By skyforbes 
The eagle is said to have a far reaching sight. It targets its prey from miles above the ground with a minimum window of error. Similarly a certain eagle soaring above the hills carelessly caught a glimpse of something that did not fit in with the surrounding. Its green beady eyes focused onto the person who was visibly out of element in this area. But that wasn’t what was strikingly odd about him. What made him stand out from the surroundings and the other people, though there weren’t many of those in sight, was the fact that the man had donned an attire that was so visibly off-throwing. It was a typical appearance, something so cliché and ordinary that one could’ve easily ignored this man. His appearance was just so plain and boring. It was like the heaps of things that one sees every day and forgets because they don’t matter; and even if rarely one such thing mattered, the whole brain would have to be rewired to notice it and the subsequent resultant brain would be fried instantaneously due to data overload. Suffice it to say that this person had clearly taken pains to appear normal. And that’s what gave him away. The normalness was too inconspicuous. Normal is not something you do or try to do. It’s something you are, and feigning normalcy is as useless as filling a perforated bowl with water. The person had overlooked this, and that’s what gave him away. His artificial and synthetic ordinariness. And this made anyone looking jump to a simple conclusion. This wasn’t a fugitive on loose, or a disgraced family member returning home in hopes of a warm welcome. This wasn’t a man of this land. This was a stranger, who had decided to enter these lands for reasons yet unknown.
The stranger knew the natives must’ve sighted him by now. That was okay. They did not pose a threat. After living a life like he had, one learns that nothing is a threat, unless it is wilfully made into one. The horse was a sturdy creature. He had got the horse from the last town of the civilised district. He knew that there would be no commuting vehicles ahead, and going on foot was too archaic and tiring. A horse would come in handy. It was a black horse with white spots. The stranger, an industrious city man himself, found the horse too similar to a donkey despite the obvious differences that even every child in the country knew. It was just a horse. A quadruped healthy animal that would do its vital job on the minimum sustenance. As for himself, the stranger had dressed for the occasion. He wanted to appear normal, so shockingly normal that he would sear the canvas of the landscape and rattle the monotonicity of the scene. To accomplish that, he just had to be himself. He would seem strange to the natives, but to any of his associates he would still be clearly himself. The simmering sun cast a light on his aquiline features. His nose was too sharp, and his black gloomy eyes too questioning. His mouth seemed to be transfixed in a permanent state of half smile that made him look like he was always sneering and mocking others. But God has His special designs. While the stranger’s face always silently taunted others, the rest of his body was an object of derision for others. Generally people of his physique are termed ‘dwarves’ but he was something more than that. Dwarves tend to have a normal-sized torso with little legs, but sadly this person had an infinitesimal and abnormally small chest. His legs were quite the normal size. In fact upon close inspection one realized that his shoulder blades were almost joined to his buttocks. From a distance, and if he were walking, the stranger could almost be mistaken for a sentient scissor. You see, when we see ugly people, we wish to not see them ever again and save our eyes from such monstrosities. But the stranger was a different brand of ugly. He was the ugly which made you stare at it continuously for a long time. Although by wearing a long cloak, the stranger had killed two stones with one bird. He had hidden his body form and protected himself from the tearing wind. Lastly, the cowboy hat on his head completed his look with a final jocund touch.
By the curve of the hill on the horizon, the stranger appeared on his horse, silently traversing through the undulating land. Occasionally, he would change his pace, but never did he stop. He wanted to reach his destination at the right point in space and time. Accuracy and timing was pertinent. Soon, he realised he would be start encountering people from around these parts. A wry smile came to his lips as he wondered the musings of these simpletons who lived away from civilization, or maybe they were their own civilization. The trickle down of the stranger and people like him was a treasure for the sovereign of these natives. No doubt, his arrival would’ve caused quite a stir in them. They would be babbling mindlessly about the cause of his visit and extrapolating non-existent facts to justify his presence. Some part of him wished that they would consider him an oracle. A visionary. A prophet. Maybe they would consider him an outlaw, which wouldn’t be very wrong. But what they thought, and what they did would nevertheless be inconsequential. Their role in this venture was akin to the role of the fish tank in a dentist’s waiting room. A means of amusement and passing the time.
“What’s the name of the horse, mister?”
