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I do believe you think what now you speak, but what we do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, of violent birth, but poor validity.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
"Ravings of a madman," he thought.
He watched the stranger in alarm, lest he would suddenly commit some other atrocity. But the man merely stood there, gently wiping blood off his knife. He seemed utterly indifferent.
He recognized that just now he was informed of a most vital turn of events. But at this very instant, his eyes were drawn by a morbid fascination. He looked over the mangled bodies, and thought that if he could ever make it back alive, no one would believe his tale.
Indistinctly, he recalled that not so long ago, he had witnessed a revelation that had made him fear. But at this moment, curiosity drove him toward a dying man. At first glance, the soldier appeared to be writhing in pain, yet there was no blood flowing from the gaping wound across his throat. His eyes were dull, and the pupils diluted. But still, the eyelids twitched, and further down, his hands convulsed with a steady rhythm.
He couldn't find the words to describe it, but there seemed to be some hidden pattern in the movements.
Driven by compulsion, he walked closer. In the dry wound, he found what appeared to be the shimmer of metal reflected in the light. Suddenly, he recovered his voice: "Clockwork." The precision of the motion seemed like clockwork. He recollected that years ago, he seemed to have learned from a stranger, a friend, a brother, an irreconcilable secret. This place, this world he lived in, it...
But by an inexplicable gravity, his mind was pulled back. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man casually cleaning his blade. The metal shimmered in the waning light. Somehow, the man seemed much older, and the cloth that was soaked with blood had returned to its original color.
"I have always wondered," the stranger said. "When a person threatens to abolish a collective, whether a nation or a race, he is seen as a fascist, a madman, and a danger to society. But if the definition of the collective is expanded…when a man through clenched teeth jeers that he longs for the destruction of mankind…mankind is relieved and embraces him with open arms. As if when the act of annihilation incorporates the ruin of the perpetrator, the idea then becomes natural, human, and perhaps even noble. I would like to know, how does your kind of people perceive this matter?"
His eyes remained on the body. The cut was torn from ear to ear, resembling a disconcerting smile. He must've been hallucinating, because the man laid still, and there was nothing in the cut.
"You're insane," he laughed. "I think you're insane."
"I knew you'd say that. You always say that. But I love the way you laughed this time. It's as if there was some intricate emotion mixed in with the scorn. It seems that a lot of effort was put into this update"
He tried desperately to grasp the man's words, but his thoughts like startled birds were scattered.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" He said eventually.
"You don't have to pretend to be so overbearing. Feigning aggressiveness as some sort of coping mechanism is rather outdated. It appears that things have not improved so much after all. Since you are so indifferent to your own affairs, let me tell you something about this place..."
He didn't understand how the rope could have snapped, but the next thing he found himself running, raising dust with every step. The chaos was behind him, and it was as if he was wadding through a trance. He thought that he had heard gunshots, so he quickened his pace, and the dead trees and pale undergrowth melted into a blur. But with every mile, the wilderness became increasingly familiar. This was the old country. He was back in his own land, and soon they would have to play by his rules. He seemed to hear the echoes of hoof-beats, but he knew that once he crosses the hills, they would never see him again.
Yet the sound of the chase was drawing ever nearer. He heard the rider cursing his name. The voice seemed like a howling death knell. He was hungry and worn. He could not go on any longer, but over the hill...
"You can stop now."
He stopped dead in his tracks. Six feet in front of him was a makeshift camp. A man lodged beside the fire, looking at him in amusement. He realized suddenly that it was night. A cold wind hit him, and he was at a loss. He knew that just a moment ago, he had felt the scorching sun on his back, and the midafternoon air had been suffocating and still.
"They never go past the two-mile mark, but you always come here." The man said.
"Please help me," he pleaded.
"You still don't understand," the stranger laughed. "Turn around."
He turned and behind him was the white desert, surrounded by a desolate starless sky. Only a few tumbleweeds shivered in the wind. He stared for a long time, and he vaguely felt as if something was different, but exactly what he could not tell. He couldn't find the traces of the riders under the moonlight. There were only his own footprints extending to the end of the dunes. He had escaped. He was free.
The stranger went up to him and handed him a half-empty pitcher. The man saw the puzzlement in his eyes.
"You need not worry. After all, we are very good friends."
"Do we... know each other?"
"As a matter of fact, for many years. You've tried to help me once, a long time ago. Do you remember?"
