She followed the path marked by the shortest vegetation; past travelers had hacked away the plant life. Drenched in sweat but desperately thirsty, she reached a clearing. A handsome man by any standard, possibly of Russian descent, was gathering tree branches covered in slender leaves and stacking them next to a small wooden house. These same leaves, brown and dead, covered the roof, and he seemed to be patching it up. The man noticed the hiker.
“Hello, my name is Claire Christiansen. I’m an American journalist researching Montañalento, and I’ve heard rumors there is an unusual man living near here. Do you speak English?”
The man smiled.
“You made the trip alone? You must be thirsty. I’ll get you water.”
“That’s fine. I don’t want to disrupt your work.”
The man nodded and continued tossing branches on the pile. A minute passed before he started talking:
“So you say you are an American researching the village? Did you know a man from that place once emigrated to America? He chose an American name in order to better adapt to his new life. He called himself Howard Dungwood. Obviously, he grew to hate that name as it caused him nothing but trouble, so he did the rational thing and changed it - to Daniel Dungwood.”
She laughed.
“I’m glad you like jokes. I’m an amateur comedian, but I never have anyone to entertain. Here’s another: what do storms have underneath their pants?”
“Thunderwear?”
“Well! Getting you to laugh again might be a bit of a challenge! That was a stupid joke, I know.”
“On second thought, I really could use some water.”
“Sure, let’s go into the house”
They sat at a small table and Claire gawked at the tower of boxes taking up most of the room. The man handed her a water bottle.
“Those boxes are full of my notes and journals. I’m a writer like yourself - not the case with most Peruvians. I must apologize for my previous rudeness though; I’m Fyodor.”
“Why so many notes, Fyodor?”
“You said you were looking for an ‘unusual’ man. That is me. I have lived an unnatural lifespan and in many different places. It’s all in those notes.”
“They say you ‘eat’ time.”
”Yes. I was born without an appetite, or a need, for food. I wanted time instead, and I found I could take it from things.”
“People?”
“I’ve only taken time from people twice in my life. Once by accident when I was a toddler, and once during the Franco-Prussian War. The latter, I am ashamed to say, was from my commanding officer. He wouldn’t give me the time of day, so I had the time of his life!”
Her eyebrows shot up like birds flushed from safety.
“I’m sorry, Claire. That was a terrible joke. In reality, I can steal time from any living thing - the jungle for instance. When I stole time from those two people, their age remained but they lost all their previous memories. I wiped their mind and their time spent on Earth became mine. Not wanting to harm anyone else, I chose to live here, where I can sustain myself indefinitely on flora. If I don’t eat, I age. If I eat, my aging stops. I’ve stopped at around thirty, I think.”
Claire sat quietly sipping from her bottle in a state of disbelief. Fyodor spoke so calmly that his words seemed genuine, but her rationality would not allow for such extravagant claims.
“I know you’ve come here with one question. Go ahead and ask it.”
“How do you do it?”
“As I explained, I was born this way. Remember, Leonardo Da Vinci never asked how his brain produced works of genius; he only cared that it continued to do so. Will you allow me a question now?”
“Yes.”
“What separates you and I from the villagers in Montañalento?”
“They are Hispanic.”
“What else? Think of what we have been discussing.”
“They are illiterate.”
“Exactly. Now I have another question. Did you hear of me in any other place in Peru?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you why that is. The villagers of Montañalento send no letters, and they generally stay away from other people; my name rarely spreads through them. On the rare occasion when they tell someone of me, that person inevitably seeks me out. It is human nature, and human nature, like this jungle, all looks the same to me. Many curious individuals have found me during my time here, but my existence remains unknown. I would like to return to your question now: ‘How do you do it’?”
He slid his chair closer to hers and reached for her hand. She recoiled.
“Please trust me. I believe I can show you how it is done.”
Slowly, she placed her palm in his. He snatched it and with his other hand grabbed her arm. She stood up but he pulled her down.
“I am a man who believes in experience. It taught me well, and you would have done better to cherish it. For example, given another decade or two, you would have realized how trust, though necessary, leads humans to their mortality. I live without it though. How do I manage? I am immortal of course, but I am sure that means little to you. I can hint at its meaning, but only through the teacher that is experience. Therefore, I will answer your question by offering you one last experience in this life. Welcome to me.”
Spoiler
This is my first submission on this site. I think I was lucky and joined at the right time because I can give this big random contest a shot. It's definitely been motivating reading some of the entries already submitted. My theme was "a writer in the jungles of Peru stealing time". I'm happy with it but looking to make it better! Tips?
