When the world was still new, when the elements still thought freely, and when great spirits still roamed the land, there was a young boy named Adam. Adam was new to this world, and the world was new to him, for you see, Adam was the first of his kind: a primordial.

  Adam stood tall and robust with long, multicolored hair like oceans of color that waved down his back and off his red skin. Young Adam realized that he was not alone but simply the first. Adam decided to travel the world and learn all he could. He frequented mortal market squares where he met all kinds of people. People who could teach him about arithmetic, science, and debate. On one of these excursions to the square, he met a gentleman who called himself the Fisherman.

  The man was dressed in a tattered cloak with well-traveled shoes. His hair was thinning, his skin was sun-weathered and leathery. For being in a new world, this man was already old. However, despite his appearance, his brown eyes held a keenness. They spoke to Adam. They told him, in one glance, a thousand stories, a wealth of life lessons. He conveyed all that he was and all that he could be. This was someone that Adam had to learn from.

  The Fisherman, noticing Adam, waved him over.

  “Come over here and sit, please,” the old man said, his voice jovial. “Come be a part and learn.” You see, the crowd had gathered around him. Adam, not knowing what to do, stepped into the crowd of onlookers and listened to the old fisherman.

  For three days and three nights, the man spoke. He spoke of hidden adventures in the small new world around them, happening every day. He relayed eighty-eight truths that could never be broken into lies. He voiced understanding and commanded respect. Finally, after all that, he had one final story to tell.

  “This story is by far the most important of all of them. If you must remember only one story, remember this one. This story holds all of what you need to know together.” The crowd was breathless, and a total hush fell over the entire square. Adam’s heart was burning in his chest.

  With a rueful smile, the Fisherman let the anticipation linger. Then, with a sharp inhale and a twinkle in his eye, he began.

  “There was once a boy born of the land; he knew nothing but sky and sand. The boy was alone, sad was his tone. Empty and vast was his home. Hot and brutal were the days, unforgiving cold matched in a way. He stood there in the empty vast space, not knowing whether to leave or stay. The boy was frozen and gray.

  “Then one day, a man came to stay. He was a traveler; the Merchant was his name. He showed and told the boy all sorts of wonderful things. Of a world far beyond, full of kings and spring, if he would just spread his wings. To flutter and fly, to go far beyond, to leave his sad song. But the boy shook his head to and fro.

  “‘See,’ the boy said. ‘This is all I know. Thank you for your time and the fire you shared, but I am not brave, no, I would not dare. No king would see me, no spring would have me, no bird would lend me feathers from its wings. No, mister. I cannot do this thing.’

  “So, the next day, the Merchant packed his things and said his farewells.

  “At the end of the heat, the boy felt bleak. Maybe he should leave his empty seat. Almost on queue, a man came during the dusk when the light was dim and skewed. He traveled in robes of deep, rich color. Hues of blues, blacks, and gold band jewelry hung in the center. He approached the boy, held frozen in awe and wonder.

  “‘Are you a god?’ the boy said.

  “‘What? No, I'm a wise man instead. I’ve come looking for more wisdom. In truth, I’ve achieved all I can fathom, conjure, or create. I seek now to understand what only the heavens can dictate. Tell me, boy, how are the stars here? Are there many? Are they clear?’

  “‘I don’t know, sir; I’ve never cared to look up and understand what they say. The bitter cold is all I’ve ever known.’

  “The Wise Man stalled for a moment or two, then smiled and said, ‘I shall teach you.’

  “That night, he showed the boy all the different kinds of constellations. Their meanings, their tellings, their purpose for being. The boy was amazed by all that wonder, the wisdom the man held. Sublime. Powerful. Words dripping in splendor. At the end of the night, the Wise Man said, ‘Come with me and see. There are more nights to be held. I have more to say and more truths to spell.’

  “‘Couldn’t you stay, just one more day?’ said the boy, pleading and anxious in every way.

  “‘No, no,’ he replied, ‘My journey must continue across the open sky.’

  “Fear gripped the boy’s throat; he had no reply. The young boy was sad and empty, incredibly shy. When the Wise Man heard nothing, he bowed his head in understanding. Without another word, he silently rose and gave a smile over his shoulder, wandering deeper into the desert and past the boy's vision, into the miserable.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “The hammering, the beating, the internal berating. Why couldn’t he move? Why didn’t he go? That man was kind, and he had many things to show. But what if he got to know the boy and ended up hating him, leaving him alone in a place so foreign? No, it was safer to suffer what you know. To travel past and to go it slow would only mean disappointment and frustration, riddled with resentment. His thoughts boiled in his head. Cruel and bitter was all that he said. Not once taking into account a possible future, one that would gleam bright and hopeful, restoring new endeavors.

  “What came next, the boy did not know. The being was long and dark, scaled head to toe. Its eyes were red, its voice held dread. ‘A boy in the wilderness,’ it said.

