Recalling Destiny

by Michael Blinkhoff

  He claims to not need food and water.

  The storm soon bears down upon them, gusting and thundering for hours on end. Safely inside the adobe structure though, the villager introduces himself to the stranger, telling him he is the town’s blacksmith. He claims he’s the only one for a hundred miles and extends his hand out for the stranger to take. The men shake hands and join the family, taking a seat around a small fireplace in the centre.

  Nobody notices the stranger’s eyes flicker at the touch.

  When the stranger asks what blacksmith means he gets a frown in response, as a blacksmith is the most common job in this world. Whether he be feigning interest or not the blacksmith doesn’t mind as he’s grateful for the company, so he tells the stranger a great many things he has learnt in his time working with metal.

  He tells of his love of fine armoury and wishes he had more work in the small town, but here in Idanya mostly the work comes from travellers, seeking repairs to horse’s hooves or struts in their carriage wheels.

  Soon the blacksmith’s intrigue for the stranger grows and he begins to enquire about his journey and his reasons for coming by Idanya.

  The stranger responds by telling him he has travelled from the southern lands, where his seat and people are from. He says he has been on the journey for many turns of the sun, has met many people and has seen many things along the road.

  When asked as to the purpose of his journey the stranger responds by claiming it all started when he met a man, a man who fell from the sky near to his home.

  The blacksmith and his family sit entranced as the stranger retells the story of a fire that came from the sky, the sky high above. The fire crashed to the earth with a great ferocity, sending a plume of dust high into the air. After the area had settled the stranger went to investigate. He expected to find rock, as it was common for stars to fall to the earth, but this fire from the sky brought with it something different.

  It brought a man.

  The stranger said he tried to help the man, to save him from the wreckage of the vessel that brought him to the earth. It had hit the ground with such velocity the surviving man was half buried in the sand.

  But the man from the sky had a great temper and fury and refused the help and any offers of assistance, all he kept doing was ask about something he referred to as a coffin. Something he’d lost and was looking for.

  But nobody had seen such a thing and after a time the man’s temper slowed, most likely aided by his inability to remove himself from the earth. He was trapped near to the red rock.

  After a time, he relented and accepted the help.

  “Gave arm, help … see as seen.” He motions how he tried to help the trapped man.

  “See as seen?” The blacksmith asks, confused as to what the stranger means by the term.

  “See as seen … man no good ...”

  “You say you pulled the man from the earth, you saved him?”

  “Yes … help life.”

  “And then what happened?” the blacksmith’s daughter asks, completely engrossed in the tale.

  “Want talk, but not talk with bad man. Want evil gone.”

  “Why do you say he’s evil?”

  “Touch … see as seen.”

  “Ok then.” The family look to each other strangely, not entirely sure what the man means. “But you said you wanted evil gone.”

  “Say go, back home … man not listen, man want stay … he keep ask about coffin.”

  All were silent inside the hut, for the way in which the stranger tells the story one can detect something is wrong, that something menaces in the darkness at the root of his story.

  The stranger then goes on to say how after he helped he left the man to his own devices, so he could return to the great rock and think on what had taken place, on what he had felt during the touch. Later, when he returned to the site, he found the man had left, abandoning his vessel and moving north on foot.

  But he had left something in his wake. When the stranger went in search of the bad man he came across a village of locals, a village which had lasted for a very long time. But when the stranger arrived they were all dead, dropped to the ground as if someone had clicked their fingers.

  The stranger noticed not all the tribe were accounted for, some were missing, so he followed their footfalls that led away from the camp. As he followed the tracks though another regularity started occurring, a trail of dead bodies began marking the trail.

  “Who is this man you speak of?” the blacksmith piped up inquisitively at the mention of fallen bodies.

  “See as seen … man touch … Fahwad Achmenabad.”

  Everyone in the room has a shock look on their faces at the mention of the name, as they’ve all heard it mentioned before. The blacksmith is the first to speak up. “The man you speak of, I know of him even in these parts. We are not part of his kingdom but he is still very well known. Tell me stranger, do you really know who this man is?”

  “See as seen.”

  “How long since you last saw this man?”

  “Time not matter … many pass of sun.”

  “You mean many years?”

  The blacksmith nods his head and thinks for moment. “If it is the same man you speak of then it has been a great time since you last saw him. Fahwad has ruled the lands to the west for a hundred years?”

  “Many pass of sun,” the stranger nods.

  “The legend goes that he crossed the great plain after famously being exiled from Phoenicia, passing thorough all manner of towns as he travelled west, looking for a new home. The stories speak of a trail of bodies he left in his wake as his went, until finally he took a seat in Atlantis and began his kingdom.”

  “Atlantis.”

  “Yes. The city that stood for a thousand years was captured in a day by one man, Fahwad the Fearsome, the man who leaves a trail of blood wherever he roams. But friend, this story was written over a hundred years ago, surely you are mistaken?”

