Rahman, as he was called for the last 4 years, had been a potter for that time. This stint of his had started when he arrived on the shores of an African town, Medinez, located on the shores of the river Khibuki. Prior to this, he had been a blacksmith, a practitioner of medicine (which many believed to be black magic), and even a soldier, in reverse order. At the still maturing age of 27, this was a shockingly varied resume he was amassing with his life.
He wasn't particularly bright as a child, named Shikhnir and brought up in a village named Perouz in inland Peru, learning the tenets of frugal survival, which was the most one could aspire to learn in that place and time. As with the majority of the male population there, he too joined the king's army at the age of 16. At the time he left home with 4 others from his neighbourhood, none could have predicted the course his life would go on to take, most of all, he himself.
And none of the magic would have taken place either, had it not been for the chance encounter in a tiny hut in the middle of a dense forest, during a royal hunting expedition, the second such assignment in his fledgling 14 month career as soldier. It was a gloomy winter afternoon, neither too cold nor too hot, and he was part of the group that ventured forward, scouting for any signs of danger, by way of animal or man. Still new to the paths of the forest, he managed to lose the entourage, and soon enough had no inkling of where he was and should have been. After 6 hours of futile searching, a tired and thirsty Shikhnir stumbled upon a broken down hut. Catching a light moving within and desperate for relief, he plucked the remnants of life and his gun, and made his way into the establishment, which was little more than 10 feet both sides.
What he would experience in that place, where he spent the large part of the next 2 days, would change the very basis of his existence. The change began with him leaving the hut, now named Khalid, bound for a village some hundred miles southwards. He left the hut keeping only the things he had learnt to be essential for the journey ahead, given the river and marshes that lay in the way. As he left, an air of dire desolation returned to the hut, as it had been for the last 287 years, and would be to date.
Upon having reached a stream some miles from the village, after a walk lasting 4 nights and days, the first sign of life that came his way was incidentally on the doors of death. A cow had been attacked by a wild animal it seemed, going by the deep wounds suffered on its side. It was trying desperately to drag itself back to its home. Armed with little more than a gauntlet of water and a staff, Khalid felt a deep need to alleviate the creature of its suffering. Not knowing why exactly, guided perhaps by a force invisible, he walked along the stream to a shrub that grew all alone. Mashing it with the rocks on the stream bed, he soon had an ash-green paste which he went on to apply on the suffering cow. Giving it some water, he then sat next to it, comforting it as the night wore on. The next morning, he propped it to its feet, and the two headed into the village.
Thus entered Khalid the miracle healer, into the lives of the 40 odd villagers that comprised his destination, and his home for the next 3 years. One fine day, one not too dissimilar from the day of his second hunting expedition back in Perouz, he found himself ambling empty handed towards a little hut next to the stream where he had found the cow. And from there, 2 days later, he had emerged as Darim, heading onwards to Africa in a vessel belonging to a local slave trade mafioso, to a kingdom by the name of Rhiwana. There he would go on to succeed the business of a blacksmith who died a day before his arrival. He would lead the family out of debt and despair, and train the young sons of the deceased patriarch. Three years into Rhiwana, and the family that he had made his own, he left for a walk one night and never returned. Within days he would be Rahman the potter, the newest member of a village in Northern Africa by the name of Shizami. A year later, he found himself walking out of another desolate hut, this time still as Rahman, heading to the port, onwards to Khemnuur.
No comments:
Post a Comment