... Three months ago...
If he runs, he will reach there before the sun rises. If he rather walks slowly, the subtle warmth of the sun will be over when he reaches there. In other words, if he runs as well as walks slowly, he’ll die. So he forbade his legs from running. When they tried to make him walk slowly pulling him backwards, he brought them forward, and hardening his for-head, gave them the only order he can give with a whisper.
Don’t run, but don’t walk slowly too. Just!... walk a little bit faster.
And his legs, accepting his order, began helping him to walk a little bit faster.
Walking a little bit faster, panting, the blur made by the trees as he pass, the dying cries of those lords stabbed and left under the trees by him, the steel-meeting-steel sound he hears from the far border of the forest, made by the swords of the border guards he made to fight each other by cutting through, the chill of the morning pacing up and down his face, leaves reddened years ago by his own blood... everything has its own beauty. Since there is beauty in pain as well as death, life has already started making sense again, red sense of blood... a sense he’s been awaiting to feel for years.
Yorosa, a province of mythical beasts... Yorosa, a land where the month of the creatures rules indefinitely... Yorosa, an island always under the attention of the mad gods... Yorosa... Yorosa... Yorosa... hamonv o’los Yorosa!
Sun rays that burn the grass;
An illuminating light from the sky that prevents the eyes from opening as wide as they desire to be;
Warmth that forces the flies rising in thick black swarms to bit their wings continuously in order to create the coldness they crave around them;
Hot days that make the sweat pour down the forhead;
Dusty ground that carries flames waiting to burst into life when a bare foot is laid on them;
Rocky forests filled with rotten trees;
Valleys crowded with uncivilized skirt-wearing tribes;
Mythical beasts cursed by the words of the gods;
A man of the northern Alitia kingdoms who unfortunately comes to the barren island province of Yorosa won’t be able to see other things than these. When he returns to the north he will speak about these to his family; rocky forests, mythical beasts, valleys, dusty ground, hot days, sun rays, warmth and an illuminating light from the sky. Yes!... That man will have a mind totally swarmed by these things when he remembers Yorosa. What then was expected to be remembered about a journey made to an island that is the most uncivilized of the eight kingdoms, found in three months’ worth of march from Ierodiel and bordered with the Nors and Zantayn sea to the North, the Zife and Siela islands to the North-East, the Adin island and the cold sea to the East, the Douma ocean to the South-East, South and South-West and Aliyad-the kingdom where the great Baytens, Titoneses and Adiyoses can be found-to the East?
But Bieren, even if he doesn’t deny that Yorosa is a long forgotten island, remembers other things, many wonderful things. The old man and that day... two but many wonderful things. And that day on her own appears to be two... ‘two that days’.
Inside the ‘two that days’, there will be the old man, the cave exists, the tribe won’t be elsewhere, quotes he remember, the valley, the dusty ground will also be there, and at last, him. And inside him the ‘two that days’ reappear.
The first that day...
... He was crouched on the unsettling ground of the cave. In front of him, of course, the old man, inside the old man’s palm, he remembers, a candle rested, trying to lighten the whole cave. Perhaps, there had been other things, but he doesn’t remember more than that.
After advising him for a long time, the old man remained silent for a while and changed the course of their conversation. “What’s your name, son?”
He remembers that, by then, he was in his fifties. And by now...
Anyways, he wasn’t at an age he should be called a child. However, as he looked like a twenty-five years old youth, the old man called him ‘son’. Of course, he’s always like that, just a twenty-five years old youth.
“Anaknem!” he said his name loud enough for the old man to hear.
The old man, as if he hadn’t heard him say his name, glared at the ground and the candle now and then, looking very thoughtful, and nodded awkwardly.
“It’s not a good name”, said the old man.
“What does that mean?” he asked hardening his for head. Had he had his for head hardened?.. No! He just had his eyes narrowed. No! No! He surely had his for head hardened.
Despite his inability to remember which part of his body was changed, he’s pretty sure that was the statement he made, a statement used to ask for an explanation... ‘what’, ‘does’, 'that’ and ‘mean’.