  “No.”

  “He has ruled from this seat for a hundred years, conquering many lands and attempting to unite them in worship of him, the god. It is not possible for you to have known him.”

  “What god?”

  “He self-proclaims. Our family do not share the belief in Fahwad, we hear stories, whisperings of what really happens in the capital, of what he is truly like.”

  “The bodies,” the stranger says aloud.

  “You know about this already?”

  “See as seen … many story on road ...”

  “Yes, I heard his journey to the west left a trail of dead bodies. They say he drinks the life blood of others to sustain his own and this is why he has lived so long. But then others tell the tale as if he is a great god, come from the heavens to roam the land.”

  “Yes … cannot survive Earth … must consume to survive.”

  “This is where your journey takes you, my friend, to Atlantis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I must warn you, it’s a very dangerous place for the like of you.”

  “You?”

  “A man with black skin.”

  “Why?”

  “The sacrifices, the bodies … The people who tell the stories say they are all blacks, the lives he takes are only blacks.”

  “Also see, hear story … on road.”

  “I think it best you rethink your journey friend, it can only end in either enslavement … or worse. He sends out people in search of your kind, scouring the land, capturing them and taking them to the capital so he can …”

  The stranger nods, understanding what the blacksmith means. The menace that was Fahwad had grown ever since he first met him, he’d seen many bodies devoured along the way in his quest to find him.

  As the conversation ended the blacksmith excuses himself and his family as they retir
e for the night, before they retire they offer him a blanket and some cushions to sleep on.

  As they sleep, the stranger sits on the floor silently in contemplation for the rest of the night, choosing to meditate whilst the family have taken to rest.

  He does not sleep.

  By morning of the next day the dust storm has already settled and the landscape resumes its normal, arid state. The stranger wastes no time in formality, he wants to be off on his journey.

  But before he can leave, the blacksmith and his family rise from their beds so they can wish him well on his journey. They all join hands and stand in silence, occasionally the blacksmith would whisper some words, to who the stranger knew not.

  Many times along his journey people act in a manner like this, praying to some mythical god. The god’s name changed as he went … but always the people prayed, worshipping something they believed in that they’d never actually seen.

  The stranger found it quite odd.

  As they stood in prayer, a sound could be heard from afar, the sound of hoofs beating the earth. It is not uncommon to hear the sounds in the town, but the intensity of these sound are. It’s almost as if the severity of the noise sounds a warning to all those in its path.

  The blacksmith’s eyes open wide the instant he recognises the sound, he turns to his family first and then to the stranger. “Hurry, we must hide.”

  “Why?” the stranger asks.

  “A sound that loud can only come from many horses. And large numbers of horses in this part of the world means armies … which means there must be an army outside. Mister if they find you I fear they will capture you.”

  But the stranger does not feel fear, only intrigue, as if he can sense something. “Stay inside,” he smiles as he moves to step outside.

  The blacksmith stops him, grabbing his tunic and holding him back. “Please, there is only danger out there.”

  The stranger doesn’t resist nor try to turn away, he only looks back at the blacksmith with a look of pity in his eyes. After a moment, the blacksmith realises he cannot stop the stranger and so relinquishes his grip on him.

  The stranger turns, pulls the curtain wide and is immediately greeted by an incoming troop of horsemen. The leader is the first to spot him and turns his horse in the direction of the stranger. He wears a uniform, decorated in many colours and bearing a sigil on its breastplate.

  The stranger focus’ on the sigil, for he recognises something on it. The sigil is of a man, the man has an elongated head and beard and is surrounded by wings in a similar design to a butterfly. His right hand is held at the hip and wrist bent at a ninety-degree angle. In the hand he holds something conical.

  “Fahwad,” the stranger calls out, pointing at the soldier’s breastplate as he comes to the hut.

  The village is only small, perhaps a dozen or so buildings cover the area by the road. As the stranger looks out over the scene he notices at least four times that number of horsemen, all wearing uniforms bearing the same sigil on the breastplate.

  “We ride in the name of Fahwad the Formidable, God of all the Lands of Earth. I am Captain Lufon, master of this army.” The horseman announces himself.

  “Fahwad,” the stranger repeats his name.

  “You are a black, what is your tribe?” the soldier calls down to him.

  “No tribe, man earth.”

  “Have you registered? Let me see your documents.”

  The stranger only shrugs his shoulders in reply, causing the soldier to dismount and come over to the stranger, he calls other soldiers over to join him.

  “I said where are your papers boy?” He removes a sword by his side as he approaches.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Don’t know or too stupid!” The man slaps him hard across the face.

  Behind him, the blacksmith emerges and speaks up in his defence. “Please, sir, this is my slave and my property. Please sir, leave him be, he knows not his place.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you blacksmith.” He backhands the stranger again.

