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They called me Hezekiah, Joseph, Peter, Constantine, Martin, John, and so many other names. But these names were all interchangeable. Those names are not who I am, they never were who I was. Each one was a mask that fit the age I lived in.
Hezekiah was king of the Judea, leader of the Israelites. It is not clear to me how the history books write the stand that my city had against the hundred thousand, but this is how I recount. The few archers in the city ran out of arrows. Then they ran out of rocks. And when we had nothing left to drop the Assyrian king smile. From the highest wall, overlooking the horde, I could hear each mighty crunch of the battering ram tearing into the city gate. First, it splintered, then cracked, then broke apart to reveal demons pretending to be men. I calmly walked to the temple to await my fate, pacifying my advisors and subject along the way. I desired only solitude. My city was butchered as knelt on the cool stone, women and children fall victims to the unspeakable crimes of war. No one noticed me. No one noticed the foolish old man who condemned the last stronghold of the Hebrew faith to dust, forever. I remember the flames licking at my toes as I walked out of that burning city.
Constantine was a warrior, a stalwart son of a soldier. I took the mantle of a fighter. To atone for my crimes. The night before the Battle I knelt to pray for victory at the Bridge. I whispered promises to any god who care. As I awoke, there appeared a flaming cross in the clouds and a voice that shattered the skies. The doom it sentenced screeched like the scrapping of coffins, “Since, no one has answered, oh wanderer, I shall give you my blessing this day. Perhaps on the morrow I should curry favor in your eyes.” On the other side of the river, a sweeping fog rolled in from the west, a ghastly purple shroud that was opaque to the eyes. In the darkness I heard screaming. Men cried for their mothers. They cried for Jove and Zeus, and any deity that would listen. No god answered that day. After a couple minutes the deed was done. The first thing through the mist I saw was a hand holding onto the hilt a rusted blade, plunged into the ground. The rotting flesh spilled off the bones like oil on water. The finger nails were black and damp with decay while the rest was a sickly of green. An eerie silence befell us all. We ushered quietly across a field of dead, each corpse imprinted into memory was worse than the last. I clutched my shield more forcefully than I thought a human was capable of as I led my army through the marsh that was a vibrant grassland. I looked ahead when I first noticed the bodies stir. The rank and file stifled screams as soldiers were dragged away, in complete silence. I continued to march forward as my army was spirited away to those broken depths of depravity. Rome had never been such a welcome sight. As I recite the names of the fallen, I remember the scent of the dead in those fields.
Martin was a scholar and prudent learner. There were few as convincing as I in the art of speech and knowledge. One night, when I was out riding in a storm, I decided to seek shelter in an abandoned house. That night the lightning flashed all around as the howling gale outside turned into a vortex of souls. There were thousands there. Men, women, children, and all in between. They called out to me, condemning me for all their pain, accusing me of being the source of all suffering. The storm roared for hours, into days, into weeks. As time slipped through my fingers, I found that my mind had begun to shatter. A foolish attempt at sanity found me listening to their words. I began to write down their thoughts. The list seemed to go on forever, before I realized, the damned stopped. The gale dispersed, and the rains died. I lost my mind in that whirlwind of hate and anguish. The torrent of blame shattered my semblance of self. Without a place for my thoughts to wander, I pinned the 95 grievances to a door and shuffled along. As I walked out of town I could hear the masses roaring. I remember praise and anger alike, but most of all, confusion.
I stood in the streets with my hands cupped together, begging for pieces of green paper from people I had never met. I did not have a name any more, history no longer had a place for me. Men walked by, without looking at me the eye, mumbling curses under their breath, they placed that green paper in my hands, and walked away like I was some wayside leper. Still, my mind fractures a bit each day and I have begun to forget. I fear, one day, there will be nothing left. Hezekiah, Constantine, Martin, those were all great men of renown, but they were just face. I wish I could remember the name which is mine alone, but all the walking made me forget.
However, some things I can never forget.
The vivid green and sweet scent of nectar that makes all other recollections fade to grey. I do not remember how I came to be, but I did wander that gorgeous paradise with another. I shall not the witch who sneered and mocked the trees and animals, but she always hid when the Man made of light came by. I think He called me Adam. That Man made of light. He found someone else to be with me, to chase that evil woman away. For once, I was no longer alone. Her name has faded into dust, but I can still feel her hand caress my face. Regardless, when you have been around as long as I have, it is hard to remember everything.
