Echoes of The Modern Mind

What the hell just happened?

One second, I'm lying in my bed—half intoxicated, staring at a stupid meme regarding conspiracy theories, wondering if I can sleep for the rest of my life. The next, I'm lying on my back in the dirt, my mouth full of grass, and the earth reeks of death and animal piss.

"Am I—" I attempt to speak, and nothing comes out. My voice is lost. I can produce only a foreign sound as though I am being choked on some object.

And then I see the sword beside me. It's not a sword, though—it's larger than something you'd find in a ridiculous old movie. It's a pointed, sharp thing that looks like it would cut through bone if it needed to, but I don't think it actually can. It has a feeling of being an old, heavy object that's been here for a very long time. And yet—my hand is grasping it as if I already know how to.

What the hell is going on?

I attempt to stand up, but my legs are limp, as if a person who has not moved in a very long time. I collapse onto my knees, feel the earth scrape my palms, and force myself to stand.

I blink and—no. I'm not in Kansas anymore. Where am I?

The air has an odd smell. The sky is an odd gray, and the ground? It's a gooey red, like something's annoyed it. I look around. There's a lot of open space. Off in the distance, mountains appear to be crafted from shattered bones, and... individuals. A lot of them.

They are dressed in odd animal hides, like what you would imagine a caveman would wear, but a bit more fashionable. They all seem to have a function, like they are there to hunt something, and that something is me. I already know that I am in the "wrong place at the wrong time."

A voice penetrates my haze. "Rise and shine, warrior."

A warrior? That's great. I'm just an ordinary fellow who—hold on a minute.

I glance down at my hands. They are soiled, and there is this red discoloration under my nails that I feel nauseated about. The way I stand? How my body feels? I know how to wield a sword.

I glance at the sword. I don't know why or how I have it, but it gives me confidence.

I turn my head and notice a giant who is approximately seven feet tall and very muscular. His eyes are icy, and the manner in which he stands makes him appear as if he is going to harm me.

"Who the hell are you?" I ask, my voice cracking like I've been smoking for 20 years. I can barely even get a full sentence out, but I need to know what the hell is going on.

"You don't remember?" His voice is rough and deep, like he has been chewing rocks for decades. It sounds like he is teasing me. That is not good.

I shake my head and scan the circle. They are all staring at me, as if I am the joke they are waiting to hear. Some of them carry spears. One of them carries a bow. They all appear to have endured awful things—frightening, gory things that would shatter most people. But they regard me as if I am the odd one.

"I... I don't know who I am," I say to them, a little more certain this time. I will not let them see how frightened I am. I am frightened, but I will not let them enjoy that. Not yet.

The large man standing in front of me bursts into laughter loudly and roughly. "You are Naiman. You have the heart of a fighter. You will fight, or you will die."

That... that doesn't mean anything to me. I don't have a clue what he's talking about, and it's infuriating me. "Naiman? What does that mean, man?"

Another individual—a woman this time—approaches. Her face resembles a hawk's, and her eyes are extremely cold. "You don't remember? You bear the markings of a Naiman warrior. Your people's blood runs in your veins."

My head is reeling. Naiman warrior marks? What's that supposed to mean? I don't belong here. I'm just a normal dude who was enjoying a soda and staying to himself, and now I'm in a different world with people who might easily kill me without batting an eye.

But I can't shake this feeling. The sword feels comfortable in my hand. I think I've held it a million times. It feels right here, even though everything in me is screaming NO. There is a part of me that knows, deep down, that this is not a dream. This is not a shitty acid trip. This is my life now. I don't know how. I don't know why.

"Listen," I start, attempting to remain calm. "I don't know what's going on, but I'm not—" I swallow hard, attempting to keep my stomach churn down. "I'm not your fighter. I don't belong here."

They all stare at me as if I'd just told the most ridiculous thing they've ever heard. The giant takes a step closer, and his shadow falls over me entirely.

"You will learn," he laughs without smiling. "Or you will die. Warrior."

I am trying to leave, but I realize I need to continue. I will amount to nothing if I don't fight for myself. I will be a dead corpse, a solitary figure and buried underground.

And that's when I know it firmly. I'm not going to wake up from this. I'm not leaving. I'm trapped.

This sword weighs more now, and it's not just a sword. It's an anchor. My gut is twisted in knots, but I keep a straight face. Whatever is going on or whatever has happened, I must act like I am in control. I can't let myself panic now. If I let go, these people will discard me like I never existed.

