“I can’t turn back.”
The hearse and its convoy were about to disappear as the taxi turned a different direction. The last discernable line of the song—“If I get tears, don’t let them dry up”—departed the window as if to chase after the convoy. With difficulty, it reached Elif as she leaned her head on the window. She looked around as the lyric disappeared into the tiny shimmer of the teardrop slipping down her face.
At Oktay’s request, he was to be buried next to his mother in the family cemetery in Silivri. As they made their way to the burial site, everything around Elif screamed of meaninglessness. The words “Everyone lives his own doomsday” were ringing in her ears, and Elif felt that she was at the edge of a cliff. She was falling down and being swallowed by her grief.
Trying to slow her thoughts, she looked at her mobile phone, first checking the calendar, then the missed calls and messages. She felt it was probably best to delete the messages one by one. As she did, an old, unread message caught her attention. It came from a time when Oktay was alive and didn’t have his obsession with writing a book. She wished she could go back to those days and change things. One more chance was all she asked for—only one. In an infinite universe, there was no such thing as “impossible.”
She opened the message:
I wish there was another way to write this book without upsetting you.
Wilhelm Reich
Part 3
HOMO AVATARIUS
Son of man, direct your face against Gog, of the land of Magog…
(Book of Ezekiel, Chapter: 38)
Limbo
I suppose I regained my consciousness first. My first perceptions were a feeling of lightness, a sweet sense of happiness, and a combined sense of ease and serenity. I scanned my surroundings and saw only a dark sky full of stars. The stars were so bright, so close, so clear, and so numerous. Their colors ranged from yellow to red to blue. I had never seen such vibrance before.
I wanted to lift my head and look around, but it was as if I didn’t have a body or couldn’t move it if I did. I wanted to close my eyes, open them again, and start from the beginning, but, no matter how much I tried to blink, my eyes remained open. The happiness and serenity gave way to desperate fear. In despair, I tried to lift my hands to see them, to stand up, to move and turn around, but nothing made a difference. Suddenly I felt the absence of something that had always been present but now was missing. I had lost my sense of touch. There was no feeling and no gravity. Knowing the reality of such things and being unable to describe their absence caused my brain to wander in wild directions.
I began noticing other things were absent. My sense of hot or cold. My sense of taste. I didn’t even know where my mouth was. My sense of direction was lost. I wanted to scream, but, of course, there was no sound. Waves of panic consumed me and I felt the need to run and escape. Everything was crashing in upon me.
After some time (a concept I now greatly questioned), I felt a wave of something akin to sound: a whine, or something like it. Then I heard, “Welcome, sir!” Even in my helpless state, I perceived those words, and I sensed where they were coming from: from inside. It was an inner voice.
“Who are you?” I asked, trying to command the mouth I didn’t feel. No sound came out, but it must have been enough to think about speaking because my question was answered.
“I am the Wake-up Support Protocol.”
“What? What are you talking about? In a daze, I mumbled through the rapid ideas flooding my mind.
“Sir, you came here through a difficult process. I am here to re-create your consciousness, answer your questions and to direct you. In fact, you have created me precisely for this purpose. I exist to help you through the difficult process of awakening and transforming into a new form by helping you integrate your newly gained knowledge and experience into your existing—”
“Wait, wait a minute,” I interrupted. “You said, ‘Welcome.’ Where have I come from?”
“From Earth.”
My confusion brought silence. I wasn’t ready for such things. This was just too much. “Where am I now?” I asked.
“You’re in Limbo, sir.”
“What? Who gave this place such a name?”
“You did, sir.”
The answer only confused me more and brought more questions.
I tried to remember who I was. Though fuzzy, I thought I remembered everything. Yes. Oktay. My name was Oktay. I was a doctor, yes. My wife, Elif, and then...a TV show. There was a contest, and I had written a book, The Disjointed Letters or The Code of the Disjointed Letters or something like that. The memories attacked my mind like river rapids barraging the walls of a dam.
There had been a contest, something like Big Brother, and somebody had been eliminated each week. I had stayed with the other contestants for weeks. Fatin, with the furious red eyes; Ender, innocent, intelligent, and self-sacrificing. But how had it ended? The last scene was hidden behind a curtain of mystery. Three of us had been left at the end. There had been a miraculous vision of water droplets and an incredible discovery. And they died, yes, I think they died, but I…I passed through a bright tunnel. I… I …
I died… I’m dead.
I began to repeat it to make myself accept it. It was the thing that everybody knew would happen to them but never experienced. Now, it had happened to me. I had died.
What is limbo? Is it the place where people wait to go to heaven or hell? Yes, it must be. And if there is a limbo, then those other places must also exist.
“What is happening? What are you talking about? What do you mean I named this place “Limbo”? Did I create it like I created you? Am I God? Did I live on Earth in the image of a human and come here to recover? What are you talking about? What am I talking about?”
