The Immortal Ox Rider - part 4

The old man was going to finish his journey. If all went well, another journey would surely begin right after, be it in death or acceptance. Either he would return himself and his ox to the natural lores of the world and finally die, so they may be properly reincarnated and live on anew, or he would have to accept that he could not die and instead go back to travelling.

The old man really did enjoy travelling with his ox friend. To have somehow found another being like himself, unable to die or age any further, felt like enough of a sign that the pair must be soulmates, but to then get to know the ox and see how it cared for him, see how it listened to him, the old man knew that this bond was deeper than merely sharing the same fortune.

The pair started heading home. Since they were going in that direction, they went through the kingdom to the south of the town, which had been the first stop on their journey, to see how it had changed.

It was no longer a kingdom at all, having been a democracy for many years after over a century of civil war and the murder of the royal family.

What was once the battlefield was now a housing estate, made affordable to even the poorer citizens. Where the grave once was, now a mining shaft had been dug. This boom of employment and opportunity must have served the locals well, and only at the cost of one forgotten grave.

Having nowhere left to pay respects to his first friend was not too disheartening. Any time the old man ate bread, he would remember his friend. He realised he had not had the same bread in a long time though, not since beginning his journey. The way bread was made in this region was different to others, and the old man learned on his travels that everywhere had their own type of bread. But he liked this type the most. “I’ll find some bread when we get back to the town,” the old man said happily. The area that was once the kingdom did not make the same bread anymore. The style was the same, but after 1000 years, the type of wheat used for the flour was essentially unrecognisable. The original strain no longer existed at all.

The old man did not consider that the town itself was once part of that kingdom.

Never mind about finding bread in the town, they couldn't find the town itself. The cliffs it was built atop had eroded back so much, the very shape of the land bore no resemblance to what they had left behind. The old man and the ox had seen the erosion of the land before, seen the rise and fall of entire civilisations before, but the old man never once thought about it happening here. Even the old can be naïve.

There was a coastal settlement here, though it was not part of the original town, and the old man accepted this as the town’s rebirth. It had been a town of the dead when he left it, so finding new life felt like an improvement regardless. But all those graves he had dug for the townspeople must have washed into the sea so long ago.

The old man told the ox that this settlement would mark the end of their journey, and the ox huffed in agreement, walking steadily along. The old man lowered himself from the ox’s great back just before they reached the threshold of the settlement, wishing to play his own part in making those final steps.

And so it was, together, the pair completed the cycle of their journey.

The ox had fulfilled the oath it gave the old man, having lived for their entire journey, and stayed young and healthy all the while, so when the great beast crossed that threshold it was finally returned to the natural lores of the world. It could cycle again at last. That strong and gentle body, which had never once faltered on their travels, at last gave way to the weight of a thousand years. All in a matter of seconds. The coastal air blew and took with it the ashes of this ancient animal, leaving not even the blanket on its back. To see a sight such as this, all would be forced to admit the beauty, but few would argue it to be correct.

The old man bid his dear friend have a safe onward journey, and closed those weathered eyes as he waited for his turn.

But it never came.

The cycle of the journey was completed, and so too had the old man finally cycled back to his own bottomless sadness, but still he could not die. The cycle of his life would remain frozen.

The mind of the old man, which had never faltered under the years of life, and remained clear even after a millennium, at last began to crumble.

“Bread… bread…” he mumbled, having fallen to his old knees at some point. A resident of the settlement noticed a terribly old man, clearly suffering, and was sympathetically reminded of her own ageing grandfather, so placed a plump roll of bread on the old man's lap before scurrying off to complete her chores.

The old man felt his mouth water and he continued to repeat that word incoherently. Tears and saliva fell in droplets, but he didn't notice. His shaking hands held that plump roll and at last brought it to his wrinkled lips.

But it didn't taste the same.

His cries sent pieces of half-chewed bread into his beard. A truly wretched sight.

In this state of delirious sadness, the old man began calling a certain name. One he had not spoken aloud since he was a young man. Whenever he ate bread, he would think of that name, even if the bread did not taste the same.

“Where are you?” he asked through sobs. “The bread is wrong. Everything is wrong. Just come back to me now!” His body folded in on itself, the dirt of the street clinging to his face as it was so wet with tears.

And then he heard a noise that he was convinced he would never hear again. Three quick scratches with the back foot. The name his ox friend gave him.

He held his laboured breath, waiting to hear that name again, for he was mostly convinced that his broken mind had hallucinated.

Rather than the scratches, this time he heard a voice, and the voice spoke a name.

The old man knew very well whose name that was, for his memory could not err even now, but it had been so long since he heard this name with his own ears. So long that those three scratches felt much more like his name than that did.

Who could be calling him?

The old man lifted his head with great effort, paying no mind to the dirt and chewed bread that covered him, and even his clouded eyes could not be mistaken when they at last laid on the young man behind him.

“Ah…” the old man said upon seeing the young man. “You will still give me all that I ask for?”

“Of course.”

“Then kill me.”