Then I get it.

I am not speaking English.

"Naiman." I repeat, practicing the words. It doesn't sound foreign. It sounds... familiar. Like I have been using it since childhood. What is happening? Why can I talk their language? How do I know this? Is it because of the weird transformation my life experienced when I landed in this awful place?

The giant's eyes crease. He replies, and I attempt to make sense of it, but it's easy. It's in my head—like I only just figured this language. It's strange, but I sense the mood and the tone. I cut him off before he can finish speaking.

I don't know what I am saying, but I do. I just know that I am saying it. That is the issue. I don't know why I know these things, but it feels like I've been saying them for an eternity.

I attempt to conceal it—a peculiar sensation in my gut as I glance at the throng that is gradually approaching. All these cold, hard eyes staring at me as if I were some new creature in their zoo.

"You're not right." A guy comes forward in the group and glares at me, as if he believes I'm an idiot. He has a bad voice, but I listen to what he's saying. "What's wrong with you? You look like a fighter, but you are weak inside."

The rest of the tribe are whispering to one another, as though they are debating whether I am funny or frightening. I have to make them not think of me as weak.

"I'm strong," I tell him, though I have no idea what that actually means. But I can't let him believe I'm weak. "I fight." I say it because it sounds like something a strong person would say, but I am also attempting to believe that it is true.

This is not going as I thought it would. But what do I know about being a fighter? I am barely holding on by a thread.

The woman whose eyes are sharp edges gets closer, and her gaze is sharp now. "You don't remember," she says softly, more to herself than to me. But it's loud enough for me to catch. She's attempting to make sense of it, like I'm a puzzle with missing pieces. She's gazing at me with a face that tells her she sees something is wrong, but she doesn't know how to make it right.

"I don't—" I begin, but I can't get the words out correctly. It's like I can't keep pace with the part of me that should be guiding this body. I attempt to say what I said before, but it all feels... wrong. Unreal.

I don't know. I don't know how to be a Naiman. I know I am supposed to be something, but my head is blank. The people around me can see this, naturally. They all think I'm a warrior who's just... not really here, but I need to sort myself out soon.

"Who am I?" I repeat more audibly this time, my voice still gruff like I've been eating nails.

Her eyes dart about as I don't comprehend. "You don't know?" She says, her voice cutting sharply, as though she is wondering if she wants to be gracious to me... or perhaps inflict pain on me. "Your name... is Huleg."

Huleg.

It's like a weighty sensation goes down to my belly, and for some reason, I feel like I believe her. It doesn't make sense, but I must believe it. There's something in my chest that tugs when I hear that name. Huleg. It's mine.

My name.

But that doesn't tell me anything. What am I supposed to do now? Why am I here? Do I need to be a warrior? Am I supposed to be a leader? Or am I going to die in some futile war over something that I don't even care about?

I attempt to breathe and am brought back into the discussion before I have a chance to answer.

The archer is close but not too close and teases me. "You still do not recall the customs?" He laughs, as if he believes I am just a fool. "This is not a destination for the weak, Huleg. You will soon see what becomes of those who don't fall in line."

I don't know what he's saying, but it doesn't feel right. Very wrong. I've watched enough films to recognize when someone is proposing something dangerous. The language he used. "fall in line," "weak." They all sound like threats. It's like I might get swept up in something bad, dangerous, and out of my control.

Abruptly, a voice called out from the edge of the camp, and then a drawn-out, frightened scream. The atmosphere shifts. For an instant, there is total silence, then the tribe advances as a dark wave.

I accompany the woman—Huleg's woman, they say—through the tribe. I smell blood and sweat as I walk. There is a fire in the center, and I see... things. Things I did not expect.

Women, some battered and dirty, stood with empty expressions on their faces. Men—nearly like beasts—were grabbing them and dragging them into the darkness.

I don't get it initially. My head is not prepared to accept it, but the reality is evident. These individuals are brutal, and women in this place are treated like objects to be utilized. That's when I understand. This world is awful—a dark, cruel world where might is the only thing that matters and rape is a normal occurrence.

I can sense it—the heaviness of their gaze, how they all believe it is normal. The brutality is too much for my contemporary mind to process. And when the woman with piercing eyes drags me away from the scene, she remains silent. She doesn't have to say anything.