This sudden utterance had stopped his train of thoughts and the horse’s trot. From the shrill voice and the underlying ‘sh’ in the mister, the stranger knew that the voice belonged to a child. A native child. So the natives could speak their language. Well, that was interesting. Apparently, they’re not as stupid as we’ve been lead to believe, thought the stranger. He smiled and indifferent to the question, pushed his hips forward, signaling the horse to go on. The horse jauntily trotted ahead. The route ahead was an ascent and from the plain at the foot of the mountain, the stranger could see various kinds of shops and encampments of the people who probably belonged to this region. They were most likely aware of his marauding by now. It was going to be more amusing than he had anticipated.
The hat slightly tipped down, covering his face but still allowing him to have a good view of his surroundings, the stranger reached the first group of people standing. They seemed to be waiting for him. They were looking at him.
The natives of this region just like all people who didn’t live in the civilization were bald with frail arms and legs. Their short stature was almost always dressed in bland colored robes. They occasionally put on straw hats, depending on the weather. They didn’t carry any weapons nor did they have insignias all over their body. They were a peaceful people, which was their ultimate weakness and the primary reason why they were no longer a part of the rest of the world. They seemed to be smiling as the stranger approached them.
“Hello.” His voice reverberated. It came out more deep than he actually wanted it to be. That irked him but repeating a greeting in a different tone would be silly. And definitely childish. In return they merely smiled. Some of them bowed, a few nodded, most remained passive, and immobile.
“I believe you understand me.”
The stranger paused as he said these words, slightly tilting his head to the side, letting the words sink in. He was expecting a retort of some kind, maybe even hostility. One of them, who the stranger now realized was probably the leader of this party, blinked. The blink was so meaningful. It was the most effective and profitable use of one’s muscles. Using so little energy, so much had been conveyed. The stranger knew that he was understood and they wanted him to go on.
“I want to go across this mountain.”
“Yes”
What? What did that ‘yes’ mean? Was it an acknowledgement of his statement? Was it a permission to proceed? Or was it just an invitation to speak more? Or maybe the person was hard of hearing and wanted him to speak louder? The stranger saw no way out of this quagmire, so he decided to proceed with caution.
“Uh, I am not sure you understand-“
“What’s the name of the horse?”
The stranger’s eyes twitched. Hadn’t the child asked the same question? He didn’t pay attention to it at that time. Was this some sort of entry password? Or maybe a test? He continued the conversation nonchalantly, like the question hadn’t been stated:
“I hope you have no issue with that.”
“What?”
Again, that enigmatic reply. This was getting unbearable. They were definitely stupid. They hadn’t really learned their language now, and even if they had, the mechanics of conversation were unknown to them. They seemed to be talking to themselves or talking about something he wasn’t talking about. With a chuckle, he turned the horse back towards a path and kicked it, prompting it to continue the journey.
What a stupid pack of people, he thought. So sad and so pathetic. One almost wanted to kill them and help them be rid of this miserable life. Ah, what a pity, he hadn’t brought any lethal weapon or he would’ve undertaken this personal crusade himself to some extent. However, a lethal weapon would’ve seriously thwarted his other plans, maybe it would’ve expedited his task inconveniently. He looked ahead and saw that now there were more natives ahead, in pairs standing at almost equal intervals, the last pair giving way to the ascending curve of the mountain, atop which, if his information was correct, was a settlement of these natives. The stranger decided not to humor himself by engaging in conversation with the natives. This time, though, one of the natives initiated the conversation:
“That’s a beautiful horse.”
The stranger was taken aback, but not as much to not come up with an adequate reply in a decent duration
“Yes, thanks, really it is just a simple ordinary horse-“
“Where did you get it?”
“I don’t know the name of the establishment, it was-“
The native sighed. “That’s a pity. For how much would you give it to me?”
The stranger stopped. And considered the situation for a moment at the spot. Then he made up his mind and decided to forfeit this bizarre dialogue at this juncture and resume his journey. He would’ve plenty of time to gather his thoughts. Once back on the path, which had stopped resembling to any kind of a ‘real road’ from miles back, he mused over those words again. They were capable of having a conversation. They had learned the language, okay, that was confirmed now. They knew how to make sentences, and when to say what. But despite that, they wanted to almost desperately and willingly make any talk impossible. Maybe he just had a short temper, and that was just the way they talked. Whatever the case, he resolved to neither talk nor reply to the next native. He would just move past him. And while he was still pondering over these little things, he realized the little native was staring at him as he was going away from him now.
