Strange stories

The walker

There is a man who only knows himself as the walker. Time has lost all meaning, places and names fade in and out of his recollection. 

In a cloudy place near long forgotten temples in between tall and steep mountains. On a low bridge over a roaring river throwing mist into the air, staggers a tired man. Hands, arms, feet and legs wrapped in bloodied and dirty bandages. No shoes or gloves however durable, could last as long as he needed them to. He has been walking away for as long as he can remember. Dirty old and red robes cover his torso and a torn pair of workers pants tucked into his bandages, cover everything above the knees. Long and scraggly black hair hangs loosely over his eye and a conical hat woven from straw keeps the rain off of his face. He has a black leather knapsack, which seems packed to bulging with supplies. The wet weather seems to have no effect on him. He reaches the end of the bridge and his feet touch mud and grass. He sloshes through the grass and pebbles and seeks refuge from the rain under the roof of a small and squat temple near the edge of the bridge.

The temple is really only a square room with a lowered section in the middle and one wall missing. The roof and the walls on the inside are generously painted and beautifully ordained with golden paints. The dark weather has drained the saturation and light out of the building leaving it damp and dreary.  The man falls to his knees in the middle of the structure and removes his densely packed knapsack from his back. Out of it he produces some white and fluffy tinder and gently spreads it on the floor with shaking hands. He rises and scrounges through the well preserved building for some at least dry wood. He peels some off of the wall of the temple, lays it down over the tinder he had laid down before and huddles with his hands toward the wooden pile and holds very still. A hissing noise comes from his hands, like pressure is building somewhere. Building and hissing like steam escaping from a teapot ready to pour. Suddenly the hissing noise graduates into a loud pop and the tinder and wood jumps to life with the orange and red glow of fire. He exhales and huddles near the fire. A temporary place to dry off and rest until they finally catch up with him. A place to reminisce about his fantastical journey for he has traveled very, very far indeed. Further than even the greatest scholars could write about if they had an endless book and a lifetime to write. 

Windswept, sandy and hot desert planes that burned his feet as he walked across their vast expanses. Annoyingly blue, enormous bodies of water, as far as the eye can see with blooming and vibrant creatures under the waves which he has rowed over and swam beneath. Densely packed and wet jungles with geometric ancient ruins floating above clearings in the canopy and above giant holes in the landscape which he has hacked his way through. Small wooden towns in the driest and harshest of places inhabited by gunslingers and fortune seekers alike, all speaking fantastical and slurred languages. Magical oriental cities with pagodas and temples and homes that stretched as far into the sky as the people there were humble and skilled, dressed in fine flowing robes and wooden sandals. Severely high and mountainous regions smothered in a green canopy  in the clouds where many monks meditated on life. He has walked past it all. 

"I am tired, so, so tired, but I cannot rest." 

The man, known as 'walker' to some and 'stranger' to many, has been walking for so long that the memories he cherishes at the back of his head from a time before his long walk are starting to fade more and more and the person who experienced them also. Like watching someone else be happy or angry or sad.

And he longs for the time when he does not have to walk anymore.

The fire crackles and casts a low orange glow inside of the ruined buildings room while the cold rains rage still. The walker is sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest now with his head resting on them and breathing deep, trying to retain what little heat and comfort he can before he has to leave again. Before he has to leave soon because they have arrived.

The walker furrows his brow and thinks for a while, something is not adding up :"Why do I insist on running from them? I have been walking so long I have forgotten all the reasons I am running in the first place. Are they chasing me for something I keep in my sack? Am I dangerous? I must have packed several ancient and deadly artifacts into my bag then. But I don't know if I did! What if I did nothing? What could I have done to make them hate me enough to chase me away from every possible home or friend I could ever have?? Damn them! Damn them all to hell and back!"

He pounds his fist into the ground next to him as a lightning bolt crackles and illuminates a shadowy figure on the other end of the bridge he has crossed. With each passing strike of lightning more and more entities are revealed, crowding on the bridge. Black and smoky beings with no solid shape. Tens of them. All crowding together. 

Then, the walker has another, more dangerous thought and a grin starts to creep up both sides of his face : "If its the danger that I pose, then why don't I used my accrued danger to try to bash some sense into them? My sack is bulging from all of the treasures inside of it, so let us see what I actually have that they may be after."  The walker pulls his knapsack closer and starts to rummage through its bulging pockets. Gauntlets made from the barky hands of a demon of fire. A sword made of metal that is fraying apart like rope, with a twisted dark purple glow. An eight chambered revolving firearm with "trueshot" engraved on the barrel. A large tome, bound in yellow leather that glows with a faint holy light. Several heaps of bloodied and clean bandages. A gourd that fills with rejuvenating water by itself. As more and more fantastical things keep falling out of his bag, his grin only keeps widening. The sight of all of these mementos of his travels starts to bring back many fond memories. All of the people he wants desperately to see again. The buck toothed man with the dopey hat in the dry wooden town who kindly helped him to the infirmary when he collapsed of dehydration and guided him around town. The old, round headed monk who caught his hand as he slipped off of the edge of a mountain and gave him shelter and tea and let him exchange stories. The attractive yet primitive tribeswoman from the floating jungle ruins who ambushed him and apologized when she realized he was not a pig, and who brought him back to her tribe so that he may regale them and rest. Of the desert warriors who rode along the backs of many legged machines, clad in all white robes who had offered him a ride and jovially compared him to their machines. Of the terrified family man who he saved from fate on a dreadful battlefield littered with bodies and made sure to return to his wife and kids.

The walker gently rises out of his seated position, no longer shaking as the figures across the bridge start to hum. A horrible chill runs throughout his whole body and he hesitates with his insane plan. But, another thought occurs, the most dangerous type of thought any human can have : "Why do I run from them, when I have nothing left to lose?" and he starts to don every single piece of equipment he can dig out of his bag.

The man once known as the walker, stands in the pouring rain on the opposite side of the dilapidated bridge near the temple to a horde of hundreds of shadows born to torment him. He stands with his gauntlets covered hands on fire, a sword strapped in its rotten sheath to his back, a revolving firearm tucked into its holster at his side. He stands with bloodied, burnt and dirty bandages covering his hands and feet and with no hat to shield his head from the rain. He stands with a deep red scarf covering his neck tightly and warmly and with a robe made from the tatters and scraps of the attires of warriors from all different places.  Green and faded yellow and white, grey and silver across his chest. Finally he stands with a heart completely empty of all hope of a future past this moment, and with the grin of a maniac carved into his face. His eyes are completely void of all mercy. The deep buzzing from the crowd on the other side of the bridge is gathering and twisting into a terrible crescendo as the figures begin to writhe. Filled with malice and hate, all directed towards the man on the other side. A lightning bolt strikes the middle of the bridge and sends burning splinters travelling through the air. He charges.

No battle cries are yelled. No clanging of swords and shields and plate armor ring out across the landscape. Only the sound of the rain, and one struggling man at the end of his patience, stability and durability, facing odds stacked incomprehensibly high against him.