Percy Maelock is a Liar

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard those five words — but I’ll never forget the first. I remember everything about that trip to the Canary Islands. Two years ago to the day, I I spotted Percy Maelock for the first time, climbing out of the ocean with a camera around his neck and the look of a man who’d spent a year adrift at sea. I remember what chased him out of the surf — and watching them both scramble across the scorching sand and out of sight. I remember the Swedish bartender glaring at Percy the following night, as if he’d personally insulted all of Sweden. Percy just strolled into that surprisingly star-spangled pub like nothing unusual had happened, laying claim to a stool not too far down from us. I remember his mop of chaotic gray hair, openly contradicting the boyish youth the rest of his face flaunted, and the impossible color of his eyes. And I remember my darling then-fiancée-now-wife leaning over me to ask, with all the tact of a battle-axe and at arguably the same volume: “What the hell happened to you yesterday?”

This trip had been long overdue. Life had run us ragged, but also given us plenty to celebrate. A few weeks earlier, she’d said the single greatest word anyone hopes to hear. She barely let me finish the question — didn’t even let me get to my knee — before cutting me off with her tearful yes and holding out her hand for the ring. And a week after that, she wrapped up the grueling doctoral program that had dominated our last three years together.

So, by the time Percy wandered into our lives, we were worn out and badly in need of whimsy. And boy, did he deliver.

Who knows how different life might be if she hadn’t leaned over and asked? Maybe I’d be trying new recipes, remodeling our condo, or training for my next marathon — instead of chasing peculiar stories and planning exotic trips in pursuit of a man who was more myth than mortal. I suppose we’ll never know.

At first, we tried to just listen, muttering observations and hushed theories as Percy jumped from one story to the next. But the longer he talked, the more questions we had. Too many questions. Then he described the strange events we’d seen on the beach the day before — and my darling, who’d been clinging to silence like a cat to a curtain, could hold it no longer.

And so, she leaned over and asked. The rest, as they say, is history.

He told us the most ridiculous things — too numerous and outlandish to list in full. Tales of adventures across sun-scorched dunes and aboard derelict pirate ships. Of mine shafts never properly sealed, and a writer who vanished from her own home without a trace. He spoke of local legends that matched old newspaper clippings a little too neatly, and of places the GPS refused to map. Of alchemy, lost time, and the quiet grief of changing seasons.

Then he told us things even more absurd – thing I can only describe as the most nonsensical I’ve ever heard.

Of Dreadnaughts and Plaguemongers. Of cities hidden behind the clouds. Of murkiwogs and Craggorns, and a dozen other silly impossibilities that would, in time, become private jokes between me and my wife.

He told us of myths.

He told us of monsters.

The Swede lurked within earshot the whole time Percy regaled us, waiting for his chance to warn us. Percy had clearly made a hobby of tormenting him. No sooner had Percy left for his next impossible appointment than the bartender seized his chance.

“Percy Maelock is a liar.”

We shouldn’t have needed the warning. After three hours of stories, impossible though they seemed, we were already captivated. Percy had an almost supernatural power over words. He shared tales of climbing mountains and crossing treacherous seas. Of dining with dignitaries, dancing with prima donnas, exploring lost places — and, strangest of all, battling monsters. Though that last one wasn’t entirely unexpected. The story we most wanted answers was the strange scene we saw the day before. Of the peculiar case of the abominable swimsuit model. But that’s a tale for another time.

And if I thought I’d heard my fair share that night, it was nothing compared to the anthology I’d one day come to know.

For months after this, he was our private fairytale. We joked constantly about what Percy would do or say in any situation. At restaurants and coffee shops, we’d insert our imaginary friend into overheard conversations and conflicts. We invented bizarre quotes and ridiculous backstories — our private joke, just between us.

But the more we joked, the more curious I became.

Then, nearly six months later, a postcard from the Canary Islands arrived — and changed everything.

It had been so simple – just a quick hello, a note that Gran Canaria had reminded him of us, and the creeping realization that he somehow had our address. Though this was the first postcard he has sent me, it was certainly not be the last. I now have many postcards, letters, and a handful of gifts sent from all corners of the world, including what can only be described as a bizarre wedding present that arrived a week after our honeymoon. But this first postcard had been a complete surprise. It was as thoughtful as it was alarming, chiefly due to one simple, terrifying question: how the hell had he gotten our address? But it served as a reminder that Percy Maelock wasn’t just a fairytale. He didn’t only exist in the stories my wife and I shared. He was a very real person, and he was out there in the world. That was more than enough to revitalize my curiosity.

Despite all those who would adamantly warn against pursuing the subject, I have found the great modern mythology that is Percy Maelock’s life to be quite charming. If there is any true danger in the stories of adventure that follow in his wake, I have not yet come to face them, except for those dangers I have made for myself.

This book is the first fruit of years spent chasing shadows — from the epicenters of human civilization to the farthest reaches of the Wild, from jungle depths to desert wastes, and from forgotten gullies to ruinous temples. I have pursued, naively, the impossible figure you’ll meet in these pages: Percy Maelock.

Even if Percy’s adventures are pure fiction, I owe him many of my own. I’ve crossed six continents, visited distant villages and villainous lairs, witnessed customs both mesmerizing and absurd, dined on the best (and worst) of local cuisines, and fended off unsavory types with my umbrella — three times, in fact. Four, if you count the marmot.

Is Percy Maelock a liar? Most would say yes. And yet, there’s a small voice—not quite my own—that keeps asking: what if? What if he isn’t a liar? What if Percy Maelock is an honest man? What if the reason we have fairy tales is because there were people like Percy who lived them? And what if the world really is far wider, stranger, and infinitely more magical than we dare to believe?