The History Man

~20 min read

Introduction

Note 02/25/2026: This was a story I began to write around two years ago. It was written in one of my notebooks. Back then I had the feeling that writing on paper—though slower—tended to produce writing of a higher quality. Though in fairness, I think it’s more important to choose the medium where you will simply write more than the one you write better in.

For this story in particular, I remember wanting to write about a boy in a village who is taken in by the ‘History Man’. His elderly body would be covered in tattoos, from which he records and recites the history of the village. The boy would grow up as his apprentice, intending to take over his role, until an army from far away lands came to demand recruitment from the village, claiming they owned the village and its inhabitants as well.

The boy would end up being recruited somewhat against his will. He would be conflicted, because though he was taken away from his home, he would now be offered an opportunity to experience the wider world (which I remember feeling ought to be mildly post apocalyptic, though mostly of a medieval and tribal level of technology).

The boy would travel with the army perhaps as one of its soldiers. At each stage the observations of the boy would be a central focus. In the village, knowledge would be treated operationally, as a thing to be understood and not really questioned. A villager might understand that certain ailments can be treated by certain medicinal herbs. They might understand the myths and stories which explain the natural phenomena around them. But it would be unlikely that they would question these explanations, or necessarily want more from them. Even the History Man, whose life is defined by the knowledge of the village, would be somewhat detached from the pursuit of knowledge itself. The boy however would be plucked from a different tree. He would be inquisitive, questioning to a degree that ostrasized him from the people around him. In pursuit of knowledge he would frequently conflict with the social structures around him.

In the army he would see things differently. For one, he would have a much larger exposure to the world, seeing far off lands and cultures of different tastes. Of course, he would see much horror too, and his perspective would perhaps be biased towards negativity. Eventually though, the boy would suffer a fatal wound, and yet would find himself resurrected with time slightly rewound to before his death. I don’t remember what explanation I considered for this. Maybe it would be bestowed by some God, maybe simple as a plot device.

This would be the central hook of the story. The boy would leverage his immortality to rise to a respectable rank witihn the army, all the while expanding his knowledge of how the world truly was. Eventually he would come to rule the Kingdom, and I’m sure I would’ve thought of something interesting to happen then. Some sort of eternal duel, where he fights, dies, resurrects, and fights again against a foe far outclassing him in ability.

Part I: Integer

The boy was born in April, the cruelest month. The village healer, who delivered the child did not know this, nor did any of the village folk, who knew the time not in increments of months but only in daily cycles of the moon, the sun, and the annual cycles of the stars. Nevertheless they had no word for April. Perhaps it was taken from them, morphed and transmogrified over years and years into something else or into nothing at all, just how the notion of a month had gone away as well.

In this they also did not know that it was the cruelest month. To the village folk they simply awoke to the glare of the golden sun each day and stared out at the ground, which now sprouted and bore fruit and became green and flowery and wondered how anything in life could ever be cruel—or perhaps they did not.

The boy’s mother died that same day. It was unclear what had killed her. She had been in good health before, but pregnancy was a dangerous matter regardless. The pain could have killed her, or a silent hemorrhage deep in the body—not that the healer would have predicted this. Perhaps it was the boy. Indeed, there was a stigma in the culture of the village surrounding such events; The boy who killed his mother. It was bad luck. Don’t let him walk past your crops, your home, nor your children. His very soul was poisoned, possessed by evil spirits. The village folk were nice, hard working people. They were logical folks—as all folks usually are—though the logic they followed was in some ways flawed. Their systems of belief allowed them to subsist off the land through astral documentation of the seasons and the weather. It provided rules for interaction, marriage, children, friendships. It established a loose hierarchy in which merit was rewarded and cherished and those in need were supported and not belittled. It taught the village folk how to celebrate the successes of the village—marriages, births, good harvests—and how to manage the disasters—fires, famines, deaths.

The dogma they followed was flawed to the same extent it was successful. Their beliefs were steeped in tradition, and not all of them were founded on principles of logic. In their culture there was a parthenon of spirits, some good and some bad. All actions and desires were said to be representative of the ideals of one or more of these spirits. A laborer sowing seeds in the sun might be seen as a worshipper of Inta, goddess of the sun and agriculture, while a hunting party might before pray to Illappa, god of war and hunting, in the hopes of great success. A child that killed their mother in childbirth was said to be inclined to be greedy, having consumed their mother’s soul due to being born without one. By interpretation of the mythos they were an agent of Uku Supay, the god of death and ruler of the underworld.