“Here, son...” as always, the old man paused his speech for a second, and after thinking about the words that should come out of his mouth, continued to give him the explanation he asked for. “Being great starts from here. Since that name you got isn’t grand, you should change it. When you change it, however, be careful not to peak a name that makes you seem grander than you really are. A gentleman isn’t supposed to have plenty of appearances, but knowledge.”
Again, the old man remained silent for a moment and picked a new name for him.
“From now on, you shall be called ‘Bieren’.”
By then, he moved on, deciding the name to be fair, as if it was something to be judged by those who want to buy it. But now, he adores his own name. For others adoring his own name might seem something confusing. However, provided that he’s a reason to adore his own name, no one should judge him should he continue to exaggeratedly adore his own name as much as he wants.
Loving the words... adoring the letters is impossible for those who don’t understand the meaning lying behind the words. And those who don’t get the meaning of the words will mock on the ones who adore the words while understanding their meanings, mock on the ones with the knowledge to cover for their own illiteracy, try to pull them back towards their pack. Of course, they succeed on some. And these, who are pulled backwards from the literati to the pack of those out-the-know illiterates, it means, weren’t completely knowing in the first place, half-literate imposters.
But the remaining literati love the words... adore the letters, since they have a reason. So as far as he’s his own self-supporting reason, no one has a privilege to judge him should he adore his new name, even those who know that reason of his.
The second that day...
...A year after he got a new name and met the old man, he found himself next to a bed. And on that bed laid the old man, only at an arm’s length from death, murmuring against his tiredness.
That moment he witnessed the old man’s death with his own eyes remains as one of the very few moments of his life he remembers himself crying. How couldn’t he cry when he sees the father of his knowledge lying in front of him, about to leave him alone?
After teaching him about the beasts of Yorosa for about a year without telling him his name, the old man, while swarmed with pain on that cursed bed, told him that they were men of the same name.
Continuing his dying request, the old man also told him to protect the name and pass it to someone who deserves to have it when his turn to die comes. So that’s it. He adores his name granting that old Bieren’s dying request, given to him all those years back, and until that someone who deserves the name comes, he’ll take care of the name, apparently appreciating it.
But the things that confuse him till now are those last words of old Bieren, spoken with clearly visible pain.
“Touch it!”, old Bieren told him.
When he looked up at him with confusion, old Bieren’s eyes shut with a hint of satisfaction all over them, as if he’s already spoken of what he intended to. How happy he’d have been if old Bieren’s life had been lengthened just for a short period, just enough to hear what was meant by those words from the mouth that blurted them out! How happy he’d have been!
Touch it! Touch it!..., that sound of the old man, carrying those words he’s not managed to grab their meaning yet, rang repeatedly inside his head.
He’s just come back to Yorosa since then. Perhaps, if his today’s work proves to be successful, he will return to Ierodiel. Of course, he doesn’t want to leave Yorosa without visiting the tribe.
...What is he talking about? The old man’s story can have no connection with his today’s task.
What he talks about is a story that happened fifty-four years after the start of Alitia’s war, twenty-five years after the war was completed in the favor of Zermak, five years after he become a Dikt, three years after he killed his own brother with his own hand, two years after he was caught by Kamien, on the first of the eighteen months, Tiekosnin, on the sixth day, Wolos, while the sun was, unusually, rising in the East, the air made wet by the morning’s fog, at a place found to the East of the Hielenef valley, a little back to the West of the peninsula preferred for its use as a bay of refreshment for those ships sailing towards the island of Adin... that is the story he talks about.
How can he forget that Wolos’s morning? Never! A cursed day... A story in which he lost those he truly loved... A day... Something to remember him that he wasn’t able to do a thing as he saw a sword put deep inside the necks he loved. Never!... He will never forget that day!
Another additional five years have passed since that sorrowful day. This means, by definition, that is a story of the past, a story to be hanged high for the crows to feed on it. But since time doesn’t stop forging history, as one passes to be a history, another story will fill the gap only to become the future history. Now is the time for a new story to begin. The time for writing a story of pure revenge has come.
But revenge always looks back towards the history that existed before him, towards the history that created him. If the past doesn’t exist, the present can’t hold. And if the history that remembers us about the past doesn’t exist, revenge himself or the spirit of revenge that unsettles the inside of those who suffered, won’t be able to hold. All in all, it was by then that everything started, ten years ago, when Bieren became a Dikt.