“Hey” the native almost shouted, but the cordiality in the voice was masked by almost a thirst for a reply.
The stranger was a man of strong willpower and didn’t find it hard to ignore him. He was unaware of the native’s shouting and shrieking. The native’s entreaties fell to deaf ear as the stranger, fortified in his memory palace, had completely detached himself from the reality, allowing the horse a free rein. So much was the stranger absorbed in himself, that he didn’t even pay heed to the yelling stranger when he almost hysterically shrieked, his voice full of tears:
“What’s the name of the horse?”
The stranger knew he had moved past the man back there. He knew just a few paces ahead, another one of the lot was waiting for him. Waiting to pounce on him and exhaust his mental faculties, with his idiotic blabber. The stranger was self-aware. He knew he was better than all these natives and though he was only passing through their land, he wanted to establish a folk-lore around himself. He wanted them to know how utterly amazing and genius he was. For that they would have to talk and talking was a problem. Not that he didn’t have the necessary oratory skills. Oh no! Au contraire he had them in profusion. He just didn’t want to talk to them. The stranger had this notion that he hated people in general. Frequently he had come to this conclusion, but this wasn’t true, for someone who supposedly hated other people, he also yearned for them. It was quite an adequate example of polar behavior but the stranger would find himself wanting people around himself at one moment and when they would be around him, he would find himself wanting solace.
All these thoughts ran rampant in his mind when the next native hollered:
“Greetings, traveller.”
The stranger merely grunted. He didn’t wish to talk to this frowsy human. The native was covered in mud. And it wasn’t the crystallised, dry, flaky mud that people who work around mud permanently have. It was a veneer of gooey pure filth.
“So you aren’t going to talk to me?”
Again no reply.
“You didn’t talk with the guy back there too. I heard him yelling.”
The stranger was now in front of the native and still moving. This statement had momentarily made him think but it didn’t matter. Apparently he had dived too deep in his own mind and had yet again neglected the dull inconsequential ramblings of his surroundings.
“Well you go ahead mister, if you want to. But I must warn you that there’s a settlement coming up ahead. Best be careful.”
This utterance was followed by a sigh and a whisper.
“What is the name of the horse, anyway?”
The stranger, now, wanted answers. Alas! He couldn’t get those after all. For even if he were to reply (after ignoring the dumb question in the end) and the man still wanted to converse, they still couldn’t possibly really talk. For he had moved ahead, and was perpetually moving ahead, like the laws of the land compelled him. To go back was not only impossible but also something embarrassing. What possible dangers could a settlement of these innocuous souls possess? Perhaps it was a relative term. What the native deemed danger might be nothing but a trifling matter for the stranger. He was better than all of them anyway. He liked to think sometimes at least. Nothing wrong in dreaming. Besides, sometimes even dreams come to fruition. And even if he wasn’t the best, he wasn’t the worst among them. And let’s just assume that he was the worst, so what? He was still himself, and in the end that’s all that really mattered.
The stranger gazed ahead and his vision flickered towards the sky. The sky far ahead, perhaps near his destination, was dark. Presently, there was the flash of a white streak in the blackness. Thunder. Lightning, thought the stranger. He was afraid of thunder storms. Always had been since his childhood. There really was no reason behind it. Like most things true and pure, his fear of lightning was unreasonable and unconquerable. All he remembered from his childhood was a dark night, and a pillow moistened by his tears as the thunder storm outside raged on providing the only half mechanical ambience to the environment. In itself, the physical process of lightning was nothing short of a wonder in itself. A proof of the existence of God for those who wanted to think of it that way. The interaction of negative charges and their violent on rush towards ground in an attempt to neutralise themselves. There was something human in this. Something petty. It was almost like a sinner, the sum total of all of his negative traits, rushing to God, to redeem himself. In the act, he leaves behind a trail so violent and terrifying, yet so clear. His path is undeterred and his rush purely natural. The stranger chuckled. What a complex and dumb analogy had he just concocted? Truly the human brain withheld the power to astonish you every living second.
