get me into real trouble.”

“For how long have you been a storyteller?” the Godhead asks.

The truth can’t hurt me now. “From the moment I stepped onto your platform,” I say, and I explain the misunderstanding with the villagers of Thask and how that led to me, who is decidedly not a master storyteller, finding myself up here, trying to tell a sad story. “It was a quest—only my second, and I wanted to help the villagers if I could. I apologize if I wasted your time. I should not have accepted the quest.”

“On the contrary. Your intentions were noble, and, I must say, the whole situation with Randy—the real one, not the half-baked character—I find quite humorous, and not at all at your expense. If anything, my opinion is that you are a fine young adventurer. Inexperienced, yes; but weren’t they all in the beginning? Do you know that when I was first carved into belief and believed into existence, I was about the size of your head, storyteller? Look at me now! Great becomes from small. You might say that it’s this becoming which is greatness. You may have failed your quest today, but there will be others. I do, however, wish to ask of you one more thing. When you were talking about Randy and the living thesaurus that would have caused you to die from cowardice.” He laughs. “Oh, that was a good one, wasn’t it? Well, when you were talking about that, you mentioned some snide nickname Randy has for you. What was that nickname, again?”

“Suckleslav,” I say.

“Right! Oh, because your name is Gromislav. I didn’t get it at first. Now I do. Oh, now I really do!” He’s laughing, a-booming with shakeful mirth. “Suckleslav. Momma’s boy. And—that part where you were defeated by a squirrel. Oh my! That just about positively tickled me like nothing else. I mean, squirrels are so small and harmless!” I almost need to hug Him to keep from falling off the platform. “Then you ate all the cookies like some kind of little human girl! I know I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t laugh but it’s the mental image, and the sounds, the sounds of those cookies being eaten and the wee squirrel coming at you like”—It is at this point (in the story) that I see it: a tear forming in the corner of the Godhead’s stony eye, forming and growing, and growing and finally, by his thunderous laughter, shaken free—“some kind of wild beast, but it’s just a fluffy-tailed little rodent”—and the tear, it slides down his chiseled cheek, detaches from His surface and falls…