The healer in that moment, perhaps in an appeal to rationality, or perhaps an instinctual urge, protected the boy the best she could. She knew that if the village found out about the death of the mother the boy would be killed to right a wrong that perhaps didn’t exist. She did not know herself if this was the right thing to do. A demon spirit among them could ruin the village, bring pestilence and death. The boy might grow up normally, its early complacent crime being forgotten with the slow drift of time. He would be treated normally by his tribe and his family, being accepted with open arms by his community. Perhaps then, when all recompense is forgotten the devil inside him will awaken, and his predatory, opportunistic nature will truly emerge and punish the town and the healer for not killing the boy here and now. And yet all she knew was that enough death had already occurred that day.

The boy sat on a cloth in a basket. He was fussing, manipulating his arms and legs into the open air as a first declaration of being. He was bright red, typical of a newborn baby, and he was covered in a gross abiotic soup. The healer grabbed a corner of the cloth and wiped the baby’s face clean, to which he seemed to settle down. If the boy had no soul, she thought, he sure hid it well. She looked over at the mother. She was peaceful and captured by a point of grace. Her face displayed none of the pain and suffering that once occupied her mind and body only hours ago. An onlooker would think she was just sleeping and perhaps in a way she was. The healer put a cover over the mother’s face. She then took a gathering of herbs of which she tied together with some colored twine. She lit the herbs until they smoked and placed it in a basket over the mother’s body. The smoke snaked out of the basket and filled the air until the room was occupied by a light haze and scent. Finally the healer took a selection of colored stones and gems with arcane sigils etched into their surfaces. She placed these on her palms, stomach, and forehead, before muttering a prayer of protection for the mother passing into the afterlife.

Oh Inta, Great Mother Sky,

You who watch over us from above

I ask for your blessing and protection

To shield and accept her into your embrace

And to guide her with your wisdom and strength

Into and past the prevailing evil

The healer wrapped the child into the basket. He was quiet now. Within his eyes the healer saw no wrath, no deception, nor fury, but she did notice he had his mother’s eyes. He cooed at her and reached out with his tiny little arm before she covered him completely and stepped outside the hut.

The healer’s hut was on the outskirts of the village as was tradition. It stood alone in a clearing surrounded on all sides by sparse forests and rolling green hills. The hut was made of brown-orange clay brick and was made with a thatch roof that exuded a column of smoke that quickly dissipated a few feet up into the wind. Around it was a rickety gate, and the floor contained a garden of shrubs and flowers, as well as vines that draped the hut’s walls and the surrounding fence and nursed unripe fruits. She had been trained all her life to be the village healer. It was written in the culture. It was said the first healer was chosen by Inta herself, long before the village was established. They were chosen to bear the knowledge of the spirit world above and the underworld below, and to recognize the roots that etched themselves between the worlds into the middle world—the battleground between good and evil. To meddle outside the affairs of one’s natural position was to anger the spirits. People were not meant to understand the fruits of worlds beyond their own, much less how to manipulate them. The hubris of man was often documented—as are their punishments—in the oratory teachings all folk learned as children. To be a village healer, it was said, meant not only to exploit the magic of the other worlds but to respect and identify them so the temptation of man not give way to crass exploitation and greed. To be a healer was a great responsibility with high reverence, but it was also a lifetime occupation of isolation, discipline, abstention, and silent skepticism from others.

Sacred roles are mostly correlated with the ideals of certain spirits, and those who occupied them were said to gain strength and knowledge from the blessings of their patrons. As such, only certain people were allowed to embody certain roles, usually along the same family line. A son or a daughter of a Shaman or Healer was said to inherit the blessings and trust of the Spirits from the parent, as well as gaining their hereditary expertise and knowledge. The healer had long been ostracized from society except in the case of severe illness or spiritual matters. The village folk were wary of her presence for the scant occasions she visited the town for supplies or to treat an immobile patient. Yet when a disease or disability conflicted with their lives to the extent their problem sat comfortably in the unknown they came running to her for help. Often it was a son or daughter who came to her door in the night, holding their frail parent in their arms breathing wearily or not at all, sometimes bathed in a yellow tint or covered in small red pustules. Other times it was a parent, who came begging for the health of their sickly child. Every time the outsiders came to her doorstep she stared into their eyes. Often they were exhausted, confused, and nearly hopeless, yet it was the healer who remembered how under any other occasion their eyes revealed only cold, directed derision. She treated them nonetheless, for she had a secret. A secret she believed all Shaman and Medicine Men and Healers felt deep down in the recesses of their brain that they ignored—though not completely—through long-embedded teachings and fear.