The stranger realised he had been sitting too still on his horse. Those looking at him must have realised by now that he was engrossed in what would be for them the mysterious act of thinking. This won’t do. He didn’t want to stand out too much. He had to pass these regions. That was the main goal. And to do that the main tool was pretentious normalcy. Induced curiosity. This was the only weapon up his sleeve and he knew that was the only buffer if the natives went berserk. The curiosity he wished to induce in them, would dominate any of their feral impulses. If he fell to their vicious attacks, they would tear him up and scrutinize every little bit of his existence. But with his plan by the time their curiosity was satisfied, his saga would’ve come to an end, and then they would all worship him and sing his praises. So wonderful would be his tale.
He saw the two natives coming towards him slowly. He stopped the horse. He wanted to hear what they had to say.
“Throw away your hat.” Said one.
“Keep your hat on.” Said the other.
Having said that, both of them stood silent. It was eerie, like they were actors in a play who had said their lines before the right time and now I had no idea what to do in the meantime.
“Why should I do either of that?”
“The people in the settlement ask for it.” Both of them replied in unison.
The stranger stood considering this conundrum. They were both proposing two different things because of the same reason. His common sense told him that one of these was the right choice, and the other clearly wrong. It was like one of those demented exams all over again. He had no clue or idea to go on here though. He tried to get more information.
“You do realise you’re both saying opposite solutions for the same problem.”
“What’s the problem?” They said together again, genuinely perplexed.
The stranger heartily laughed. This was again one of their mind games or something, like the name of the horse gimmick. Most amusing. He tipped his hat lightly and remarked:
“Thank you gentlemen, I will consider both of your proposals before entering the settlement.”
The horse continued moving forward now. The settlement was right in front of the stranger. He really didn’t have a lot of time to think of the hat issue. There were three possible scenarios here. Or maybe four. He couldn’t just blindly follow any one of them. He had to think about the problem himself and assess it and then act on it. The final response must be his own, even if influenced by others actions or words. That was his mantra in life. Originality. Perhaps that was the only thing that so many humans truly had in their life and how gladly they threw it away, trying to be someone else or envying to be someone else. So, the first scenario was that he had to throw away his hat, in the second he had to keep on the hat, both of these because that’s what the people in the settlement wanted. The third scenario was that he would keep his hat on because nobody cared whether his hat was on or not. The last scenario was definitely the optimum and the adequate course of action. He would walk in the settlement with his hat in his hands. That would appease both the hat and non-hat factions, if there were any. In case, there were no such factions, nobody would care. Pleased with his decision, the stranger smugly entered the apparently barren settlement.
The settlement definitely looked barren. The gates to the town were creaky and merely a formality, for they swung wildly owing to the wind. The stranger entered the town, hat in the hand, and his first notion was that the place had been abandoned. There was no activity in sight. The only mobility visible was that caused by the wind. The buildings were all a dull green, made murkier by the humid air that was a characteristic to this region. There were no animals outside and no carriages. He wasn’t surprised to realise that he was the only traveller going through these regions at this precise time. The stranger, riding his horse, slightly flummoxed, but still very much aware of his surroundings continued his way ahead.
Later when going through this moment, the stranger would admit to himself that in normal situations he would’ve seen the impish native suddenly appear. But for now, the stranger was caught unawares as a rock whizzed past him. He was instantly alerted but as it turned out, a bit too late, for the first rock was the spearhead of the onrush that ensued. Soon it was raining rocks and stones. The natives had come out of their hiding spots and were throwing stones at him. It didn’t matter that they were mostly missing. It also didn’t matter that in trying to hit the stranger who was on the street, the people on the two sides of the street were pummelling each other with these dull round stones. Like machines, they catapulted their projectiles at the stranger, drawing from their infinite source of stones. They were oblivious to the screaming of the previously composed and perhaps even haughty stranger, who despite dodging almost all the stones was still petrified on his horse, reliant on the beast to lead him through this ambush. The stones whirred around him creating a cacophony in the wind. Suddenly the noise of the stones stopped, for the very reason that the natives had stopped throwing them. The stranger opened his eyes and kicked the horse lightly, signalling it to stop. He instinctively became aware that the horse had bolted through the town because both it and the rider were being attacked.