I emitted a silent scream as a flood of runaway thoughts overwhelmed me and I was seized by an incredible fear.
“Sir, please calm down. You have just returned from a very difficult life, and this was only one of the countless iterations of a process which is more difficult and more dangerous each time. Each time you wake up here and re-attain the knowledge of your old talents, the process gets harder. However, you have the strength to get over this, just like you did at other times, and that’s why I’m here. As you have many times before, you will regain your abilities by remembering step by step. But first, calm down and don’t torture yourself. Just give yourself some time.”
I tried to count to ten, and then back to zero. When I was done, I said, “Okay.”
“You are not God, sir.”
This answer made me feel an awkward relief.
“This is an interim station between the Earth and the Moon. You called this place Limbo when you first arrived here.”
“What do you mean my former self? Am I not Oktay? Or have I had many lives? Is this place like a reincarnation center or a waiting room?”
“Sir, you are not ready yet, and I cannot give you any information that might affect the re-construction process. But I can tell you that this is not a reincarnation center.”
“What is it then? What’s process are you talking about? How long does it take? When will I be able to feel my body? When will I get to eat something?”
“Sir, please calm down. We will gradually restore knowledge according to the protocol, and then, you will re-learn everything. We have done this many times, although it has been more difficult each time. However, the process must be the same.”
“Okay,” I said. “I‘m confused but I’m listening.”
“Good, sir. If you like, I will first tell you about the program and the process.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“I will present you with the simple version and some of the limited introductory parts. As you experience them again, your memory will gradually regain function and grow stronger. In between the presentations and the memory experiences, you can ask me whatever you want, describe what you remember, and discuss what abilities you have regained. Then, we
will continue to the next level to fill in any gaps in your knowledge.”
“How long does this program take? How many parts does it have?”
“Sir, you are asking the same questions that you have asked each time, and I have been giving you the same answers. When you don’t perceive something, it means it does not exist; therefore, it is not a loss. Trust yourself—you wrote this program, you organized it, and you defined the parameters between waking and coming back. You even gave it a funny name: Autoconstruction.”
Trust myself? The program’s advice filled me with apprehension.
“Sir, if you are ready, I want to start the first stage. I think it is enough to give you a short briefing. This reduced version is a perceptual program that employs selective memory. It will be interrupted in several parts. In other words, it is a montage. The only aim of it is to re-create a connection with your old memories. It doesn’t change what happened because it has already been experienced. You will live, feel, and think as if you do everything of your own free will, but although you will want to, you will not affect the events. Now, if you are ready, sir, I’d like to start.”
“Wait, wait…what am I going to watch? Who am I going to be?”
“During the experience, you will not remember what I am about to tell you, but I will tell you anyway, sir. You will partially re-experience what you went through at the start of the thirteenth century as Cuci, the eldest son of Temüjin , also known as Genghis Khan. You will be known as ‘the Guest’ behind ‘The One of Iron.’”
The voice faded away, as did the stars in front of my eyes.
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The ones who follow us are always rewarded with human flesh. That’s why the raptors fly above us and the jackals lurk behind us.
We, who live in tents, sleep on horseback, and wrap ourselves in animal fur, live to fight. We, the wolf herd, will destroy the armor and the walls with our teeth and claws. We do not need to write our history. Others will write it to remember their fear.
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Who is against us? Anyone who gets in our way. We live to fight and capture our enemies, and, unless they are of use as slaves, kill them. My father, Genghis Khan, is the ruler of the lands between all the known seas, and he earned that title by fighting. Those against him always have two choices: die or submit.
Tengri is our path. If we go, it is because we want to go, and if we want to go, everywhere we go is our path. We have no written language, and we have no word for “mercy.” But we do know favors. If an old man travels the steppe with his family in winter, we do him a favor by killing him. This way, he does not have to struggle to survive the cold. We capture his possessions, and, if his women are young, we capture them, too.
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We never tire of fighting. We are always on the border, always pushing everything, everybody…even fate. When we set off on horseback, we keep moving even while asleep.
Nothing is moderate for us. When we suffer from hunger, we suffer for days and weeks.
And when we eat, we eat until we vomit and drink koumiss until we black out.
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I am Cuci, the eldest son of Genghis Khan, first child of his wife, Börte, elder brother of Ogheday, the commander and crown prince of Genghis Khan. I’ve always known that I won’t be Khan after my father dies. But, because I was born, like everyone else, I drag my fate along after me.
“Cuci” means “guest.” In the Mongolian tradition, whoever has the right of a guest cannot be harmed. My father—who wasn’t yet a khan at the time—once took me into his arms, hugged me tight, lifted me up in front of the eyes of the public, and cried out, “Cuci!”
