Little Bill was hit in the eye by a stone. It was his first interaction with the boys in his town. They had never said a word. Never at school. Never at the church. Bill was red, and red was bad.
It didn't take a stone for little Bill to learn how to hate back.
Bill fell straight back onto the road, hand cupped over his eye, trying to hold the blood in. Maybe hiding it from more rocks. The boys ran off and disappeared into hiding places Bill would never know. He sat up.
Half way between school and and home was an area little Bill wasn't too familiar with. Don't mistake this for a lack of geographic genius, which he had always exhibited, but a loss due to distraction. His walks to and fro the school were filled with day dreams and memories. The two mixed. The terrain around him, the weather, disappeared and a new landscape was drawn. Some of the dreams were of his fighting the other boys, some were of girls in his school, who were always starring at him, so different, red. He built upon vague memories he had stored, of living with his parents and a people all the same. He would wonder if this was just some wildly creative day dream, and everyday, every morning, he would realize it was real. A real memory.
Shaken- on the dirt floor, Bill got his first clear view of the wilderness in-between his school and home. It was a great, and far reaching thing. So clear now that his brain had been rocked and higher thinking fled, the truth of his surroundings became evident. Then quickly he was back to the eye.
It didn't hurt at all. The pain was not yet a factor. All the blood was a problem. Bill cried. The crying made him bleed more but Bill had been crushed and didn't care. So many dreams of fighting back, of starting the fights.
IN CLASS- Bill sits at his desk. Tommy O. comes up to him from behind and slaps the back of Bills head, as to call Bill a fool and rock his skull.
Bill stands and turns about to face Tommy. A look of grave fear runs across Tommy's face and he begins to back off
'Im awefull sorry RED!' the bitch cries.
Bill winds up and collapses the face of his adversary. Blood is everywhere. Tommy lies chest up on a desk, maybe dead.
Curtain
Each morning had a thousand of these, and each afternoon was saved for thoughts of girls. But he now realized he wasn't the hero in his dreams, he wasn't as quick, brave, or deadly.
The next year he spent in the surrounding wilderness. All of his spare time. His adopted parents worried, but could not stop the boy from going out into it. He would go further each time. Sometimes gone for days. He was 14 and capable. He knew his basics, and knew his instincts better. He learned to hunt without the aid of anyone but himself, and this hunt became a thing of sport. He would never kill in excess, but when the time did come, he was more thrilled than ever. Bill used a sling he had fashioned at first, hurling stones he would find. This did him well as far as rabbits and squirrels were concerned, but he continually out did himself.
An old Miner who had come across a fairly bright and wealthy creek, was living out his days in a shack near the road Bill to from home to school. He would sit on his porch, and you could see him as a spec from the road. His shack could be called a spec aswell. It was far. Bill would watch it grow as he marched east, toward the hills he had to cross before each adventure. He would pass the shack and exchange a nod with the Miner, usually drunk. Never a word until one day when Bill was returning from a 2 day excursion. Bill had three rabbits slung over his shoulder and nodded as he passed, but the Miner shouted- 'Hunter! ay hunter! have I got somethin fer' you!'
Bill looked back and saw the coot dragging himself from the porch step where he sat. He stops.
By this time Bill had been making money off the pelts he collected and carried his income on his person. The thought crossed Bill's mind that maybe this coot was accustomed to seeing him emerge with valuable fur and figured it was time to take a cut. He was white and Bill hadn't had many good run-ins with white folk other than his parents and the pastor at his church. But the Miner was smiling and alone. Something was bringing him joy and it clearly wasn't his greed. The Miner disappeared into the shack. Bill was confused and nervous. A few seconds later, after a rattle and crash or two inside the shack, the Miner emerged with an axe in his hand. He held it in a passive way and shuffled over toward Bill coughing and smiling.
' Got this from a man, red like yerself, helped me figure these parts out and find my claim real quick. Wernt' fer him I wouldn't be livin such a life of leisure.' There was a sincere tone in his voice and he looked happy to recall his getting the axe. ' Its a Tomyhawk' He stated, extending the axe handle first. Bill grabbed hold and took the tool. It felt good and quick. He had used axes for chopping wood but they were heavy and purposeful, this was some finer thing.
The two of them spent the afternoon hurling the axe into the side of the Miner's shack. ' Take five natural steps away from the wall, about face, and throw the axe' the Miner offered. The handle would hit and there would be clarification. ' Extend your arm, when you loose the axe you should be pointing at your target. Dont whip your arm, extend it.'
He stayed with the man for a month and hunted, and learned from him. He learned to box, and shoot a bow. He would travel miles in all directions and learn the country, but would always return with speed for another lesson. The man died. Bill burned the body, as per request, and began his residence in the shack.
------------ ----------------- ---------------
' Wheres the bastard live ' Carlo called, preparing another drink for himself.
' Somewhere out toward that school ' A local lush shot out quick, begging to see a fight.
' How's he take to challenges?' Carlo asked.
' Lives for em '
