Past Lives, History

originally posted February 10, 2006

Obviously, her brothers did not kill me. One, in particular, Kublai, even shared dirt and grass with me. I was fortunate to be 'of the people' during the time of the Ubar San Kamchak, often spoken of as the wiliest of all Tuchuk. This time of my life, if generalized, was supremely content - marred only by events toward the end, which terminated my stay with them more abruptly than I would have liked. There is a time for every wanderer, every vagabond, to go home. I am a Poet of Gor. Men of my Caste are known to search the world for a song, some for a verse, some for a single turn of phrase. I am first, however, of Ar. Though my bedroll has travelled countless pasangs, Ar is home.
I prefer to recall little else about those days on the Plains of Turia. Though I remember it all, I will not write further of it. I have heard speak that the year I left, traveling north and east in the general direction of Ar, was named 'The Year That We Do Not Talk About' by the Year Keepers of the Wagon People. Important matters are not trusted to parchment and paper which is subject to theft or deterioration over the years. This is not written anywhere. History, such as the names of years, is recorded in the hearts and memories of that proud people. It is time for me, too, to trust my heart and my memory to recollect the events of that time. The recorded history I do have, much to the horror of Scribes the world over, will be burned.