Psalm 50:15
"Call upon me in the day of trouble; I shall rescue you, and you will honor me"
This is the twenty-first day of running away from home. I am a pitiful castaway from what people call home. It was never home for me since my parents had died. My mother and father were walking down the street to the bakery to buy a loaf of bread. It so happened that a rabid dog was rampaging around the town, foaming at the mouth. The farmers came in with their rifles and shot at the dog when it was right in front of the bakery. The simplistic farmers missed and hit my parents who were just heading out. People said that they died instantly, but I know that it is merely a lie, fabricated just to make me feel better. They told me that they felt sorry for me, but it made me feel even worse. It just proved that I was in the most pitiful situation. Everybody was telling me that I am a "poor little thing" like they actually knew what I was going through; I did not want the easy sympathy anymore.
I had to sell our house, much to my chagrin. That meant that the last traces of my parents were gone. I didn't care about who bought it (I only think about who offers the highest price), but the people who bought it looked like thugs to me. I had to start thinking about managing money; I realized that the money left over after paying all debts was only enough to buy two months' worth of meals. Why do my parents' lives have to be worth so little? Naturally, I had to run away from all the death and tragedy surrounding me. My life for the past month was spent flitting from one town to another, buying food with my meager inheritance. I was a nomad with no home. In every town I stopped at, everybody talked about me behind my back and looked at me warily with distrust. I always got the message. I was not welcome anywhere.
I am near the smuggler town, which merchants and peddlers avoid at all costs. That means that I cannot buy food. I have already gone for two days with no food; luckily, I have scavenged a few blueberries in the bushes this morning. But I am still starving. The land is barren, and a few tufts of grass stick up from the ground like the puffs of wool on the weaver's wooden table. I trudge on, dejected. I gasp. There is a sudden stabbing pain in my left foot, like I am walking on sharp hot rocks without boots. I take off my boots, and indeed, there is a small hole in my sole. When I turn my boot over, little pebbles stream out like tears. I reach inside the boot, and feel around for any remaining pebbles. Instead, I touch liquid that turns out to be blood and discolored and noxious-smelling pus. I immediately know that it has been infected. I try to convince myself that there is medicine in my bag, but in my heart, I know that I have none. A quick rummage proves me right. My forehead is beaded with sweat, a few drops slide off my chin and stain the ground, turning it dark brown. I cry out with despair, releasing all of the pent-up emotions that build up gradually after the death of my parents. I feel the agony of all of the emotions I did not even know about, my essence slowly trickling out of the hole in my boot. My throat utters a sound that is never intended to be uttered by a human throat. The crazed high-pitched sound disappears quickly into the distance. A blackbird cries out in answer far away. Suddenly, a voice issues from the back of my mind and makes my senses vibrate.
"Are you in need of assistance?"
I whirl around like a clergyman waiting for divine revelation. I see a man. He leans over me; the sun is right behind his head. The magnificent sunlight is so strong that I can hardly open my eyes. He wears a wide-brimmed floppy hat on his head that keeps his face in shadow; I manage to catch a glimpse of a concerned smile. He offers me a handkerchief with a curious fish embroidered on it with golden thread. I wipe my tears and snot off my face right away even if I suspect that it would be soaked in corrosive acid or a powerful tranquilizer. I start to feel better, as it does not dissolve my face or put me to sleep. He kneels down and washes my feet with water from his canteen; all of the dirt, grime, and blood, is removed. He helps me to my feet, and puts my foot into the discarded boot. "We will go to the cobbler to get you a pair of boots." The man helps me along the road, taking a detour to another town. In an hour, we reach the town where the man spends a luxurious amount of money to buy me a good pair of leather boots. We stay at an inn. We settle down at a dinner table after setting our belongings down in our room. In fact, I am so hungry that I would eat a moldy morsel of food left on the table. Surprisingly, I tell the man very politely and patiently after perusing the menu, “May I please have roast pig with sauteed potatoes, roasted apples, and garden vegetables?” Quite contrary to my expectations of an easy agreement, he shakes his head and tells me, “Eating pigs is not good. I will order lamb chops, eggs, and bread. I know what is best for everyone. Especially you.”
The man starts to tell me his story over the delicious dinner. He was the owner of a bar. He earned the copious amount of approximately one hundred and fifty gold pieces per day, but was not satisfied with money. He decided to travel to the unknown world to gain boundless knowledge and wisdom. He has explored rainforests where jaguars and gaudy birds roamed around. He has tasted the exotic spices of a Middle-Eastern bazaar. I listen to his story in a haze, daydreaming about the places he went. Before I think about my question, I ask him if I could join him. When I come to my senses, he is in deep thought, his spoon halfway between his face and bowl, the broth dripping slowly into his bowl. Then he said the word that shaped my life: "Yes."
A month later, I stepped off the gangplank of the boat on to solid ground with the man that rescued me. My boots clacked on the wooden dock rhythmically. My satchel hung from my waist, forgotten in my bliss and curiosity. The man put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you." I beamed enthusiastically. As I looked on, people in strange robe-like clothes dashed around, selling a strange but beautiful colored cloth and furs and jabbering rapidly in an unfamiliar language. As we walked down the street, the peddlers and the smell of food melted away into a long dirt road, heading to a mountain. The man pointed at the mountain and spoke: "That's the mountain we are going to climb. People say that there is a lake on top of it." After a long while, we reached the bottom of the mountain, where the road ended and the ground curved up endlessly. The top of the mountain was obscured with clouds. Then I took the first step. As I trudged up the slope, everything felt unfamiliar. The smell of the mountain was heavy. The air sifted through my nose slowly, as if it had all the time in the world. It left a slight residue behind, the smell making my nose tingle. As I took more steps, the smell and the scenery gradually molded itself into my life. My conical hat began to rest on my head with a familiar feeling. I walked up the slope, and I saw it. It was a big pool rimmed with trees gnarled with age. It shined in the light, and a slight breeze made ripples on the surface of the pristine pool. I looked at myself in the pool. My face was sweaty and dirt-stained, but there was something unfamiliar in that familiar face that I saw in the mirror a year ago. The change made me feel like a stranger in my own body, but this time, I welcomed the feeling, like one does to an old friend. I felt myself renewed, the wounds inflicted to me in the past healed but never forgotten, my past safely stored away where it would not hurt me anymore.
I looked up and went over to the edge, looking at the vast countryside, the wispy white clouds, the tiny cottages, and the green trees. I turned around and looked at the man, who was standing next to me. He was looking in the same direction, the scene reflected in his eyes. I could see the world in his eyes.
How can one be familiar with a place he or she hasn’t arrived at yet? Travelling with the man from one place to another made me feel like I was leaving home forever, but I also felt that I was returning home. Every new place seemed to be familiar, as if it was an age-old memory. The place where I was almost eaten by a crocodile was home. The place where I looked into the face of death after yellow fever was home. The place where the man bought me a new pair of boots was home. And of course, the place where I lived with my parents was home. Now I feel that I am welcome in every corner of the world that might need my presence. I am still a nomad, but one with homes everywhere in the world.