I am beginning to realize where I am.

I'm caught up in a world which exploits people. It sucks your strength, leaves you behind, and doesn't care what becomes of you afterwards. I'm in it now. And there is no escape.

The air is thick now, like something terrible is going to occur, and I can feel it crawling up my spine. Everyone in the camp is hushed and speaking in hushed tones. People are staring at me, and I hear whispers behind me—gentle and biting, like I'm some odd creature they want to learn how to kill.

I attempt to appear calm, as if I am with them, but something is off. My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel how burdensome each glance is.

One of the larger ones points a finger at me and spits that there is something wrong with me.

"He doesn't act like us."

I know what they are thinking. They don't know me, they don't know what has occurred, and they think it is not right for a person they don't know to claim he is a Naiman warrior. I can feel the pressure build, like a rope tightening around my neck.

A second voice breaks in. "We can't just let him wander around like this."

I want to respond and tell them I'm not dumb, that I'm fine, but I don't. They don't care. They have made up their minds what they are going to think. Their eyes tell more than their words. I know what becomes of things they don't believe in. They don't get a second chance.

The camp is extremely silent, and I am right in the middle of it, with the burden of everyone staring at me as if they want to rip me apart.

A tall, strong man walks in, like a mountain of muscle and scars. His entry silences all the people in the camp. Each and every individual ceases to speak, everyone staring at him. This is the Tribal Chief. He who chooses who lives, who will die, who will be left behind—and who shall don the hide of the wolf.

His eyes are cold. I feel like he is staring directly at me, into something more. He stares at me like a bug in his hand, but he is intrigued. Perhaps he is considering how useful I can be—or how quickly I will disintegrate.

He is the type of person who is strong without uttering a word. His presence is enough to make people respect him, and even those who intended to harm me pause and wait for him to speak.

"What is this?" he snarls, his voice gruff like he has been yelling at people for years. "What is this... thing standing in front of me?"

For a second, it's as if the world is silent. All eyes are on me, expecting my response. Oh no. What do I have to say? I am out of place here, and I am not even able to defend myself.

"I'm Huleg," I state, my voice coarse but firm. I'm attempting to sound as if I fit in, but it's unnatural. I barely know what it is to be Huleg, but I must not let them realize that. I must not give up now. The Chief gives me a once-over from head to toe, measuring me, wondering if I am worth addressing or if I am just wasting space.

"Huleg." He repeats the name, trying it out as a new word. He hesitates but does not immediately decide to kill me. "You talk our language... but you behave as if you don't belong here." His expression turns serious, and for an instant, I think he will kill me on the spot.

"Why don't you know who you are?" he demands, his voice laced with shock and disrespect. "Why don't you know how to behave like a warrior?"

Here it is. My question, the one that's been on my mind. Why can't I get it?

The thing is, I don't know. I don't know anything about this world or what I was like before. It's like I'm acting. On the inside, I know I'm not supposed to be here but I'm trapped, and I can't show anyone that I'm vulnerable.

I swallow, hoping to come up with an answer that will not land me in further trouble.

"I don't remember anything." My voice is hoarse, but that's the truth. Most of it, anyway. "I... don't know who I was before."

The Chief closes his eyes and ponders. The whispers at my back grow louder, and the fury rages once more.

"A warrior who can't remember." The Chief taunts. "How useful."

He takes a step nearer, and I don't know if he'll kill me or beat me up. All he does instead, though, is stand for a long, knotted interval of time.

Then he appeared to make up his mind and indicated to the group.

"This one is... odd. But not worthless." He states firmly, indicating that he really believes this. "It would be a waste to kill him now. He could still prove useful. But first, we will test how much he can endure."

I have a sinking sensation in my stomach, and I know what this is. I won't have an easy escape. I won't be leaving here without issues.

"Bring him to the pit," instructs the Chief. "Let us see if he lives. If he lives... then he can show us that he is truly a Naiman warrior."

The pit.

The term frightens me. I don't wish to be engaged in a battle to the death like gladiators, yet this is what will occur next.

The Chief stares at me. His face is rugged and unpleasant. "If you are successful, you will realize your place. You will be tougher." 

Now I am being dragged away, my feet hardly touching the floor as they drag me to the pit. I can see the tribe screaming, laughing, and joking at my expense, as if the whole group wishes me ill.