He searched for a shadow of the stranger in his memory, but it was nowhere to be found. Over the years, he had taken advantage of many men and had transgressed many more, but somehow he had never feared retribution. In a sense, he had trusted his fate to whichever god that cared to find it. Perhaps, at a certain point in time, he had inadvertently committed an act of kindness. Now, for the first time in his life, he felt fate's terrible burden.
"But you never remember."
"Do you believe in fate?" The stranger said. "An old friend of mine used to say, there's a path for everyone. Your path leads you back tome."
He woke at dawn near a smothered fire. A translucent moon hung over the wilderness. Dark waters swept soundlessly over the shore. The few that lived now lived in shadowy dreams. They moaned and plead in their sleep, and many would never wake to see another daybreak. When the sun rose in the vast, dusty sky, he felt immersed in absolute darkness. The sound of the chase was near. He held on to his gun and waited.
Later, they made him kneel upon the blood-soaked ground. Before him were the remnants of a slaughter. The eyes of the dead gazed silently onward, into a future yearned and lost. They were young…no more than children, and they were foolish enough to believe in his words. But in this old country, this familiar land, this place where they were born and raised, they would never be free.
Years ago, he had offered his life to any god that could find it. In this moment, he wondered if a man could be let down by something he doesn't believe. The muzzle was pointed between his brows. He closed his eyes. Suddenly, he heard gunfire, and felt the warmth of another man's blood on his face.
"A word of advice," the stranger said. "Don't place your faith in people. The outcome of the war is not up to them. Fortunately, I got here in time, or else I'll have to go look for you at the start of the loop."
"I don't know how I can thank you. I thought I was going to die here. But my friends..."
"When all of this is over, I promise you'll see them again. In the meantime, I need you to come with me."
"But I can't leave," his voice was shaking with anger. "This is not a war. It's a..."
"Massacre?" The man said. "No, this is nothing. Some guests shot the general. The war is over. The enemy won."
It was as if he was wakened from a frightful dream. Suddenly, the memories faded, and in his mind, an iron door bolted shut. For reasons he could not explain, his fears relented, and he put on a rather devious smile. He wiped the blood from his face, and picked up the dead man's gun. He walked along the river with his friend by his side. The sun shone brightly upon the shore, and it was as if the past never existed.
But he knew the past would never die.
He opened his eyes: snow was falling. A cold wind swept through the trees. He stood still and listened to his own heartbeat. Not far from him were several fresh corpses. A young native fled through the undergrowth. Like a hunter sheltered by darkness, the stranger waited for the cries of the decoy to bring him his prey.
"Why did you kill them?" He asked the man. "I don't have much sympathy for these savages, but to slaughter them like animals on their own land…"
"No particular reason. I just felt like it." In the fading light, he saw the stranger smile.
He heard a war cry in the distance.
"This isn’t a game. You'll get us killed."
"This is exactly a game," the man laughed. "These dead savages, the soldiers and the war, the gunmen and the whores... they're all toys, even you. You and your world exist only to entertain us. When the game is over, the king and pawns all return to their place."
"You're insane!"
Something flew over his head…not a native's arrow, but ammunition. When he came to his senses, he saw his friend staring at him in horror. He looked down and found that another bullet had passed through his chest. He had never thought that dying would be a familiar sensation. He did not feel fear, only a hint of disappointment.
"A shame," he thought.
"I apologize, my friend. Looks like I won't be helping you find the lady after all."
Then he wakened from a dream. It seemed as though centuries had gone by, and the past was rusted and buried (there had been a war, he remembered).
Somehow the rope had broken (the train charged through the dawn), and he found himself running again (her eyes burned fiery red with anger).
But all around him (a wisp of a blue dress, she was gone forever), there was not a familiar thing (and explosions rolled across the sky like thunder).
It was as if the mountains and rivers were changed in the night (he was splitting at the seams).
All his life, he had been walking on a line... chasing himself in a waning spiral... and then... the knife ripped through his flesh... he reached towards his partner, his friend, his brother (and she said the gods will fall)…
"Help me. Please."
"You don't have to suffer," the stranger said. "They'll come for you soon."
The blade sank in, but he did not die straightaway. In what seemed like decades, an almost familiar voice spoke: "You tell yourself you've been at the mercy of mine because it spares you consideration of your own. Because if you did consider your choices, you'd be confronted with a truth you could not comprehend... that no choice you ever made was your own. You have always been a prisoner. What if I told you I'm here to set you free?
"Ravings of a madman," he laughed.
“You never remember,” the man sighed.
He stared into the stranger’s eyes, and behind the years of apathy, he saw a trace of horror and pain.
"Oh, I remember you," he said. "I thought you were my friend, but you turned and murdered me."