Kris had three bottles--one for each hand. He impressed his friends by pouring all three into his gullet at the same time--a mixed drink that left out the middle man. All of them were pretty sure that this had never been done before. Not to be outdone, however, Waylon dipped one of his eyestalks into his whisky, and promptly got to his feet, bellowing obscenities and rushing to the nearest stream to rinse it off. Buford and Kris shared a hearty laugh, then got a good look around.
"The hell's Sammy?" Kris slurred.
Buford shrugged solemnly. "Boy's too serious for his own good sometimes." He put his arm around the prostitute they'd brought back to camp. "Needs to learn to have fun!"
The festivities went on without Sammy, and soon enough he was forgotten, as his companions typically adopted a "let him brood" attitude. It was just as well, for sometimes he didn't want their attention or their company.
It had served him well, his stoic nature. While the others made a raucous display of fun-loving, whisky-drinking wildness, women found Sammy's seriousness irresistible. Here was a man not too shy to enjoy himself, but preoccupied with a past too hard to fathom, as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. And who knew? Perhaps he did.
Sammy sat a mile away at a fire of his own, piled twenty feet high and lit as only Sammy could light it. It flared brilliantly beneath the overcast sky, bringing light to the emptiness of the forest.
He could not enjoy what he had built, could not revel in its heat, its light, its magnitude. He'd almost allowed the day to go by without paying his respects. He had been too busy to remember. Too busy drinking, laughing, playing. Cursing the world at a time when he should have been thanking it.
On this day only three years ago--only three!--his life was changed forever. A fire had claimed the lives of some very dear friends, and his courageous caretaker, the Lady Vanessa Wilmington. He alone survived, to discover that the KKK had done this deed out of their hatred for his kind. They did not spare the Lady because, for her altruism, to them she was no better.
Sammy had discovered the journal her deceased husband had kept during the War. It spoke to him of bravery, selflessness and honor, concepts he came to understand through this medium, even as the Lady whipped him into a proper gentleman. The journal revealed as much to him about the Lady as it did about her husband, and more often than not the old, yellowed pages had brought him to tears. He knew the Lady to be above reproach, and he hoped that there was something awaiting her in the place beyond life.
But on seeing the plight of his people, his faith waned. On seeing what fate befell those who tried to do some small measure of good, his faith waned further, and he cursed the KKK and hoped that every single one of them would suddenly find himself out to be a Mutation...and then die an awful, agonizing death.
The crackling blaze soared with the intensity of his emotions, its searing heat a welcome physical distraction. By heat, his mind was cleansed. By this heat...
Sammy thought he spotted a grayish shape just beyond the fire. Two black eyes above a snout, watching him. Seeing him. Knowing him. He ignored the river of sweat upon his brow and swallowed nervously, because what was probably just a wolf had so unnerved him.
A lone wolf.
It vanished in an instant. Sammy came back to himself when sweat got into his eyes. He blinked furiously and wiped it away.
"The hell was that about?" he wondered aloud.
The image of the lone wolf defined him in so many ways. From a young age he could tell he was destined to be different, set apart. Every place he'd called his home had been taken, lost to him. Now, with the Cowboys, he was aloof, not truly one with the pack. And why? At times he'd berate himself for thinking that he was too good. Better than them and their thieving, womanizing ways. So why did he remain with them? What did he expect to do with the rest of his life? There was nothing, wasn't there? Nothing for a poor Mutation son of a whore like him...
The flames roared higher in an act of subconscious flagellation, and he told himself again that this was a day of remembrance. Remember the good. Honor the past. Respect the people who helped along the way.
Sammy lit this fire once every year, on the anniversary of Mrs. Wilmington's death. His heart burned for every person he'd lost, and on this special day he allowed himself to remember them all, to be overwhelmed with thoughts of them.
He often wondered if his momma was still alive. Was she out there? He could find her, but in so doing he might condemn her. So she was dead to him. And in her death, she was remembered, and for her, the flames crescendoed to the height of the surrounding trees, sending an explosion of sparks and ash toward Heaven. If there was a Heaven, if it could see his sign, his momma would know and be comforted.
