The Immortal Ox Rider - part 3

The old man had become a thoroughly lonely old man. A drowning man will clutch a straw, a lonely man will befriend a beast. He called out to the ox, his helper over the past few months, and bayed the beast to come over.

The ox, firm and gentle, and black as night, shining in the glow of the fire, slowly walked over to the old man in the snow. A blanket was laid over its great back, providing some defence against the chill of winter. It was far warmer than the old man, at any rate, and after letting out a few low grunts, blasting the old man’s face with the cloud of hot breath and vapour, it folded its legs to lay down. The old man was three parts surprised and seven parts delighted with this. What a kindly young ox! The old man tentatively reached out a shaking hand to stroke the ox’s neck, which was easily twice as thick as the old man’s entire body.

Content that the ox was comfortable with the contact, the old man relaxed his shoulders and leaned against that warm animal. The ox slowly moved its head, apparently not wanting to disturb the old man, who had been working so hard for such a small creature, and took a corner of its blanket in its teeth, tugging it up to drape over that frail shivering body which leaned against him. The old man’s body was warmed, and so too had the little crystals of frost in his heart been melted away by this act of kindness.

“Say, old chum,” the old man spoke to the ox. This felt much more comfortable than talking to himself, though there still wouldn't be any response. Or so he thought, but the ox did make a single small huff at the address. “You’ve been such a great help to this old one these past few months. Truly, thank you for all the hard work.”

There was another small huff.

“The town is so quiet now.”

There was a slightly louder huff.

“Ha ha, yes. We can make some noise ourselves, I’m sure. But I wonder if there is any reason to stay here now.”

The ox’s tail swatted lazily but he did not huff.

The old man had assumed that staying in the same place would make it easier for his friends to find him in their next lives, but not one had come. He reasoned that it was perhaps time for him to go look elsewhere. Take the initiative.

Also, by now, having been the only survivor of a plague, the old man was finally starting to think it was odd that he had lived so long. He had ignored this curiosity for a while, convincing himself that he was perhaps just very healthy because he had been so active as a young man, but now things were a bit too obvious to ignore. It was undeniably odd. Maybe he could find answers if he searched for them.

He did not tell this to the ox. Instead, he said, “I would like to travel. If you have no objections, then please accompany me. I can’t say how long it will take, but I promise to treat you well if you are willing to stay by my side.”

The ox seemed to contemplate the offer, and at last let out a small huff.

The two set out the following day. One old man, and one young beast. Being a draft animal, the ox was happy to pull along a large cart with all they could carry and thought they might need. It was filled with bales of hay for the animal and reserves of food for the man, as well as blankets and some odd tools, including a spare cane. Stocked as it was, this presented a problem. There was nowhere for the old man to sit.

No matter, he thought, for he could still walk with his cane. It would take longer, and there was still a covering of snow underfoot which might make him slower still, but they would be able to travel.

The ox did not agree. Its tail whipped back and forth fiercely and it refused to move a step.

“Come, now, I won’t slow you down that much,” the old man tried to coax.

They were at a stalemate and hadn't even left the town square.

Bovines were notorious for their stubborn natures, so the old man had no chance of winning this battle of wills.

“Very well,” the old man sighed at last. “What would you have me do? Ride your back?”

It seemed that was exactly what the ox would have him do, and it lowered its giant neck in a low bow, bending its front legs as it did so. Still, it was quite an ask for the old man to climb up there, even lowered as the ox was. It was a combined effort that got him up eventually, holding one of the ox’s large horns for support as the animal slowly lifted and turned its head, while the old man used what leg strength he had to fling one of the limbs over that enormous back. There were no stirrups, for there was no saddle, but the old man got some purchase for his feet on the frame that hung over the beast’s shoulders, the frame being then attached to whatever the animal was tasked with pulling by lengths of rope.

The ox gave a few huffs once the old man was settled, apparently being appeased at last, and so began walking out of the town.

The town was near the sea, built atop a cliff overlooking the water. The main street wound all the way down that cliff and to the shore, where there was once a bustling fish market. It was empty now.

The pair were not going to the sea, so they made a turn in the road and headed south. “There is a place I haven't been in a very long time,” the old man told his companion. “I would like to go there first. I was still a young man when I was last there.” The old man patted the ox’s back, and the sheen of its coat only proved to exaggerated the rippling muscles of a working animal underneath. The old man smiled. “You know, good chum, when I was a young man, I looked much like yourself.”

The ox turned its head back slightly to look at its rider.