Her secret was not one she entertained often. She believed, though sometimes didn’t, that the spirits weren’t there. This was not to say she believed the Spirits had lost faith in her, that her failure to adhere to the sacred doctrines had removed her blessings, knowledge, and healing ability (which she did sometimes entertain as a possibility), but that there were no Spirits, no otherworlds above and below her and in between, and that her efforts and proclamations of faith were in vain. When someone would come in, coughing up blood and wheezing between breathless, painful words, she saw in them the fear that came from an uncertain outcome. She would lay them down and feed them teas of special leaves and roots, have them inhale inebriating smokes, and most of all have them pray. Most of what she did involved simply being there, as if her presence validated and explained their suffering. In the face of the unknown she was a final beacon before the great beyond, and yet looking in their eyes she often felt their thoughts reflecting in her mind as well. It wasn’t all fake, she thought. Her mother had trained her—herself a healer—from a very young age. She learned what roots, herbs, and mushrooms were safe to eat and which needed to be treated before use. She learned what concoctions did what, how to make them, and when to administer them. She also learned the ways of the cosmos and their relation to the Spirits, who sometimes blessed or cursed people. In all people, it was said, there was a balance of the three cosmic forces, the celestial, the earthly, and the underworld. To treat a person was to balance these forces. These treatments did sometimes work. Some relieved pain, others revealed pain that was necessary to overcome. And yet, while the doctrines opened avenues to explain any and all malus, it hardly ever offered clear preventative answers to the unknown.

The cursed doctrines, she thought. And yet, what else was there? For many of her visitors, their children and parents and siblings were already dead, merely drawing their last breaths. Was it not her purpose to offer them reprieve, however illogical? And yet was it also not her purpose to care for and heal them? Could the doctrine she so mindlessly followed and carefully adhered to be incomplete? She might have a duty to care for them, to lie to them, but who would lie for her?

The healer tucked the basket under her robes and grabbed her walking stick. She was old, much older than her mom had ever been. Age was not carefully tracked besides the precise work of the history man, and yet she assumed she was one of the eldest members of the village. She had seen countless babies born, grow, marry, and have kids of their own. The village lived and breathed under her watchful eye, and she occupied both its skin and its core. She walked through the village, past its outskirts where thatch houses with thick smoke from cooking fires reigned supreme into the village center, which was defined by large moundlike buildings constructed of heavy chiseled stone stacked upon each other. The village culture was not one of opulency or wealth-based status, but the contrast was nonetheless clear. The people wandering the stone streets of the village center wore intricately patterned and colorfully dyed robes. They wore glittering necklaces, gold earrings, and bracelets adorned in gemstones. Small dogs and cats accompanied them, of which no work was expected, and they were often groomed as well as their owners. This was all in contrast to the village outskirts, where the people walked barefoot and draped themselves in dust-covered cloths of rips and holes. The village was arranged on a slope, the poorer villagers lived lower to the center of the valley while the wealthier occupied the highest plateaus etched into the hills. The healer’s hut sat secluded at the heart of the valley. These steppes that were so carefully carved into the stone were carefully filled with dirt and irrigated, and produced most of the food used to feed the village. The water from in the valley would gather in clouds and precipitate as they crossed the highest peaks, filling the steppes as it trickled back down to repeat the cycle. The village was intelligently—or perhaps coincidentally—constructed to occupy the sunny side of the valley, and so with these factors offered ample opportunity for farmland. Yet since the hillsides were naturally stone, fresh dirt was imported from lower in the valley, leaving the lower village dry and infertile for most of the year, and cold and muddy at other times.

She walked up the path, which gradually grew steeper until the cobbled path became stone steps. She ascended past the houses, and then the farmland, until the hills were bare, covered only in multicolored lichen and small patches of grass between the rocks. Near the top she stopped at a small wooden house. There were symbols carved into the gate, inlaid with a golden embroidery. The text was unreadable by many, her included, but the meaning was known by all:

Om Shanti, Om Satya, Om Jyoti

(Sacred Peace, Sacred Truth, Sacred Light)

She entered the house. It was the domicile of the History Man, a role of great veneration and esteem within the village hierarchy, second only to the village Chieftain. Indeed, it was often the history man who advised the Chieftain on important decisions on internal and external affairs. Many villages had four main important roles, which were sacred to preserving culture and tradition. The Healer, The History man, The Chieftain, and The Shaman. This village did not have a Shaman and hadn’t for many years. In the case that a prior Shaman dies without offering an heir, a lengthy process is engaged to determine a successor. A Shaman communicates directly with the Spirits, especially the Serpent of creation Pachamama. Pachamama is one of the most powerful spirits who is said to have created the world out of boredom and curiosity. In doing so, it split itself into different aspects of itself, a spectrum which defines all worlds and all things, including the lesser Spirits. Pachamama is thus neither good nor bad, and neither is the Shaman. They merely convey the meanings and intentions of the Spirits. For a new Shaman to be chosen, they must be born under specific circumstances, circumstances that had not occurred in the several cycles since the previous Shaman’s disappearance.