The stranger felt guilty of not caring enough for the horse, who might be injured now. He felt selfish. He stepped down from the horse, confident that the natives weren’t going to stone him to death. Whatever they wished to accomplish with that onslaught, they had done, and there was no further reason to go on. The stranger moved around the horse, carefully inspecting him. There was a bruise on the hind-leg, and apart from that the horse was in perfect condition. Gladly, the stranger, with some effort, half jumped and half climbed back on the horse. He was relieved that the horse was still capable of delivering him to his destination.
Now that the situation had been assessed and the damage taken into account, the stranger looked back at the town. Of course he couldn’t go back in there and demand answers to his inquiries, but he couldn’t just go on anymore. He had to know. He must know, so with all his energy, whilst looking backward at the town he shouted:
“Why?”
It wasn’t particularly a question, it was more of an exclamation of pain and torment. Although he had suffered no physical injuries, the stranger had been psychologically wounded. He had deduced that this was due to the hat, or the fact that he hadn’t told them the name of the horse. Maybe they were just a bunch of xenophobes. But he wanted to hear it from their mouths.
A mob of the people from the town walked towards him. The stranger could hear naked feet shuffling against the ground. One of them, who had a scar down his left cheek, meekly smiled, raised both of his arms like he was embracing empty air and said:
“Because we can.”
The stranger sat on his horse mortified for a moment. They did this because they could. Everything they had done, was just because they could do that. How foolish! How utterly nonsensical! He looked into the eyes of the native who had spoken and spat on his face. The natives as a mob didn’t even flinch. The scarred one merely cleaned his face with his sleeve and in a highly jolly tone asked:
“Pray, do tell me what’s the name of the horse?” As soon as he had said it, they collectively went back, leaving the silent stranger to his own devices. The stranger was seething with rage for which he had no explanation and no vent. Muttering and grumbling, he resumed his journey. Ahead lied the descent to the hill for the town was at the top. The stranger’s thoughts were now a jumbled mess. He had come to do something else and had foolishly involved himself in this stupid business, and nothing good had come off of it. If anything his will to hasten the end-game had been strengthened and that was an unwelcome result. Nevertheless, morosely the stranger made his way down slowly, for the descent down the hill is much trickier than the ascent. He had barely gone a few meters ahead when he saw an irregularity in the grass to his side. He halted the horse and with the utmost scorn said:
“Oh, you inbred, I see you hiding in the grass.”
There was a rustle in the grass and a voice replied:
“I am not hiding.”
“Then what in the bloody heavens are you doing?” The stranger wryly continued:
“And don’t you dare think that I don’t know you are spying on me! I have known it since the start that you were aware of all of my movements”
The grass appeared to chuckle
“You’re so mistaken. I don’t know anything about spying on you, dear sir. I am just a hideous being and my folks had me buried in the grass when I was born. But the monstrosity inside me has kept me alive even beneath the ground. I believe you are a stranger to this land, and let me tell you that we, the natives of this land do not spy on travellers. It’s a waste of time, you see.”
“What would you know of being a native? Didn’t you just say you were buried when you were born?” The stranger felt uncomfortable as the conversation proceeded and he could feel the discomfort crawling on his back. However, he needed to show the natives who had the upper hand, he had to surprise them by his knowledge.
“Yes sir, but you forget that before being buried, I was a part of the people of this area and was thoroughly aware (and still am) of our customs and traditions.”
“And when were you buried?”
“Why, it was yesterday!”
The stranger paused and worded his next question carefully.
“And you were born yesterday too?”
“Yes, of course, didn’t I just say so? I believe you’re mocking me now”
The stranger gasped and held his breath. The silence was like a thin, pale membrane which was lacerated by the piercingly uproarious laughter of the stranger.
“Oh that’s a mighty good jest. Farewell, jester and spy. I must be off.”
