I finished my drink and placed the empty glass on the bar. I really wanted another, but my right hand was itchy. The owner of this place was playing bartender, in case I needed a reminder of just how auspicious and thoroughly-commercialized a guest I was. His name was Frank, maybe. He approached and cleared his throat. “Another one? Or, something else? Er, on the house? We can add your next drink to the menu as this year’s official Walker’s pick!” The crowded bar behind us roared in agreement. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Are you okay, old friend?”
I smiled. “I will be fine. How long have I been coming here? Old friend?”
The gray-haired man poured himself a drink and sampled quietly. “My grandfather told stories to us, stories passed down as far back as our family has owned this brewery. It was a great honor when the Walker first came to our village, and then returned the next year. And, the next.” He paused and refilled my glass without asking. “That was you.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. I raised the glass in the air with my right hand. An assembled group of local fanclub members and federal senators, sequestered behind velvet ropes a short distance away, exploded in excitement again. Sorry, old friend, you are Arnold. Frank was your father, and your family indeed has always been good to me. I felt worse briefly, in this moment, unable to remember the name of this town. That was pretty dumb. It was one of the few on this route not somehow named for me.
My hand itched again, pulling me always onward. I still had miles to go today. I reflected on how absurd it was that there were places that I was expected to be. It was not always so.
It all began with the visible mark on the back of my right hand, a bit like a poor drawing of an arrowhead. This was largely dismissed in my village as a mere birthmark once, though I was feared by many, even as an infant. When childhood waned and the pain began, and when the mark moved as I swept my arm across the horizon, I expected rejection and death. Instead, our leader anointed me as a great visionary, one who would bring prosperity to the whole village. Understanding little of what they were talking about, I simply rose and left.
To my surprise, the village uprooted and followed me. It could not have been easy for them. I was compelled to go in the direction that the mark was pointing. Initially, that meant into the mountains, away from all I had ever known, though the direction of my travels varied greatly back then. A grand caravan of followers slowly grew around me, even as I offered no particular proclamations of leadership to encourage any of that. I sincerely believe that my first village elders wondered where I was meant to be going. It was easy to walk away as religions rose and fell, hunting for a deeper meaning. I was simply going this way. Their descendents have become very efficient at the whole marketing and infotainment side of my circumnavigational pilgrimage. I enjoyed the benefits of that, too, of course. My travels certainly were more comfortable, but now there was a schedule to keep. Radio interviews and book signings waited for me, down tomorrow’s road. An army of tour buses rolled behind, just out of sight of the cameras, in case I needed their services to keep going. When I am most vulnerable, my memories stray to eras before mechanical transit, to when I was carried.
Those early years taught me strange lessons. I only found peace while on the move, at first. When I chose to simply follow the mark ceaselessly, the pain went away. At the right speed, I could continue on tirelessly. And, I slowly learned that I no longer aged during those marches. That was odd enough, but other patterns became obvious. I could stop for a short time and rest each day, if I had traveled far enough. A quicker pace or more ground covered meant I was afforded a longer respite from the burning, itching need to keep going. At sea, I could sleep for days, emerging from my cabin a little older and wiser.
Then, I fell into what modern scientists persist in calling the Walker’s Axis, and my present orbit has been relatively stable ever since. Cities rose around my path, at least giving me something to look forward to over the horizon. Gradual improvements in paving technologies have really been good, too, according to recent time trials. Overall, this was very good for business, but I confess that I am a little bored. I tried air travel once, thinking I could find a new home halfway around, if my path was going to keep going with no deviation. That became just another place I try to rush ahead to meet once a year, so I can spend some time alone.
Alone. Yes, I was also alone. I have been walking for a long time, so long that those scientists think that I predate our written record. No one else has ever had a true mark equal to mine, and those embarrassing tattoos have never counted. Just as well for all of them, I used to think, but that was part of the delusion. I was not alone.