These were his thoughts, the sentiments he allowed himself but once per year. Come morning, life would be bank robberies, highway muggings and general chaos once more. Sammy would, with reckless abandon, punish the populace for thinking Mutations would all just lie down and die.
He cleansed himself by the fire and prepared himself for that which was to come.
"The hell's Sammy?" Kris slurred.
Buford shrugged solemnly. "Boy's too serious for his own good sometimes." He put his arm around the prostitute they'd brought back to camp. "Needs to learn to have fun!"
The festivities went on without Sammy, and soon enough he was forgotten, as his companions typically adopted a "let him brood" attitude. It was just as well, for sometimes he didn't want their attention or their company.
It had served him well, his stoic nature. While the others made a raucous display of fun-loving, whisky-drinking wildness, women found Sammy's seriousness irresistible. Here was a man not too shy to enjoy himself, but preoccupied with a past too hard to fathom, as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. And who knew? Perhaps he did.
Sammy sat a mile away at a fire of his own, piled twenty feet high and lit as only Sammy could light it. It flared brilliantly beneath the overcast sky, bringing light to the emptiness of the forest.
He could not enjoy what he had built, could not revel in its heat, its light, its magnitude. He'd almost allowed the day to go by without paying his respects. He had been too busy to remember. Too busy drinking, laughing, playing. Cursing the world at a time when he should have been thanking it.
On this day only three years ago--only three!--his life was changed forever. A fire had claimed the lives of some very dear friends, and his courageous caretaker, the Lady Vanessa Wilmington. He alone survived, to discover that the KKK had done this deed out of their hatred for his kind. They did not spare the Lady because, for her altruism, to them she was no better.
Sammy had discovered the journal her deceased husband had kept during the War. It spoke to him of bravery, selflessness and honor, concepts he came to understand through this medium, even as the Lady whipped him into a proper gentleman. The journal revealed as much to him about the Lady as it did about her husband, and more often than not the old, yellowed pages had brought him to tears. He knew the Lady to be above reproach, and he hoped that there was something awaiting her in the place beyond life.
But on seeing the plight of his people, his faith waned. On seeing what fate befell those who tried to do some small measure of good, his faith waned further, and he cursed the KKK and hoped that every single one of them would suddenly find himself out to be a Mutation...and then die an awful, agonizing death.
The crackling blaze soared with the intensity of his emotions, its searing heat a welcome physical distraction. By heat, his mind was cleansed. By this heat...
Sammy thought he spotted a grayish shape just beyond the fire. Two black eyes above a snout, watching him. Seeing him. Knowing him. He ignored the river of sweat upon his brow and swallowed nervously, because what was probably just a wolf had so unnerved him.
A lone wolf.
It vanished in an instant. Sammy came back to himself when sweat got into his eyes. He blinked furiously and wiped it away.
"The hell was that about?" he wondered aloud.
The image of the lone wolf defined him in so many ways. From a young age he could tell he was destined to be different, set apart. Every place he'd called his home had been taken, lost to him. Now, with the Cowboys, he was aloof, not truly one with the pack. And why? At times he'd berate himself for thinking that he was too good. Better than them and their thieving, womanizing ways. So why did he remain with them? What did he expect to do with the rest of his life? There was nothing, wasn't there? Nothing for a poor Mutation son of a whore like him...
The flames roared higher in an act of subconscious flagellation, and he told himself again that this was a day of remembrance. Remember the good. Honor the past. Respect the people who helped along the way.
Sammy lit this fire once every year, on the anniversary of Mrs. Wilmington's death. His heart burned for every person he'd lost, and on this special day he allowed himself to remember them all, to be overwhelmed with thoughts of them.
He often wondered if his momma was still alive. Was she out there? He could find her, but in so doing he might condemn her. So she was dead to him. And in her death, she was remembered, and for her, the flames crescendoed to the height of the surrounding trees, sending an explosion of sparks and ash toward Heaven. If there was a Heaven, if it could see his sign, his momma would know and be comforted.
These were his thoughts, the sentiments he allowed himself but once per year. Come morning, life would be bank robberies, highway muggings and general chaos once more. Sammy would, with reckless abandon, punish the populace for thinking Mutations would all just lie down and die.
He cleansed himself by the fire and prepared himself for that which was to come.