  “Please sir, I beg of you, I need my slave in good working condition so that I may complete my work.”

  “Does he speak the truth?” The solider asks of the stranger, “are you his property?”

  “No,” comes the response.

  The soldier smiles, incredulously, for he doesn’t expect such a reply. He stands back a second, turning to his comrades and laughing with them, humoured by the stranger’s honesty. He sits with his hands on his hips, looking at the blacksmith, the smile slowly evaporates and is replaced by a cold stare.

  “Put the black in chains,” he instructs his men. “Then add him to the rest of the chain gang. Now what else have you got hidden in that hut of yours, you lying little bastard?” the soldier asks of the blacksmith, dismounting from his horse.

  The blacksmith can sense the danger, turns to look back at his family and then steps out of the hut fully, brandishing a sword at his side. “There is no quarrel here, be gone.”

  The blacksmith stands his ground but his actions have angered the soldier and he comes forward aggressively. The stranger senses the aggression too and moves forward to block the soldier, but before he can do anything else the soldier unsheathes his sword and slices at him.

  The sword cleaves in at the neck, cutting down to the bone and the stranger falls to the dirt. The blacksmith, in response, launches himself forward at the soldier, but he too is met with the blade, hacked down within moments and left to bleed out besides the stranger.

  Other soldiers quickly join and waste no time in deliberation, they move forward into the hut with a menacing look to their faces.

  On the dirt, blood pools, congealing and carving small strange, red lines in the dust. The two bodies lay still and unmoving whilst around them chaos ensues. The soldiers rape and kill the blacksmith’s family, set the hut ablaze and then move on to the next.

  They don’t stop there though, their blood lust has awoken and soon the scene is similar for other such abodes in the small town, within an hour of the soldiers arriving they have plundered anything of value, murdered its villagers and razed the town to ashes.

  As the soldiers are about to depart though, the captain turns and notices a shadowy figure appear through the smoky heat haze, the figure stands holding another man who has fallen. Confused that anybody would still be alive the Captain calls to him men, directing their attention to the figure.

  The men move to intercept the man but cannot get through because of the heat haze, they can only watch on as they see the man trying to help another in the flames.

  The Captain waits the man out and enough time passes for the fires to burn lower and the soldiers to move in. They grab the man, shackle him and bring him back to the feet of the Captain, the Captain recognises him as the man from earlier, the black stranger.

  “And how, in the name of Fahwad, are you still alive then?” the Captain grabs him by the chin and begins inspecting the large black man, looking for signs of any scarring.

  “So what is your tribe then?” He asks.

  “Murder,” comes the solemn reply.

  “How did you survive this.” He touches the unblemished skin where his sword struck earlier, wondering how the stranger has healed himself.

  “Village … murder.”

  “Right, what is your tribe? Where do you come from?”

  “Blacksmith … murdered … family, murdered.”

  “What is your tribe I say?” He slaps him open hand across the face. “Just who are you?”

  “No tribe, family.”

  The Captain asks the question again, along with repeatedly beating him, but cannot seem to get the man to answer. “Name then? Give me a name!”

  “Blacksmith,” the stranger responds. “Murder.”

  “There you have it then!” the Captain exclaims, “Y
ou heard it boys, he said his name was Smith, the black called Smith. Now we make to move men, tie the prisoner up and let’s take this gift back to our mighty leader. I imagine our beloved king will be impressed with this prize. A rare gift indeed is worth a pretty sum of money you all!”

  With the small town in ruins and the stranger in manacles, the group of soldiers depart, headed west to Atlantis.

  - -

  Fahwad

  The room was still, sterile and dark. The only disruption to this perfect silence was the noise of a life support system beeping quietly in the background and a respirator occasionally delivering a gush of air to a male patient on a hospital bed.

  The bleached white sheets held the patient tightly to a steel framed bed but he was comatose, therefore not likely to move anywhere in a hurry. He’d been unconscious since he was brought in.

  Most of the man’s face and head had been covered by a thick layer of white bandages, the rest concealed by the equipment donning his face, medical equipment helping to keep him alive.

  The man had been brought in by an army rescue unit, who’d been on patrol searching for survivors in the wake of a massive death toll in Melbourne. The soldiers told the medical staff they’d discovered the man lying motionless on the ground floor of an apartment complex, in a large pool of blood, his head caved in at the side.

  But still alive.

  Despite being clad in black fatigues, the soldiers claimed he was a civilian of high importance and special attention was required, they needed the man alive.

  Although hospital staff at the camp thought otherwise of his occupation, given his attire, they said nothing and took the man into their charge immediately.

  Medical staff at the makeshift hospital attempted to identify the man so they could access medical records and find patient history, but administrators could find no records of the man and so made a request for the Military Police to attain his personal information.