The tribe gathers, but the tribe is not here. Their faces float in a flat black stone, small and trapped, each in its own little cave. No fire between them. No smell of each other. They talk to hunt something, but I see no meat.
My tribe-mate makes the little sun-symbol glow red on his stone. Now his mouth still moves, but no sound comes out to the others. He is a spirit that speaks and is not heard. This is his shield.
Behind the shield, he becomes another man. He sighs the long tired sigh. He rolls his eyes at the floating faces. He says low, ugly words about the big one, the chief who leads this hunt, and the chief does not know. He scratches. He chews. He is honest only when he is silent to the tribe.
Then the chief calls his name. His hand jumps to the red sun. It goes dark. His face becomes soft and eager and false again. "Yes," he says warm, "I agree." He was cursing the same words one breath before.
I know this trick. Every man wears two faces. But my ancestors had to hide the second face behind teeth and shut lips and fear. This man has built a magic stone that lets him show his true face and hide it, both at once, forever.
He has tamed the lie.
Now the lie has a button.