For the time being the roles of the Shaman were assumed by the History Man. This was not uncommon in villages where a Shaman was not present. The responsibilities of a Shaman were understood and overlapped by the History Man anyways. The History Man understood the pantheon of spirits and how to engage with them. They understood the rituals required for celebrations and mournings, including how to lead them. The only thing the History Man was incapable of—through title alone—was in providing guidance to the Chieftain; despite his ability, his title lacked the authority to convince directly of spiritual matters. It was for this reason that a village without a Shaman was seen by some as doomed, like a boat drifting through an obscuring endless fog.

The Healer lifted the main flap of the door. The History Man sat in a meditative pose facing away from the door. In front of him sat a small shrine of stacked stones, adorned in incense and beaded jewelry. She stood in the doorway without speaking. The baby murmured under his blanket. She did not disturb the man meditating. He knew of her presence before they came through the door and would greet them accordingly.

He licked his finger and doused the incense stick, before standing and turning to face her. He was an older man, especially compared to the other men of the village, who descended quickly after a meagre fifty cycles of strenuous work and survival. Age, especially for men, was a luxury that provided valuable wisdom and veneration. He wore long white hair and a beard which was not matted and dirty by carefully groomed. His face—which would normally be accompanied by a thick wooden mask painted to bear the resemblance of the trickster spirit in accordance with tradition—was marked by wrinkles that seemed purposely etched into his face by a sculptor. They creased as he smiled. His body was thin and gaunt, though a survey of his ability would show him to be just as fit and capable of a man half his age. He was covered only by a pair of trousers and rope, and his chest, arms, neck, and legs were covered in tattoos: They conveyed the messages of the Gods and the other worlds, the motions of the stars and the moons as well as the wandering stars. Every inch of his body told a story. The lives and deaths of a generation were captured on his skin and seeped into his very being. Within him embodied the spirit of his people.

“Wise leader, I come seeking guidance” said The Healer.

“Come in, Yvoty, what troubles you?”. He had used her real name, dropping all pretense of formality and protocol. She relaxed and entered the room fully.

“I bring a child newly born, his mother is dead from the birth”. She stood still, staring resolutely. The History Man looked at her. To the unaware she was without panic but he knew her and had known her for a very long time. He stared into her and he could sense fear and confusion within her. It wasn’t like her to act like this.

“Let me see the child”. He said. She walked forward and unwrapped his face. She presented him and held him tightly, as if she were to drop him. There must be something about this boy, he thought to himself. He put a finger out to touch the boy’s face. In return, a small hand emerged and clasped around it, it reminded him of a small vine of ivy wrapping around a post.

“What of the father?”, He asked.

“Gone. When the mother came to me she was dirty, hungry and desperate. She did not tell me what happened to him. It is safe to say he is out of the picture”.

He had more questions, but most of them he could infer himself. The History Man’s duty was to know all in the village. All the families, all the relationships. If a baby was to be born he would know months in advance, and yet he had not heard of any nearing births. Perhaps the mother had come from outside the village? But from where? The boy did not share the face of any families. His skin was darker than most, and his hair was lighter and curly as opposed to the dark mop that most inherited, himself included. The boy also had deep blue eyes, a rare trait said by many to be a blessing from the Gods. He stared at the boy once more, who was now falling into a light sleep. He smiled, before returning to a face of formality and staring at Yvoty.

“You know what it means for a boy to kill his own mother in birth, just as I do”.

She stepped back, clutching the baby close to herself. She was much older than he was and yet her protective stance was genuine and formidable. “You can’t hurt him, I won’t let you”.

“Then why did you come to me? You know the intentions of the Spirits just as well as I do. The boy is cursed, he could be a danger to all of us, the whole village”.

“I will not let you hurt him”.

He showed no intention on his face, no sign of anger or disgust or satisfaction. He merely stood in the center of the room and stared at her. “What do you think will happen to him otherwise? You cannot raise the child, you are far too old. Nonetheless even if you could, how would you explain the child? Others would question his origin”.

“I will not lie. I will tell them of his mother and I will raise him as best I can”.

“And you think they will accept that? They will not be as kind as me. They will kill him and it will not be from mercy but from fear”.

She became angry at this comment. “You animal! What is your purpose? What exalts you above the basic instincts from which you derive your feelings? Surely it is not your dogma that guides you, the same one that justifies the murder of an innocent and unblemished soul”.

He walked towards her. “I am sorry, Yvoty, but the scripture does not lie. Through darkness comes light”. He reached out to grab the child but she turned away from him and began to flee. He grabbed his stick, a ceremonial ornament used in rituals and while attending ceremonies, and quickly jabbed it in between her legs, causing her frail body to tumble to the floor. She went through the tarp and landed, protecting the baby with her arms. She groaned as she hit the ground and the baby began to cry.

He walked over to her and began to pry the child from her hands. She screamed and kicked, but it was no use. His face was cold and unfeeling. How could he rationalize this to himself? She thought.

Eventually he grabbed the child