“All you must do,” she cries, “is solve a riddle!”

You’re like, cool, can do, no sweat. Immediately the gloom lifts, the cacaphonic storm subsides, and yet again the scene has shifted–is there such a thing as permanence anymore? as stability? if everything is always new, then how can any of it ever sink in and mean?—

Now you are come to be sitting in a tent, or perhaps you’ve been here some time and so merely remain in the tent, which is interesting, but now the light is warm again, and the sounds of pleasant humanity gather outside. It is a calm day, bucolic. The fortune teller has also changed once more: her hair shines, ornate curls twisted into it, her dress, a soft blue, shimmers. Her smile is a patient one that spreads warmly across her face, a warmth that touches even her two oak-bark brown eyes.

“The riddle,” she says, “is this:

“Twin brothers are fighting to rule the kingdom. One is kind and generous and always tells the truth; the other is selfish and cruel and always lies. No one can tell which is which, and the evil twin takes every opportunity to fool everyone into thinking he is the kinder of the two. In this confusion the twins have warred for years, and the kingdom has greatly suffered. One day, a group of warrior monks decides to stop the madness: they set a trap deep in the woods, at a magnificent mansion, and pretend to throw a grand royal fete. There they capture both brothers, and soon the monks bring the brothers to you.

“To determine their true identities, you may ask them one question only. Whoever answers right will be free to go. He who is wrong will be given over to the monks, who will do with him what they will. Presumably something violent.”

“So tell me,” she says, “what question will it be?”

If you know the question that is in response to her question an answer….         

If you’re not sure, omg, you’ve learned nothing. Your mission has failed. The President your father has been captured (and after his embarrassing dental chair confession to you, too). Despite your boldest efforts, the Captain has delivered the rotten goods. Y la bomba esta muy en la biblioteca. The girl in the street is dead. Your dog is dead. Your homework is late and uninspired lately, you’re only going through the motions anymore, aren’t you. You’ve done nothing. Saved no one. Not even your mid self.

So go on, get out of here. (Though…if you think you have it in you to try just a little harder, which we certainly encourage, feel free to give it another shot.)