I shook my head and chugged this new drink, mumbling thanks. I couldn’t take it anymore and headed for the door, trying to yell something about next year as I jogged out. I was stepping in the right direction again and immediately felt better. Under the blinding sun, armed police units held my adoring caravan at a safe distance. I had clear access back to Walker Road, both sides otherwise lined with hundreds of people. Dang. I really have been heading this way for a long time. That was the problem with globes. It was rather easy to get trapped, spinning.
I halted briefly in the middle of the empty twelve-lane highway, trying to visualize what normal traffic would be like tomorrow. I knelt to retie the laces on my Walker Special branded hightops and smiled, taking comfort that tomorrow also meant I got to wear a blue pair again. I stood and waved my arms from side to side, as if stretching, or testing a compass. A wave of applause and loud cheers greeted me. I glanced at this year’s sponsored wristwatch, and realized that I had been in that bar long enough that I needed to hoof it if I was going to make it to the next hotel chain client, outside the next city. I might miss one of my next contractually-obligated naps, otherwise. My body compromised with a brisk stroll. The crowd stayed with me, and that boredom set in again over the next few miles. What was I doing this for, exactly?
The crowd gasped as I stopped short in the middle of the road, holding my right hand. The mark had not moved like that in ages. I shrugged and turned to the right. Everyone was silent and immobile as I approached the side of the road. I tried to peer ahead, off-road, but the crowd was so thick that I could not tell what might be back there. Was this still an urban setting? Desert wilderness? Modest houses with tidy lawns? Cow pasture? Were there still cows?
I tugged and dragged a barrier out of the way and heard the telltale squawking of Village Agent radios, a respectful distance behind me. I approached the first person I could see, a surprisingly well-nourished fellow for a front-row camper. I smiled like my breakfast cereal cover photo, and said, “Hey there! May I ask you something?”
The man blinked slowly and responded, “Wha – What can I do for the Walker?”
“Would you mind stepping aside a few paces?” I tried to smile again as I pointed over his shoulder with my right hand, through a sea of people. “I have to go that way.”
My hip squawked again, and I turned down the volume with an absentminded twist to the radio’s knob. That was more for crowd control, anyway. The implant in my Walker’s-side temple was capable of transmitting my own voice as low as a whisper, and relaying replies directly to my auditory nerve centers. My superiors were screaming over each other in my right ear. I could picture the dark room far away, a dozen men watching video screens filled with an extensive overhead view of today’s path along the Walker’s Axis. North and South caravan demographics were no doubt also a major concern – population specifics, certainly birth and death rates. I still felt like the new kid, an Agent for less than two years who had logged barely 35,000 miles, if you cheated and included training exercises and walkalongs with celebrity clients and other rich weirdos that wanted to experience the Road. Not all of us were privileged enough to be born with the Walker. But, at least I had outgrown babysitting the Follower’s Camp, the only sanctioned place where Northies and Southies were allowed to mix.
Sorry, I ramble when I am nervous. I was as stunned as everyone else, watching the Walker leave the Road. The people in charge were still arguing, wherever they actually were, until someone called out above the din. “Silence! Agents! Report!”
Dearest Jumping Messiah, that voice was the Village Prime.
I heard my coworkers begin to chime in. The Northies quickly noticed that they were stopped and not advancing. A small section just witnessed the Walker turn and leave the Road, in a direction leading away from them. Metal barriers were blocking what obviously should be their new way, too, and some campers were already panicking. WALK! WALK! WALK! When the chanting started, more armored units arrived to hold the line. They slowly interconnected, forming a stronger, deadlier, second wall. I was not used to being so close to the Walker’s epicenter – I was usually passed quickly at this time of day – but I had written my Senior Thesis on the crowd control measures necessary to quiet the Hospital Riots of ‘104, when we had taken the Walker seven days ahead for knee surgery by helicopter.
