3. Name
That man had no name.
No face.
None knew the true identity that lay beneath his wood-carved mask.
Some believed there might be none. Probably. I mean, hey, why not? What do you think?
The masked man stripped off his shoes and stood in the middle of a river.
Not a big river. A stream. It could have been because of the recent lack of rain, but the water was only up to the masked man’s waist, and the current was relatively mild.
The masked man just stood there, like a piece of caught driftwood or something.
These were things he was not thinking:
Why?
Am I becoming one with nature?
Is this natural?
Instead, his head was close to empty.
Nearly free of worldly thoughts.
Suddenly, he moved.
The masked man crouched slightly, sticking his right hand into the water.
Effortlessly, he snatched a fish.
With his left hand, he caught another.
“Personal Skill, Godhand... Or whatever.”
The man let out a loud, victorious laugh, then got up out of the river.
The man who had been in a state free from worldly thought mere moments ago was nowhere to be seen, but in a way you could say he was one with nature. Maybe, I guess?
The gumow kid was sitting by the river bank. Its pallor was, well, it was hard to say if it was good or bad. The color of its skin being what it was, it wasn’t clear. It probably wasn’t good, though.
The gumow kid’s shoulders were heaving, and it was oozing greasy sweat.
The masked man chucked the two fish somewhere, then started on a campfire. “This place was a real find, huh? Those orcs, they hunt the beasts and fish without restraint. That’s not ecological. That’s egotistical. It’s ego, not eco... hey, that was clever, if I do say so myself! I’ve got to hand it to me. Well, they do say they were pushed by the human forces into the Nehi Desert, the Plateau of Falling Ash, the Plains of Mold, and some other wastelands. Guess that forced them to catch whatever they could catch, whenever they could catch it, and however much they could catch. See, I get that. I can understand the feeling, at least.”
The gumow kid was silent. It was shivering like crazy. It seemed to be all it could do to withstand the pain.
The masked man started the fire, stabbed the fish onto skewers, and retrieved the salt from his bag.
“Ta-dah! You can only really get this stuff in towns. I keep it for special occasions.”
With a generous sprinkling of salt on each fish, he started by cooking the outside of them close to the fire. Once the skin fully dried out, it was just a matter of feeding the fire kindling and waiting.
Once the fish stopped dripping moisture, it was safe to think they were done.
The man shifted his mask aside, and chomped into a well-cooked fish.
“Whoa! This is... good!”
The steaming-hot meat was wonderful. The bitterness of the innards lent it a certain spice. Then there was the salt.
Here, I would like to take a moment to profess my belief in the supremacy of salt. The whole world must bow before salt. Salt is our savior. In other words, the flavor of salt is almighty. Whether you do or don’t have that salty flavor changes everything.
The masked man offered the second fish to the gumow kid. “Hey.”
The gumow kid stared at the fried fish, simply shaking its head weakly.
“Just eat it already.” The masked man forced the stick upon which the fried fish was skewered into the gumow kid’s hand.
The gumow kid nibbled the fried fish just a little. Its sweaty face broke into a smile. “...Goo.”
“Isn’t it, though? Eat it all. That’s your share.”
The masked man greedily devoured his own fish. Not just the skin and flesh; he snapped the bones between his teeth and swallowed them, too. The gumow kid was eating its fish one bite at a time, savoring it.
“We’ll all be embraced by Skullhell someday,” the masked man said. “Today could be that day. But, still, if you can eat, eat. You’ve got to live until you die.”
In the end, over a long time, the gumow kid managed to polish off the whole fish.
The masked man patted the gumow kid on the head, and gave it a compliment. The gumow kid seemed happy, and even proud.
The masked man put the gumow kid on his back and started walking.
Southward.
The masked man was heading south.
Where was this? He knew it was orc and undead territory, at least, but the masked man did not know his precise location.
There were more orcs. They occupied almost all of the cities. Only a very few were ruled by the undead.
Orcs were the ones living in the farming villages, too. The workers were mostly gumow slaves. They were whipped, day in and day out, and forcibly put to work. If the gumows had children, their children were enslaved, too. Slaves birthed more slaves, increasing their numbers. The gumow were no different from livestock.
“Human...?” the gumow kid whispered in the masked man’s ear.
The masked man thought a moment. “No,” he denied it. “I’m not human, but I’m not inhuman, either... I am me. No one but myself.”
“...Name?”
“You want to know my name?” The masked man adjusted how he was carrying the gumow kid. Somehow, it felt heavier. “Ranta.”
“...Rawnta.”
“Yeah. And you? What’s your name?”
“...Pat.”
“Pat.”
“Aye.”
“Hang in there, Pat,” said Ranta.
It felt like Pat nodded.
Ranta walked. He walked in silence.
Ranta had walked on his own feet all this time. He could walk anywhere. He could keep on walking.
He climbed a slope. Forged a path where there was none. He slid occasionally, and because he was carrying Pat on his back, he couldn’t grasp on to the trees and grass.
Who cares? It’s no big deal. I’ll make it work. Climb. Climb. Keep on climbing.
Close to sunset, he reached the top of a small hill. It was an open space, and he could see far into the distance.
The river meandered. The setting sun made the surface of it shine. The mountains went on like crazy. The forest spread out in silence. That one place with smoke rising from it must have been a village.
“What do you think, Pat?” Ranta asked. “Quite the view, huh?”
There was no response.
Ranta laid Pat down on the ground.
Pat had long since stopped breathing.
“...Am I being true to my own heart?” Ranta whispered to himself over and over.
For whatever reason, he couldn’t find an answer.
Was it a yes?
Or was it a no?
He didn’t know. But why?
He knelt next to Pat, watching the moment the sun set.
The world blackened by the second.
The wind was cold.
The clouds in the sky blotted out the red moon.
Scattered raindrops fell, then it started to come down in earnest as he watched.
“Am I being true to my own heart?”
Ranta removed the mask and cast it aside. He stood up, and shouted out loud, not caring if his throat gave out.
“Yes! I’m being true to my heart! Pat!!”
He looked at Pat.
In the lashing rain, Pat didn’t stir in the slightest.
Pat was dead.
“O, Dark God Skullhell, please, take Pat into your arms. Everyone is equal under you, right?”
Ranta started to dig a hole with his bare hands. He never once rested. The thought of stopping never crossed his mind. He dug.
He kept digging.
He ignored the heavy rain, and expanded the hole.
Until the hole was perfect for Pat, he dug as if in a trance.
Ranta laid Pat in the bottom of the hole.
“Here’s a gift to take with you... because I don’t have anything else to offer.”
He laid the nine copper coins that he had seized from the orcs he’d killed on top of Pat’s chest.
He was well aware that he was being foolish. What did he mean, “a gift to take with you”? There was no afterlife. The dead went nowhere, and could take nothing with them.
While he was filling the hole in, dawn broke.
The rain had let up at some point.
Ranta picked up his mask.
He was alone, so he needed no name.
If no one knew who he was, he could be alone.
Ranta used a knife to dig another groove into the mask. The mask had to change. He didn’t need to engrave Pat’s name in it. He needed only to remember it.
Ranta put the mask back on, and began to walk again.
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