  “‘Why so alone? You’re withered to the bone.’ Its scales glimmered and shifted. Its expression was sick, sadistic, and almost twisted. The boy held his gaze and spoke only one phrase.

  “‘Are you going to kill me?’

  “The beast finished its circled motion, pausing to measure the boy's fear-filled notion.

  “‘Yes, I will, but won’t you run? You’re stealing half my fun.’

  “The boy fidgeted and flexed, but did not move, for this was his spot. This was all he knew.

  “‘No response, not even a cry?’ asked the beast with a curious eye. ‘Who are you, young man, to stand against me? I have killed kings and merchants and traveled with wise men. All cried out, all pleaded for mercy, all ran at the sight of my fierce cruelty. But who are you, boy, to stand defiant? No moniker, no wealth, no wisdom to show who you are, young man. Who are you? I must know.’

  “‘I am no one and nothing. I have no claim. No great exploits, no call to fame. I was born in this place without a name. My feelings are broken and vast like these planes. I am sorry to disappoint you, to ruin your games. But I am no one and nothing. You may kill me all the same.’

  “The beast marveled at the boy it had questioned. Millions of lives he had set to sunder. Life was never precious, he snuffed out, no wonder.

  “‘Tell me, boy, no one will miss you? No one will know of the grandeur that killed you?’

  “But the boy did not reply, consigned to his fate. He stared at the beast, eyes agape.

  “It circled and switched and thrashed its tail. Anger and malice plagued its face. It was a mighty beast, the creature of disgrace. Yet this boy presented it with so many questions. It knew what it was, this creature of aggression, a terrible thing, a beast that only brought ending. It reared back and bared its teeth, but there was still no response to glean.

  “The beast could not decide, it seemed. There they stayed till the end of days, both locked in the struggle of internal conflict, emotions arrayed. This is the final tale I say to you all who hear. What did you learn? For what did your heart yearn?”

  One man cried, “It didn’t rhyme.”

  “I could’ve killed the beast,” said another.

  “Why didn’t the Wise Man say anything at the end?”

  “What was the story even supposed to be? Make it plain to us!”

  “It was about choice and free will,” the words spilled out of Adam's mouth without him even realizing. The crowd turned, and the Fisherman smiled widely, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

  “Yes indeed, my friend. The boy was left with all the choices but didn’t take any of them, which in and of itself was the most important choice.”

  Adam was amazed by this man. The crowd dispersed, and as they did, Adam walked toward the Fisherman. “Hello and well met,” Adam said, trying to catch the Fisherman's attention. The man stepped toward Adam, standing a head taller than him. Adam looked up at his deep, weathered face. His sun-kissed skin and kindness radiated from him.

  “Who are you, young man? Do you have a name? Don’t tell me you don’t have a name? That would just be my luck.” The old man’s tone was gentle and inquisitive, the rueful smile still playing across his lips.

  “No, no. I have a name.” He chuckled. “I am Adam. Your stories stirred me, and your eighty-eight truths inspired me. However, that final story still has me reeling. Tell me, Fisherman, who are you? And how did I know the answer without even thinking about it?”

  “You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?” the Fisherman said in a wry tone. “But to answer your first question, I am who I am, who I am in all that I am. A fisher of men.”

  They walked to the dock, where the water was clear. Sitting down, he invited the young Adam to sit down with him. They dangled their feet over the edge before the Fisherman spoke up again.

  “And for your second question, I believe it was because your heart awoke, coming alive and answering for you.” He groaned as he adjusted, shifting where he sat, rolling out the soreness through his neck.

  “My heart can speak?”

  Adam didn’t know whether to laugh at the old man or be in awe.

  “Yes, all hearts can speak! You feel yours now, burning in your chest.” The old man pointed at Adam’s chest as he continued.

  “Your heart is where your truth lies; it holds your name and calls out to others searching for the same. It’s where you find laughter. It’s where you find grief. And given enough time, these emotions also learn to speak.”

  “But those are just emotions, reactions, and responses,” Adam said quizzically, looking down at his chest still.

  “And that’s your choice to believe so about yourself, to give so little room to that which burns in you,” the Fisherman said, reclining his head.

  They spoke for hours on the subject of free will and choice. The subjects of his heart, thinking, and beating inside his chest, to do a great calling and not fully understand its true intent.

  Finally, the Fisherman got cold and tired as the sun had long since set. He charged Adam with a heading: to go find the things that make his heart burn, to travel the world and to learn, to go to volcanic mountains where the djinn danced in flame.

  Adam spent hundreds of years acquiring knowledge this way. Gaining a deep understanding of the art of diplomacy, the art of music, and the art of war. The land revealed its secrets to him, and he listened well. He learned to touch and move within the space between all things, to bend the space, awaken hearts, and set them aflame with purpose. This way, he became a master of identity, performing great works and wonders.