I turned behind me and watched Agent 321 give their summary of the situation, gesticulating wildly with their left hand. They were standing miles away, just past Walker’s Tavern. I looked ahead again, where Agent 319 was already calling for backup to handle the worsening Northie situation. Much further ahead, Agent 90 would be commanding the Vanguard, always better equipped, and more complacent than the active Walking Zones. All things considered, I hoped they were already backtracking. I touched my service pistol with my left hand, thankful that I had remembered to reload on last night’s staff train. Fifty hypo-tranq doses were not going to help much against a motivated mob, though. This was going to turn ugly.
The Walker was still visible, parting a sea of campers as they advanced farther off the Road. Shaking hands with the Southies had slowed their pace, often simply due to the awestruck standing rooted in place for a while, staring at their hand that had just touched God, to my advantage. Yet, I saw that the camp was starting to fill in behind already. I drew a few glyphs on my wrist computer, deferentially on my left, to load an overhead map. We were only 80 or so miles from the coastline by this new heading, if it held. That did not sound like much to me.
I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Agent 320 reporting. I have visual confirmation of the Walker. Revised heading is due east on the nose. Deviation approximately 57 degrees off Axis. The new path at this heading is approximately 150 feet and counting.” The dark room in my head hushed reverently. A new path, indeed. History and Numerology classes both claimed to explain the times before the Walker’s Axis, as if Chaos wished to be known. I never expected to find out personally what that really meant. I was filled with conflicting bouts of elation and terror, as I also had trained my entire life for a moment like this. However improbable, today it was happening.
Completing my report, I said, ”The tracker’s ping is strong.” I already knew what they were going to say in response.
But first, more radio cross-talk and unsuccessful attempts at whispering. Then, Village Prime addressed me personally. “Agent 320, we have satellite confirmation. The navy has been dispatched to intercept, but the Southern caravan extends all the way to the coastline at this latitude. I repeat: the Walker is surrounded by the Southern Camp. North-South relations have not been this poor in more than 300 years. Riots have begun in the Follower’s Camp. Your security services are required. Congratulations on your promotion.”
I sighed. “May you reach the horizon, sir.”
“And, you, Special Agent 320. Now get moving.”
I turned, and placed one foot in front of the other.
I had forgotten what it was like to walk upon someplace new.
This area, though, was already well trodden. I shook hands, wondering what was ahead of me. Wondering how long this would last. Village statisticians were always eager to build scenarios, trying to plan for the inevitable. Contingency plans. Escape routes. I didn’t think this was going according to any of those action items. But, that had never been my concern.
I was moving slowly in this new direction. That was my concern. Had I really been following the same heading, for so long that I could forget? Hundreds of years? Thousands? No one here seemed to understand what was really going on.
Ugh. Did an entire civilization arise to follow this Axis? Again? I should read more.
No matter. I was to go this way. That much was clear, at least to me. I found myself explaining the situation out loud to these wide-eyed people ahead of me. Please, I need to go… there. They offered only encouragement and praise for the journey ahead. “Praise for the journey.” That phrase was repeated several times. It sounded familiar, but I could not place its meaning.
Then, a camper jumped ahead of their brethren, and illuminated a thing or two. Shoving aside an old woman, this person proclaimed loudly, “Today, the Walker steps no farther!” I did not break my stride, watching this peculiar person behind me loosen their robes and reveal a cliche of strapped explosives. I had been around the block. This sect believed that if I were eliminated, they would be free. I could not blame them for being lost in that philosophy. For all I knew, they were right. It was their disregard for their brothers that irked me. Collateral damage was never a concern to them.
The fanatic screamed, “I will witness the new horizon!” and brandished a detonator. I quickened my pace, such that I was already fine. The scientists had kept this much quiet: once I was going faster than three miles per hour, I was both ageless and invulnerable. I felt guilty, but the prospect of fiery death had dispersed the crowd in front and on both sides for a short distance as it was. I could do no more. The poor deluded person behind me kept yelling, and I closed my eyes in anticipation of the warm cushion of another explosion, perhaps enough to propel me ahead a short distance, when… Nothing.
I turned to look over my shoulder as I kept walking. A Village Agent was kneeling in the distance, and had just tranqed the zealot. No booms, at least not yet. The crowd was silent, briefly, but realized they would have been dead without that intervention, and finally rose in cheer behind me. I moved on, as these people briefly embraced a new messiah.
