The One with the Scar

The man had a scar. It was raining. The scar started at his left eyebrow. It was as if Noah’s flood had come again. It went all the way down to his right knee. It felt as if everyone would drown.

The rain had begun two days ago. The news outlets had only talked about the big cities, no one came to the towns and villages. No one cared. This was a small village, in a mostly forgotten part of the conservative country. Telephone poles did not come here, the web of invisible mobile signals did not capture this area, satellites high in the heavens passed over this place, it was of no worth or value to them or the overlords that watched over them.

It had started to rain two days ago, all over the country. People had been evacuated from the shore towns, they had now been overrun by water, had become part of the ocean.

It had started to rain two days ago, all over the country. What bewildered scientists was that the rain seemed to obey the dictates of borders, as if being controlled by some child with a game, flood this country or flood that.

It had started to rain two days ago, all over the country. People had started to think this was punishment, some had lost faith, changed religions, changed sects, others beamed with joy, prostrating to the heavens, take me away. Waiting for Youm-Ul-Qayaam, the Last Day. Any day now.

It had started to rain two days ago, all over the country. The people in this town had long been forgotten, and they were used to fending for themselves. It had come as a shock to them when a man, not from the country, a man with a scar so horrendous and encompassing that the old women clutched their beads tighter, and the babies started crying, a man showed up. And offered to help. He would help them wall up their houses. He would help them build embarkments to divert the water to the pond nearby. It would not be enough. He would help them build higher levels to their houses. They thought they could weather out the storm. He knew they would not.

All day, as he helped them build, wiped sweat and water off his brows, off his hair, he thought furiously. It was here somewhere. He knew it. This was one of The Three. This location would help. He wasnt too late. He could still stop the prophecy.

When he was not helping, he would talk to the old women, in their tongue, also a forgotten dialect, and yet he knew it. They were wary of this man, but the situation was so dire, they accepted him. The old women would help, they passed down stories. He talked to them of their history, they had no idea why. This foreigner was asking about their stories, their traditions. If there was one thing they liked to do, it was to tell those stories. Their children wouldnt listen. This man did. They accepted him into the fold, into the tradition. Their culture must not die. If it was this man, surely it was better than fading into the ground.

He talked to them, in hopes of stopping the prophecy. The die had been rolled. The ceremony had happened. It had been many years. He could still stop it. Couldn't he?