The stranger chose to continue his journey and not pay heed to the insane protestations of such a mad man. Clearly, they had buried him in there for a good reason. The beseeching voice of the man beneath the grass was further drowned out by the rain which suddenly started pouring down in large droplets. The path immediately turned a rusty brown and the stranger pulled the cloak tighter to his body to prevent himself from getting wet as much as he could. The horse proved to be tougher than it appeared and instead of getting skittish in the rain, it continued onwards in its normal pace. Even the lightning failed to frighten the mighty horse, which trotted to its rider’s destination without directions and signals. The rider, the stranger, had ducked low as soon as the thunderclouds had started zapping the ground. He had no intention of being a victim to the raging battle in the skies, and he believed that lying low would help accomplish that. Despite the fact that much of his trajectory was now covered by the mane of the horse and what he could see of the surrounding was dark, filtered by rain and only illuminated momentarily, the stranger was still able to see another native ahead. This one was sitting, more like leaning against a pole. He was wearing a straw hat. He looked like he was in some other dimension completely. His gaze was fixed ahead and he appeared to not care for the rain and the storm. He didn’t care that we was wet through and through or that he was technically sitting on the path and anybody could trample him. The stranger stopped the horse in the proximity of this native. The native was clearly older than the world itself. The wrinkles in his face showed that. He also hadn’t bathed in quite a while obviously, because even from such a distance, the air appeared to be filled with a putrid stench. The stranger sat upright on the horse, cleared his eyes and looked ahead. No other native. This was the last one. Which meant that what he was seeing ahead was also his destination. So this was it.
These thoughts brought a sudden finality to his actions. For no reason, the stranger now wanted to talk to this old man. Maybe even tell him the whole story. The story of his life. How he had become what he had become and how he was now, where he was. That would be interesting. But what would be the purpose of that. It would be merely an extravagant use of time. He would only be delaying the inevitable. These thoughts ran amok in his mind but they were all reduced to squirming entities when he realised he had to talk. He had to talk to this old man and tell him everything. He had to let someone know what happened to him. This old man would be the propagator of his heroic tales. Besides it was good to have someone to tell everything about. He was tired of talking to himself all his life, or the people inside his head. It was time to let it all out. Why not this old man? The last person, he would meet before he fulfilled his destiny. And even if all these reasons were not sufficient to convince his conscience to talk, he had one infallible excuse. He had to tell his story because he simply could.
Just like that, the stranger sitting on his horse, told everything to the native old man sitting silently against the post. There were no greetings or interruptions. It was just one long monologue of despair, tragedy and occasional yet cruelly hopeful happiness. The rain poured down the clouds and so did the words from the stranger’s mouth. He didn’t know how long he had been going on when he finished. An hour, a day, a month. Did it matter? No, it didn’t as long as the native man had listened. The stranger looked down at him. He appeared to have listened…except he hadn’t moved. Not even an inch. The stranger got down from the horse.
“Will you tell the others, what I just told you?”
There was no reply.
The stranger repeated his question several times, each time the pitch rising until he was shouting the words
“Will you tell the others what I just told you?”
There was no reply, and there was none to be had, for when the stranger pushed the man, in the futile attempt to provoke him the old man landed with a thud on the ground. The true horror of the situation dawned on the stranger. The smell, the indifference, the immobility. The old man was literally in another dimension. He was dead. The horrid realisation still heavy on his mind the stranger would’ve mounted on his horse had it not been for a soggy piece of paper tapered to the post. It had only three words on it
“Dumb. Deaf. Blind”
The stranger didn’t want to think anymore. He just wanted to be done with it. He didn’t wish to consider not even for a moment that the person he had confessed to, the person he had told everything was a dead man. And not just a random dead man, it was the corpse of a random dumb, deaf and blind old man. Oh the tyranny of nature.
The stranger constantly pushed these thoughts out of his mind as he reached his destination. He stopped for a second, patted the horse, almost like giving it instructions telepathically and signalled it to move. The horse neighed and started galloping. With each stride, it exponentially gained speed. The stranger’s eyes dilated as he saw the end nearing. His body wasn’t panic stricken, it was relaxed and calm. He had made his peace with it, since a long time ago. It had always been the execution that was the issue, the steps leading to it. And now he had surpassed them one way or another. The stranger closed his eyes. The horse continued to move closer to what appeared to be a precipice. The horse rebelled against its natural instinct as it came nearer to the edge.
And then it jumped.
It jumped from the world’s edge into nothingness. The stranger felt the darkness rushing towards him even with the eyes closed. The horse, surprised to find no ground beneath its legs, and having nothing better to do was flailing them. The stranger’s last thought was a kind of prayer. It had become the prayer of his life.
I hope they don’t ask me the name of the horse.
And then the stranger and the horse were lost into nothingness, from being something, they had now become nothing.