The
red hair was the thing everyone saw first, then the scar. That striking feature
on his face that took up most of the left side. It was shaped like a star, some
said. A blessing from the Gods, or a Curse, others were heard to say. The
midwife at the birthing said it was ‘odd’ for a birthmark though others said
she spoke of it like that to cover for her own inexpert handling of the birth.
A few even whisper she claimed ignorance while recognizing it for what it was.
Or for more. Nonetheless, the combination of red hair and the large star-shaped
scar on his face marked the boy as ‘fated’.
The
stranger was grievously wounded when he was found. The village elders said to
let him die, but young Red took him on his wood-gathering sled and hid him,
helping him to recover. The man told him what to do and how when he was right
in the head. The delirious spells were frightening to a 14-year-old, but
because of the scar and red hair Morgan had grown up tough and self-reliant. He
listened to the ravings of the warrior. Often when the man slipped back into
delirium he was softly whisper a word that only Red Morgan’s sub-conscious
heard and remembered, and he thought it better to keep this to himself.
Morgan
cleaned and polished the weapons the wounded man brought with him. A large
sword and long-handled axe, the likes of which he had never seen before. He
coveted the axe from the first moment he saw it. While the warrior slept and
healed, Red Morgan took to working out with the axe whenever he could. Being
young he used it at first to split firewood. As he grew accustomed to it’s
weight and balance, he fought mock-battles, and learned how to dance with it.
After
a time the man was up and about. He constantly worked out, doing heavy chores,
and then running up and down the rough hills while carrying heavier and heavier
burdens. Morgan began to work with him, running and chopping. Red Morgan grew
into a strong man, and saw himself as fit and strong as the warrior. The
warrior noticed Morgan’s interest in the long-handled axe and started to teach
him how to fight with it. Time went by quickly, 3 years it was. But still the
warrior offered no name to Morgan or his tribe. When asked, all he said was
“warrior will do”, and “now run”. All Morgan ever called him was ‘unca’,
meaning Uncle, for he was the only family he now had. His father and mother had
died when he was still young and was raised as an orphan of the tribe, passing
from family to family. Suddenly it all went wrong.
Red
Morgan had been out all day checking trap lines, and at dusk he returned home
to find turmoil and chaos. Fighters from the village were there looking for the
warrior. They said he had gone berserk, killed the chief and 3 others, and no
one knew why. But all agreed on one thing. Red Morgan had helped the man,
against the wisdom of the elders, so it was so it was his fault the headman and
the others were dead. He had to leave the village, in shame. He told them he
would find the warrior and reclaim his honor. He also swore to himself to ask
him why, before he killed him.
He
collected the few things allowed him, and found the Long Axe waiting in his
lodge for him. Now he was trained with it, and would use it. He was 17 and a
grown man. Passing through the village, he was sent the route the man left. He
left without a farewell or well-wish. He was no longer one of them, and felt
homeless. As he left he heard one lone sole wish him goodbye. He didn’t look
back.
