Crowe

         “It’s not like it is in the books … It’s nothing at all like that, by God…”
         Suddenly embarrassed after having interrupted the conversation the two men were having, Captain Stromond peered down into the small glass of whiskey before him and sighed deeply. Why stir up ancient memories, especially ones that always gave him such misery?
         The cowboys themselves appeared startled but nonetheless interested by his words, their wind creased faces frozen in time; they stared back at him awaiting anything that he might be able to offer them. With his good right eye he looked back up at each of the men from his seat at the small bar table, measuring their worth as much as their intent. He knew that he could offer them more than they really needed. Of that he was most painfully aware.
         More than any man could handle I’d wager...
         He quietly swallowed what he figured would be the last of his take for the night, and tried in vain to think of a reason to leave so early. The men were still waiting though and his throat was still dry, and by God, an uncomfortable silence still hung in the air.
         The memories, ever present as they were, were becoming clearer as well, far more distinct than they had in years. He had seen many things come and go in his forty years of exploring the open sea, but nothing would ever compare to his time in Cisco Bay one lonely winter thirty years ago.
         That’s where it began, the dying as it were for men such as him.
         So cold and harsh appeared the rules of their world… A world he wished he could forget long enough in order to get a good night’s sleep again. How any God could put creatures such as those on the Earth was simply beyond the old captain. With a final sigh, he turned in his seat to meet the gaze of the young men and did what all seasoned men do under the circumstances. “It begins with the blood you see …” And with that, the good captain began to tell his tale.
         
         “This is not a curse, at least not according to the wolves. They’ve accepted their fate for what it is to them, not as some hellish form of damnation, but instead as if it were some … some bridge; a bridge of enlightenment that crossed over death, leading towards the very meaning behind immortality, towards God himself! You must understand, death, for the most part, eludes them, and as such, it should not surprise you that the very nectar of life, the blood of all living things, carries far more than sustenance for them. For unlike the vampyre, they are far more alive than undead you see. And indeed it is within this crimson flow, within the very meat of our flesh that the spirit of our life experience exists for them. To be shredded…to be torn to pieces and devoured in an orgy of painful resurrection within the bowels of these great beasts is an affront to God! But to them, to the wolves… to be marked for a hunt is considered the greatest honor a mortal may bear. Our lives are then merely a harvest that they may reap when they so desire, and their hunts can be legendary. In the end, we become them and they us. Creatures such as these then can see no action as inherently right or wrong, for the realm of morals are merely human dilemmas, and make no mistake my young friends; these are Not humans we are speaking of… not for a long, long time…”
         “Whoa … slow down there old man … what makes you such an expert? How come you know so much about these so-called wolves? They don’t sound like any wolves I’ve ever encountered, do they Jessie?” The man in the large pale brown leather coat was familiar somehow. The taller of the two cowboys, he peered down at the captain with an awkward tilt of his neck, his smile at once patronizing and foolish, and a bit fearful, beaming broad behind a dense black mustache. Jessie though looked at the old man with a bit more respect than pity, more curious than his cocky friend, impressed more by honesty than bravado.
         The captain’s gaze strayed away from his new-found companions, into oblivion, becoming hazy with visions from his past, his youth. His voice became a whisper “I was one of you once. Ignorant, full of myself, full of the life I thought I had a right to lead. That was when I met Jonathon Crowe…”
         
         At the edge of a great sea, men in those times were either merchants or fisherman, and in the small town of Cisco Bay that was enough. There was little else to do anyway, and when the seasons did permit for work, well by God a man worked at what the divine had seen fit to give to him, Amen.
         It was the end of one of those seasons, late October, and I was not only a younger man then, I was an ambitious and most reckless fool. Raised by a fisherman, I had become one, but I was lazy and at the worst of times irresponsible. Somehow though, through the grace of a God I have never met I always got the job done when I needed to.
         That fall I had been working for a man named Baron Von Christhe, a former Navy captain who was merciless and downright callous with his crew, but had somehow always found a way to include me in his good favor. It would be my bad habits though at the time that would cost me in deed as much as with the peace I’d dearly miss in my elder years, for I have never forgotten the horror of that frigid night both off and on the coast of Cisco Bay.
         I had been assigned to work with Simon, the captain’s youngest son, on the final casting for that frozen evening. It was the type of cold that did not belong to any October, but nonetheless held its wake in our own. The sea was a turbulent mistress that night and would not bend her will to any man. Our attempts to throw in our nets were feeble at best, as the storm fed wind forced back all of our efforts in an alliance with the raging waters below. We should have left it well enough alone, but we were young men with young pride.
         Young as I was, Simon was far younger, a lad of only fifteen years. Over the three months that I had spent with him, I seemed to have all of the answers he desired of the ways of the world outside of Cisco Bay, but on that chilling night I felt compelled to teach my young apprentice in deed, not words.
         My experience with the sea had taught me that it was best not to continue with our efforts on such a night, but as with our captain I would not listen to good reason. Instead, I yelled to Simon, motioning him over for yet another moment of mentoring. Within minutes I had sealed my fate, as Simon was a quick study. He could only smile back at me in an apparent understanding of the process, if not the peril it presented. As God as my witness, I had not intended for him to act so quickly upon it on that dreadful evening.
         All of my nightmares begin with a smile you see, the smile of a frail boy who only wanted to make me proud. It was this smile, the gleeful look of a youth who had just learned something precious on his face that would haunt me forever more. And then it was over, as Simon quickly took aim at the sea, and flung the rod wildly into the torrent of its blackened abyss.
         I had not counted on him making contact with anything other than the turbulent sea below.
         Whatever it was he hit, I will never know, but it took the rod deep, and it pulled his safety rope tight across his right arm, fixing it to the ledge. His screams filled the stormy air as we wrestled together to pry his arm free, but he had been pulled fast to the edge of the boat and his arm had wedged itself between the rope and the ridge that lined it’s top edge and would not budge.
         I had never felt so helpless.
         Within seconds of our battle with the rope Simon had mercifully passed out leaving me alone to save him. It was then that a sickening snap echoed above the roar of the sea, and his forearm hung lifeless against the inner wall of our vessel.
         It was with a mounting horror then that I watched as the rope began to carve itself into his skin.
         In the torrent of my shock and amazement I panicked. Unable to find my cleaning knife, I searched wildly for anything that I could use to cut the rope with, but it was too late. The ferocious strength of whatever poor Simon had hooked on to was too much for mere flesh and bone. In an agonizing instant, his forearm was severed in a crimson spray that showered both me, and our side of the vessel and then the rope finally broke away and fell off into the sea. Why the rope did not break before his arm was lost will always remain a mystery to me. In a frenzy of fear for his life, I ripped apart my shirt and attempted to create a tourniquet for what was left of his forearm, praying that I would be able to stem the flow of his blood.
         In the end, it was a miracle that he lived. I, though, was not to be spared the wrath of his father for my careless actions. It was only by the grace of Simon that I was allowed to live, left unconscious and broken in a bloody heap on the beach, the taking of my left eye the captain’s final punishment for my sins on that godforsaken night.
         I found myself a broken man on a beach that did not want me, and I stumbled recklessly into the brush that broke along the edge of the great Boemer forest. The pain in my head was all encompassing and I just barely made it to a large fir tree before I passed out.
         If I had only stayed on the beach maybe things would have been different.