The first thing he noticed when he awoke was the overwhelming smell of sweat and dust. The sickeningly sweet stench surrounded him and he could taste grittiness in his mouth. Disoriented he sat up, only to realize that his body ached all over. He could feel the hard ground directly beneath the thin blanket underneath him and the tent enclosing him had seen better days. But why was he here? Shock coursed through him. He had no recollection of why he was in a tent. Worse, he had no idea who he was, not even a glimpse of his former life, whatever it may have been.
Panicked he rummaged through his belongings for some clue to who he was. After a few minutes of frantic searching, he was relieved to discover some travelers cheques and a passport in a pack. He set the cheques aside and opened the passport: Eamon O'Connor, born 1975 in County Galway, Ireland. Instantly his tense body relaxed. He had a name, an identity. It didn't matter that he had felt no twinge of recognition at the sound of his name. All that mattered was that he now had a indication of his identity.
He glanced at the picture on the side of the page, and was somewhat surprised at what he saw. The man in the picture had reddish-brown shaggy hair, bright blue eyes, and an aquiline nose. It was an attractive face but not what he imagined; all the features were light when he expected dark, cheerful when he anticipated brooding, soft instead of hard. The person in the picture was not familiar. Not familiar in the least.
He rubbed his jaw, the stubble from a few days growth irritated his skin. He reasoned that if he couldn't remember his name, not remembering his looks was not a far stretch. Besides, looking around the tent it was obvious that he hadn't been in front of a mirror in awhile.
He shrugged and picked up the travelers cheques. He flipped through the fairly substantial stack. He was stunned to find they amounted to almost $100000. It seemed strange that he would be carrying such a large quantity of money. What reason could he possibly have to keep this amount of funds on his person?
He searched through the rest of his packs to see if he could find any more clues: food and water for several days, a map of Mongolia, an around the world airline ticket, clothes for several days, and a silver chain with a cross on it. He was puzzled by this collection of items. Was he in Mongolia? Why did he have an open airline ticket? Was he deeply religious? He didn't feel any overwhelming religious connection but why else would he have a cross?
But it wasn't just the items that he found that were strange; there was a curious lack of things. Where were his other identification cards? Where were his visa or debit cards? Why didn't he have any pictures of family and friends? Did that mean he had no one waiting for him? He couldn't have been robbed. Thieves would hardly take personal items over his passport and traveler's cheques.
What was going on? And who was he? Was he Eamon O'Connor or someone else entirely? For the first time since he read the name off the passport, he doubted that it was him. Maybe he was the thief.
Much later he pushed open the tent flap and crawled out. The sun was bright and there was no breeze to speak of. He turned in a circle with his arms out to the side, basking in the light. The feeling of warmth spread through him, delighting him.
Shadows in the distance caught his eye. On the horizon, horses with riders were blocking the sun. Maybe they knew who he was, or at the very least knew where he was. He raised his hand in greeting. But it was several minutes before there was any acknowledgement from the strangers. A single horse and rider approached him and he waited patiently for the rider to speak.
"Сайн байна уу." The man spoke in a foreign language. Eamon shook his head in confusion; he had no idea what the stranger was saying.
The man spoke again, "Добрый день." This time Eamon understood; the man was saying good afternoon. Eamon replied back in turn. The words felt funny in his mouth, rusty, like he had once been comfortable speaking the language but hadn't tried in awhile.
The man held up his hand and beckoned the rest of his group. As they waited for the others to reach them, Eamon tried to question the visitor.
"Who are you? Where am I?" But no more words were spoken between the two, as the rider turned to rejoin the rest of his people. Eamon stood there dumbly, watching as the people began to make camp all around his tent. He tried to speak to other members of the camp, but they just ignored him. Frustrated he started to pace. Why were they here, especially if they wouldn't talk to him? Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Come."
It was the man from earlier. He gestured towards the shelter in the center of the camp. Eamon walked forward until he reached the flap on the door. He hesitated and stared at the opening. What or who would he find inside? He took a deep breath and stepped inside.
In the far corner, an old man sat hunched over a fire. He gestured to a mat in front of him. Eamon took a seat, bowed his head, and waited for the man to speak. Eamon realized that the situation would seem odd to some; how he knew this he had no idea. But he did know that it didn't seem out of the ordinary to him. What kind of man was he if he found sitting in the tent of an old man he didn't know in what he thought was the steppes of Mongolia not strange at all?
He was shaken out of his thoughts at the sound of the old man's voice. "My child, you have many questions."
Eamon nodded in response, even though he knew without a doubt that it wasn't a question. It wasn't his time to speak, as much as he wanted to shout, to demand answers, he knew that he could not force the man to give him any information.
The old man waved his hand over the smoke; his eyes were fixated on something that Eamon could not see. "I will answer what I can, but know that I do not have all the knowledge that you seek, and cannot tell you all I know."
Again Eamon nodded. Somehow he knew that it was not in the nature of holy men to be forthcoming. He still waited for permission to speak. It would not do to offend the only potential source of answers he had.
"Ask what you will."
"Who am I? Am I Eamon O'Connor?" The strain of the situation transferred to the tone of his voice.
"Who you are has not been decided yet; you are who you make yourself. The choices you make in the future will dictate who you are."
Cryptic, but Eamon expected no less. No one that knew anything substantial liked to give straight answers. He would have to assume that Eamon was who he was meant to be, even if it wasn't who he was.
"Why am I here?"
"You were sent here as were we."
"Why?" Eamon's question escaped as almost a growl.
"To guide you to your path, to set you on your way."
"What is my path?" He demanded.
"That is for you to decide." The calm in the man's voice caused Eamon's aggravation level to rise. While he had anticipated mysticism and obscurity, it did not make it any less irritating to sit through.
"Why can't I remember anything? Can I get memory back?" Eamon struggled to keep his voice polite, but it was a battle he was quickly losing.
"You have been given a new life. Use it as you will."
Eamon felt like punching a wall. He knew that the interview was finished but he had to try one more question. He had to try and gain some direction. "Where do I go from here?"
Surprisingly, the man replied. Maybe he sensed Eamon's despair underneath the outward anger. "Follow you instincts. They will lead you where you are meant to go."
Eamon slumped his shoulders at that statement. How could he know where to go from here? Especially when he didn't know where he'd been.
The other members of the camp avoided Eamon as he packed up his gear. Finally, when he had gathered everything, Eamon searched out the young man he had first greeted. After some convincing, in what Eamon had concluded was Russian, the man pointed him in the direction of Ulaanbaatar. If any thing Eamon knew, it was that his destiny did not lie in Northern Mongolia.
As he hiked across the steppes toward the capital, Eamon thought about the best place to go to figure out his past. Logically, he knew that Ireland was probably his best shot. But without an address or any indication of a family waiting, he did not feel drawn there. If anything, there was something holding him back. He knew that there was someone out there that could help, and he knew without a doubt that he would not find them in Ireland. Maybe he should travel to Russia. He knew the language, which hinted that he had at least spent some time there.
He had no idea how to go about searching for details of his past. The world was a big place, and he had no idea where to start. Although, the shaman seemed to know who he was, or at least have an idea. Maybe he should visit some other, similar type people, people who leaned toward the more supernatural side of things. It seemed likely that they may be able to give some clues to his past. However vague those hints may be.