The Agent caught up to me a short time later. “Praise be the Walker,” they began. “I am here to help keep you safe, er, as you find this new path.”
I laughed, remembering other times when friends and foes had said something similar. My right hand burned until I turned 10 degrees to the right again.
My new companion said, “I agree this is strange, leaving the Walker’s Road. I mean, where else is there to go, right?” They looked at their left wrist briefly. “Actually, there is a really quaint fishing community close by. They really know how to barbecue a …” I smiled as they blushed and continued. “I apologize. It is my honor to be in step with the Walker. I am your new personal security, as you follow on today, wherever it is that you are going.”
I nodded. “Thank you. But, all I know is –” I cried out in pain, stumbling in my path for the first time in recent memory. The mark burned like it never had before. This new one, young yet knowledgeable about their world. It suddenly made sense.
“Are you okay?” they yelled, listening to something else in their right ear.
“I am fine,” I lied, regaining my feet. I stumbled again, because something was immediately still very wrong. The mark moved again. I rubbed the back of my right hand as my new bodyguard circled the perimeter. My mark was no longer following a direction. Of course.
This Agent had turned on their radio again. The broadcasts were generic, and might help, for now. “Keep a reverent distance.” “The pious wait for the path to be set for them.” “Be prepared to follow.”
I walked quickly past a man with a purple headband, and it slowly dawned on me that some religions never die. As this new fanatic ran towards me, I grabbed my new guard friend, and said, “I am sorry. I should have known it could end this way.”
My superior officers were speaking, but I was not listening. “Ships have arrived ahead of schedule, but the marines are encountering resistance from beach settlements. Maintain a secure perimeter as the Walker proceeds. Advise on changes to heading.” I was reminded of one time when I was very young, when I followed a butterfly into the forest. My father would bring up the bill for the search party every Circumference Anniversary.
“Acknowledged,” I said. “I have neutralized one hostile with intent on mass and unthinkable destruction. I suspect that they are not alone. Backup already requested.”
“We are monitoring the larger situation. Your mission remains to escort the Walker to our ships.”
“Yes, sir.” I turned on my radio. Crowd control, while I tried to figure out what was happening.
My pistol was already in my left hand, and I raised it instantly as the camp gasped behind us. I started to turn, when the Walker grabbed my wrist and said, “I am sorry. I should have known it could end this way.”
“What –” I tried to say, as I was pulled into a deep embrace. We rolled over, but it felt like my right arm received the worst of the heavy explosive blast that erupted a short distance away. My wrist and hand were on fire. I would always remember that pain the most, but also, that it began under the skin.
Groggily, I sat up. My radio squawked. “Special Agent 320, report!”
“Uh, there are multiple injuries and casualties in the Southern Camp. I, uh –” I turned slowly, as if in a dream, and beheld the Walker. Their left leg had been severed by the explosion. The Eternal God was bleeding out.
I attempted to apply a tourniquet, but it seemed all so futile. Spitting blood, the Walker looked up at me, and calmly said, “Learn well from this final lesson. The path was never supposed to be mine alone.” They grabbed my right wrist and I screamed in agony and understanding, in pain as much physical as existential. Cosmic truth could be such bullshit.
I raised my right hand to the sky, securing my new personal army and giving any sleeper cell fanatics something to think about. The mark, where I had had no previously documented tattoo, was bright red, and had a clear target, pointing back south a short distance. Walker’s Tavern.
“Special Agent 320, report.”
“That’s uh, New Walker to you. Sir. I appear to need a drink.”
Reddit WritingPrompt [WP] You are born with a large birthmark on the back of your hand that looks like an arrow. On your 18th birthday you notice that it starts pointing in one direction no matter which way you’re facing. You decide to start walking in that direction was certainly a fun extended metaphor to torture. This was also the first inspiration to go beyond one comment’s length (reposted here as the one story intended). This could keep going on, too, much like its characters.