The vibrant tree in the center of the garden was the crowning jewel of the garden. It radiated a brilliant light and the fruit, which seemed to hum with ecstasy and joy, were plentiful. A creature which walked on five legs, now gone for millennia, trotted up to my companion and spoke with honeyed words and temptations. In the corner of my eye, found that wicked villain smiling, and I knew that this was her plot. By the time I looked back a fruit had already been plucked with a bite taken out of the center. A dazzling nectar, made of every color but also none, dribbling from her chin. The deed was done. When I contemplated walking the vastness of the garden alone I decided to take a different path.
The world vanished, and my senses were bombarded with everything. Every sight, every sound, every smell, every taste, every feeling, all coalesced into one moment. As soon as it swelled, it faded. When reason and returned, with little in my memory of what came before, I saw the Man made of light shining down on me. His wrath was assured. He tore apart the trees till there was nothing left but sand, an endless before us. His commanding voice was but a silent whisper. I could not hear what he said to my companion, but the mentions of “pain” and “death” were enough to understand the horror. She wiped away the tears streaming down her face and fell silent. He shined at me, I think he said “For you, my first born, awaits a thing far worse. You will bear witness to your line beginning, flourishing, and dying. And when the last finally falls you shall know your end is near. My perfect gift and all she brings will fall from your memory. She and everything else will fade before your eyes. You will be left alone to wander for eternity. Then, at long last, when your vile wretch returns, you will end.” Then He left.
I cannot remember His harrowing whispers. Maybe He did not say a thing at all.
I see her around the corners now. She haunts me, everywhere. She tries to rekindle the fire that was lit eons ago. But, at the same time, I am cannot recall who she is. The other day she sent a drakken after me. The fodder of the underworld, the most primaeval of horrors that men fear. The drakken are the reason why things go bump in the night. Their long fangs and sharp claws, both adept for rending flesh and drawing blood, are signatures of their kind. They do not come out in the daylight because the sun rays, a reflection of Him, burns their skin. But the burning takes too long to injure and a threat alone will not stave off attacks.
He was an Enforcer. I could tell. The bristling muscles and monstrous speed for one that size is all that is needed to tell. The creature opposing me in that garbage filled alley wore a trench coat, wide-brimmed hat, and sunglasses, even though sunlight was hours away. At first, I thought he meant to give metal coins or paper, but he ripped off his coat to reveal hard leather strapped to his chest. It was a look that had fallen out of fashion centuries ago. I could feel the end coming.
As I looked inward to pray, something I had attempted since my ordeal in the maelstrom, I finally remembered. I looked to the fiend and bellowed, “My line will fall before my end. It was told to me by the one true Being himself. How dare you try to take me before my anointed time, hell spawn?!”
A look of dreadful realization flooded its face. As it contorted, I took heart. My wanderings had lasted my entire existence, always a bystander, never in charge. For the first time in my eternity I would fight, I would struggle! I would take charge and combat the darkness, leading my children into the morrow. Perhaps, we could change our fate together.
As I edged closer, it dawned on me that the beast was dying. The smell of gun powder in the air followed by a whirlwind of ash. The trench coat, hat, glasses, and other vestments lay upon the ground in a pile of sulfurous black death. In the center of the clothes lay a bit of silver shaped like an oval coin. An upward glance, a few feet from pile, revealed an ordained priest with a smoking stick. He curtly stored his weapon in his robes, concealed so that none could tell, nodded to me, and turned to leave. The pride in my chest fell and I was beset by confusion. I looked down at the pile of clothes and wondered who had worn it only seconds before.
Sometimes, when I am all alone at night in the vast desert, wandering from place to place, I wonder. Are my memories real? Did I really wander for all those years? Am I some crazy fool living out his days in a fantasy? Is there a family searching for me somewhere? What is my name? Who am I talking to? Why am I here?
I wonder if I am Hezekiah or Andrew or Zachary. I cannot remember which name is my own, but, sometimes, when I lay in the broken remains of what used to be called New York, I see glowing orange eyes. The fire in those eyes is something I have brought with me since the beginning of time. And I remember that, sometimes, it is best to forget.
The Eternal Wanderer, 3149
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Excerpt from The Qadowsh Commemorative, Section 2: Dybbuk, Fifth Entry אדם
Submitted February 25, 2019 at 05:51AM by Haschen84 https://ift.tt/2IABq8n
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