This announcement was not only a confirmation but an acceptance; it was also a threat. Whoever didn’t respect my birthright as both Cuci and a Cuci paid with his life. When I was pulled back into the arms of my father Temüjin, the one of iron, I was a guest of the iron: safe but shunned.
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It has been hours since the biggest army on the plains of Mongolia made a move.
My soldiers’ know how to move in formation and signal each other like a pack of wolves. A wolf makes its opponents accept its superiority by looking at them with a piercing stare until they cower and run away. Each of my soldiers is a wolf, and I only fight with wolves. The rest are either my slaves or my enemies.
Now, we are moving towards the southeast, the destiny of the Mongolians. We are following my father, who has united all the Mongol tribes and has, after many battles, become not Temujin, but “Genghis Khan.” We are moving toward China, the largest empire in the world, based on a civilization that has existed for thousands of years. As a wolf pack leaving its home in the steppes, we are advancing on the enemy’s biggest city—a place with the highest walls, the best weapons, and supposedly the best army in the world. Despite the warnings, we press on.
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When we reach the base of a huge mountain, we began to move slowly, waiting to gather our forces. The narrow passage that the scouts directed us to is the only breach in this impenetrable wall—a gap made even narrower by sharp rocks. Only two men, side by side, can pass through the breach in order to reach the plain beyond —the plain where an army awaits.
The pioneers reach the other side of the passage before dawn and secure the exit with the help of the supporting forces. My father already knows of the military camp on the other side, a camp of countless colorful tents housing thousands of soldiers.
The Khan sends a division of ten thousand around the north side of the mountain along narrow and precarious roads. The men are led by his greatest commanders, Cebe and Sobutay. Their duty is to reach the valley from an unexpected direction by taking goat paths over snowy mountain peaks. Only a determined Mongol could pass through such snowstorms and incredibly cold passes in the rock. Even so, by the time they make it through, the Mongol dead outnumber the living. This passageway between deep cliffs and frozen rocks is a road of death.
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Thin snowflakes hurled by the bitter wind melt on my face as we gather in front of the entrance to the passage. A battalion of my raiders attacks with sharp screams, rapidly moving forward until we make an opening.
My father enters the passage on his horse, slowing down, but never stopping. As the army enters the passage, it leaves the light of the former world behind. The sound of hundreds upon thousands of horsemen hangs in the air with the dust and ice crystals.
Before the first division passes through the exit, a mass of trees tumbles down from the hills. They smash on the ground like thunder splitting the sky. The horsemen in the rear, who are now trying to enter the passage, crash against those stopped in the front.
“Trap!” I cry. The ones who hear my cry turned aside, allowing me to move forward. I realize I won’t be able to pass on horseback through the passage now blocked by hundreds of soldiers. With a roar, I stand up on my horse and advance by jumping and stepping on soldiers and horses. The ones who hear my voice stand strong and shift their swords and spears to make way, but they still manage to nick my armor, causing tiny sparks to fly as I press forward. For a moment, I glimpse the wolf, its ears perked up at my shouts.
I arrive at the massive tree. It is the height of three full-grown men. Many bewildered eyes are on me, Cuci, the eldest son of Genghis Khan. It is impossible for them not to recognize me, and it is also impossible for the experienced soldiers not to hear my commands. As I step on the tops of heads, shoulders, and hands, I scream, “Everyone get back! Empty the passage! Make space for those with axes!”
I then reach down, snag the knives and swords of a few nearby soldiers, and stab the weapons into the massive tree trunk, one after another, building makeshift steps to scale the tree. I quickly arrive at the top of the tree, grab hold with my nails and cry out, “Rope!”
From above, I stare over the trees and down into the battlefield. Our soldiers, no more than 50 in total, are surrounded by an endless sea of enemies. Still, they ride
their horses over the corpses and wave their swords against anything and anyone that surrounds them. I faintly glimpse my father standing beside his dead horse, surrounded by a heap of soldiers. There is no time to delay. I spot a knife with a rope bound to its handle stuck into the trunk next to me. Without slowing down, I grab the knife and the rope and jump down. I find a horse collapsed on a soldier, wrap the rope twice around its neck, and get it upright. Then, I race toward my father without looking back. The wolf, which has just passed through a space under the tree trunk, is already ahead of me, weaving around obstacles and running toward its own target.
…[START]
Winter 1214, Zhongdu ( Ancient Beijing )
Mongol
As I ran with my bow drawn, I shot arrows at the enemies surrounding my father, but hundreds more soldiers remained.
I shot my last arrow and, drawing my sword, began to prune away the enemies that came my way. Fighting wasn’t my aim. Neither was killing. My aim was just to keep moving. I made space by cutting off the arms and legs that came at me, cutting the necks of those who tried to save themselves, and knocking down the bodies I couldn’t pass over. I sometimes used the flat of my sword like a shovel and avoided directly stabbing with my knife: it took time to remove the weapon from the bodies.
Save the Last Bullet for God Page 18