“I don’t mean to say I was an ox in my youth!” the old man explained, laughing and giving the beast a little scratch behind the ears. “I was very strong. Your muscles have reminded me of the ones I used to have. Aiyah, I have been complacent since becoming an old man and my body has become like this. No matter.” The old man thought for a while. “Listen, my friend, you must not be complacent as I have. You are still young now. It would be best if you could stay young and strong for as long as you live - avoid becoming an old ox if possible.”

The old man didn't think this request was something the ox could fulfil, but he had said it anyway because he was talking to an animal. The old man wondered, though, how long would it take for the ox to become an old ox? How long did an ox usually live? Was it longer than a human, or shorter? The thought worried him quite a bit. “Ah, friend, you had really better live a long life, eh? That would be best. This old one humbly requests that you live until we finish our journey,” he fretted. The old man closed his hands in prayer, muttering to himself. If he were to lose even the ox, he really wouldn't know what to do.

The ox only gave a small huff.

“Do you enjoy stories?” the old man asked suddenly.

The ox huffed.

“Excellent, excellent! You see, all I can do well these days is tell stories. I’ll tell you one as you walk. Let me tell you about where we are going, and what I was doing there as a young man.”

The old man began his story. He talked about a kingdom he had fought for. A knighthood he was granted. The lessons he took in the arts of music and war. He did not neglect to boast about his once-mighty physique.

He spoke of the comrades in arms he had, and which weapon they each preferred, but explained that these were not true friends. No, his first true friend was the young man he would speak of next. A young man he first met in the place they were walking to now.

That place was a battlefield at the time. The young man was an opposing warrior, and the two had fought briefly before a white flag was raised. He spoke of how the young man had pierced him with a blade at that moment of declared peace, but he spoke with unconcealed mirth.

“Do you know what I said to him then? I said ‘all is forgiven after a stabbing!’ and then ‘please remove the sword, it’s time for lunch’.” The old man laughed heartily in recollection, finding the follies of his own youth as much hilarious as ridiculous.

He went on to explain how the two had found a quiet spot to sit, where they had broken bread and drank from the same cup.

“He asked me ‘do you always bring bread to the battlefield?’ and so I told him ‘of course! Ever since I was a child I knew that I wanted my last meal to be this bread!’ and I handed him the bigger piece.”

The old man explained that the young man was good humoured, and seemed to enjoy his candour. The two spoke for a long time, and the old man (who was a young man himself at the time) had talked at length about his views of the world, of its cycles, of the infinite rebirth that all were a part of. “No one had ever cared so much when I spoke of these things before, you see. They would nod along for a minute or two and then politely ask me to stop. But that young man seemed to completely understand, and would join in rather than just listen.”

And after discussing the workings of the world, they had chatted about their young lives. “I think he liked my stories as much as you do, friend,” the old man said, giving the ox another round of scratches and pats. “That, or he was insulting my abilities from our little skirmish, because he told me ‘the sword suits you well, but you might find more pleasure in the pen’ by way of telling me to write these stories down.”

The two young men had met often after that, and spoke freely. The bonds of men are often fortified through bouts of violence. They would have friendly sparring matches, and discuss the world, and eat bread. They had grown so close, into truly inseparable friends, and the young man asked one day if the other had anything he wanted.

“I was confused at the time, because the question seemed to come from nowhere. I didn't give it much thought, so all I could say was something quite bland: ‘well, I only want what everyone wants: to live a long life’. He had nodded at that but pressed ‘no more?’ and I could only shrug. ‘I rarely want for anything’ I confessed. ‘It’s hard to think of something on the spot. What brought this on?’ but he avoided my question, saying ‘well, if you ever think of anything, just say it. You’ve given me so much: all this bread and friendship, for example. I want to repay you. I’ll give you anything you ask for, it doesn't have to be right now’ and then changed the subject and asked me to spar.”

But he had never been able to ask the young man for anything else. A week later, a new war between their kingdoms broke out, and they found themselves on opposing sides of a battlefield again. It was even the same field. But this time, they would not see each other. Not until one of them was already dead.

The old man didn’t seem to dwell on this section of the story as much as he had with others. He was very brief in recounting how he eventually found his friend’s body, and had given him a burial in the place they first broke bread.

The old man realised they still had a ways to go before they reached their first destination, so started telling other stories to kill the time.

It took some days before they arrived. Over those days, the pair had perfected the art of getting the old man on and off of the ox’s back, though several of his joins still made cracking sounds with the movement.

They did not spend a long time here, for the old man simply wished to pay respects to the grave of his friend. Convinced as he was that the young man must have cycled through many more lives since then, this was as close as the old man could get to his friend without finding a reincarnation. The ox grazed mildly while the old man ate some of the bread he had brought for the journey, which was slightly stale now.

The kingdom the old man had once fought for no longer existed. It had been invaded and taken over some hundred years ago, they learned as they walked around to gather more supplies.

And then they moved on.

Conversing with the ox had become very easy. He was a straightforward creature, and did not need any formal language to respond to the old man. A huff indicated a positive, either affirmation or a pleasure response. When it swatted its tail, this was a negative, either disagreement or displeasure. Finally, the old man noticed that the ox seemed to have given him a name. It would quickly scratch its back foot on the ground three times when trying to get the old man's attention, either to wake him or show some sight to him.

The two travelled to many places together, and those three simple gestures were enough.

For everything else, the old man would talk. The ox liked to listen. At nights, they would share a blanket. Sometimes the ox would simply stand watch and graze as the old man slept, because the animal did not tire as easily.

The old man didn't dare think about how long they had been travelling, because he did not want to think about his companion ageing and dying, but the ox never showed signs of this at all. It remained strong and gentle.

When times were tough and the old man had no food, he would resort to eating grass or roots with the ox, never once considering butchering the beast to stave his own hunger.

When times were cold, the old man would go to great lengths to find or make shelter for the ox, insisting it be wrapped with all of their blankets first, and take only his old robes for himself. He would never think to sell the ox for shelter or supplies.

Several times people had tried to buy or steal the ox, and in these instances the old man’s cloudy eyes would flash with the light of a former knight as he beat people back with his cane and chastised them in the irate way only the elderly can pull off without consequence.

But likewise, so the ox cared for him.

Times had been tough for food, and the ox seemed to know that the old man should not really be eating grass. Similarly, it knew that the old man was far too small of a creature to hunt anything for himself. The ox was of course herbivorous, but herbivores are just as capable of killing. It stepped on a rabbit, breaking its back, and pierced the creature with one of its horns to bring back for the old man. His rider was delighted with rabbit stew that night.

When there were cold nights, the ox remembered that day the old man had first asked it to travel with him. It had been snowing then, and the old man enjoyed the beast’s warmth. After the old man had piled blankets on its back, it would always lift a corner of the stack for the old man to curl under.

Many times on their travels they had encountered the nefarious sort. The old man had no weapons, but the ox certainly did. Those horns and the rippling muscles made short work of any pests.

The old man knew his goals with travelling, and looked in every place they went for both the souls of his friends and answers to his life. He never found either.

The pair had walked the world over. They had even sailed the seas several times, on crafts large enough for the ox. Somehow, the ox had an easier time on the sea than the old man did, and never experienced motion sickness.

The old man had told all of his stories, and resorted to inventing new ones. The only one who could understand him was the ox. Not because his mind ever faltered or his stories didn't make sense, but because the language the old man spoke had died out by then. They had been travelling for so long, afterall, and languages are evolving things. Thus, the old man, who had not been able to hold a pen in so long, and was unable to write these stories down, could now no longer even tell these stories to people, for no one would understand.

Little did he know, that stories were in fact being written ABOUT him. This pair had been seen the whole world over, and each region made their own legends, so the titles differed slightly, but they would all translate to something like ’The Immortal Ox Rider'.

The old man had not been keeping track of the time, so he didn’t even notice that it had been a thousand years.

Though he did not find what he was initially looking for, the old man had found so much more. And one day it seemed to click for him.

“I have seen this world, now, with these old eyes of mine. I don't need to speculate, for I have all the evidence in these very eyes. The cycles truly are everywhere. Completely inescapable to all. Though, I think I have fallen outside of these cycles somehow. Why, I do not know, but I believe I have a plan. Will you indulge me, my friend?”

The ox huffed.

“You always do.”

Another huff.

“Three more bales of hay for supper.”

A round of excited huffs.

“My plan, then, I will tell you now. My plan is thus: if I, and by association even your good self, have fallen outside of the cycles of nature, then it stands to reason that we can simply manufacture our own cycles! How does that sound?”

The ox was silent.

“Ah, I have not explained well. My first plan is quite simple. Just to test things, really. This journey of ours really has been quite long, hasn't it?”

The ox huffed.

“Indeed. But, longer cycles than this exist in the world. For example, the erosion of cliffs to nourish the sea and form new lands. My plan is to finish the cycle of this journey. I suggest we return to the old town. All good adventures should finish where they started, I think. Maybe this intentional cycle will have some effect! At any rate, we can't know unless we try. Shall we set off after supper?”

The ox looked at the old man for a long time, apparently mulling over the plan. At last, there was a very quiet huff.