This is my entry for the #XWWC, part of which involves tagging @BMOJSILO and @RESTLESSBUTTERFLY.
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If you ever find yourself wandering through the town of Hawkear, chances are you ran out of gas on your way to somewhere else. Chances also are, you’re up to your eyeballs in legend, folklore, myth, narrative, saga and the occasional tchotchke relating to the local legend of a man called “Hawkear”.
Some tales speak of Hawkear, the man, founding Hawkear, the town, in 1847 when he discovered gold nearby. Others speak of a Hawkear, lone gunman who brought law and order into an already established town overrun by outlaws. In some stories, he saved the town from a drought. In other stories, he saved the town from a flood. Yet in other stories, he did both, simultaneously. Some stories tell of how he single handedly turned the outcome the civil war. Some claim it was Hawkear that ended the war, while other say he started it. Others say he fought both sides at once just to protect the town.
You get the idea.
Depending on your stay in Hawkear, the stories would keep on coming. Legends of Hawkear, the man, as you’d discover, are like family recipes in Hawkear, the town. Everyone’s got their own. And if you aren’t tired of the narratives by the time you’ve finished buying the gas you came to buy, you might even notice a couple of bits common to all the stories.
First, and foremost, the man’s uncanny sense of hearing. Hawkear had/attained the ability to hear things happening across the continent. (Some would claim the world.) Every single tale mentions the man’s “hearing being as sharp as a hawk’s eye” which somehow mutated into the name of Hawkear.
Second, and equally foremost, the supernatural. Every single story involves either the devil, or a spirit, or some form of magic. Every single story involves some form of a deal that was made, and a spectacular extraction of the payment from Hawkear that involved explosions and a lot of fire.
Third, Hawkear’s ineffability. Nothing scared him. Nothing. He faced the devil/spirits/death/personal harm without giving a damn.
Reality was, surprisingly, almost as colorful as the legends that followed.
A man calling himself James McPherson walked into a town known as New Effin on one fine day in 1898. And in the months following, not much happened. McPherson generally did not like company, and kept to himself. No one knew what he did, or even why he was there to begin with. But he did have a taste for whisky. During his occasional trip to the saloon, he’d enthrall the patrons with colorful “accounts” of the world he left behind.
On an occasion or two, McPherson casually and almost unwittingly mentioned incidents from across the continent that wouldn’t officially reach New Effin for atleast another day. Needless to say, people talked.
Rudolf Steiner was a financially successful writer. Born in Mönchengladbach, Germany, he immigrated with his parents to New York in 1869 at the age of one. Two weeks prior to his sixteenth birthday, Rudolf sold his first story, the gritty “recollections” of the hardships of a Swedish immigrant, to a publisher in Brooklyn. One week past his sixteenth birthday, Rudolf sold a modified version, the gritty recollections of an Indian immigrant, to another publisher in a different part of Brooklyn.
Rudolf, as he discovered, had a talent for convincing people of whatever he wanted them to be convinced of.
Over the years that followed, Rudolf, under a multitude of pen names, would continue to earn a living selling “true life” tales that generally had less to do with proof of evidence, and more to do with proof of barrel. The same story usually got sold to multiple publishers. On a few occasion, Rudolf found himself accusing, and being accused of plagiarizing himself.
When inevitability caught up with him, Rudolf skipped town. Often with the occasional payment in advance.
As time went by, there were less and less towns to skip to. So much so, that by the ripe old age of thirty or there about, Rudolf Steiner decided to “retire” Rudolf Steiner. James McPherson was born, and he promptly moved to the most isolated place he could find.
Life was not harsh for McPherson. He was not a poor man, not by a long shot. He still had enough money to live in comfort. Which, at this point, included tinkering with a radio he had “acquired” during his career as a writer, getting drunk, and trying to keep a low profile.
Life was good. Neither spectacular, nor thrilling, but as a whole, good. McPherson could see himself spending the rest of his years in a middle of nowhere town like this. In a twist of fate, “the rest of his years” turned out to be surprisingly short in numbers.
Roughly three years from the day he arrived in town, on a fine New Effin Sunday morning, Rudolf Steiner, aka James McPherson, aka the man locally known as “Hawkear”, decided to take a break from fiddling with his radio. He sat in his chair, content with his drink, when he experienced an intercerebral hemorrhage. The man passed away, sitting in his chair, glass of whiskey in hand, contemplative look in his face.
Had he not passed away, he may have noticed his radio continue to malfunction that morning. He may have heard the popping, sparking sounds, followed by a small fire. He may have done something before the small fire grew to a significantly larger fire.
Eventually, people of New Effin eventually noticed the fire.
By the time people of New Effin noticed the fire, it was too late to do anything but continue noticing the fire. The house belonging to the strange & mysterious newcomer was ablaze. Some ran all about, panicking. Other watched with a mixture of awe and horror. Yet in the middle of all the chaos the strange & mysterious newcomer sat calmly in his chair the middle of it, enjoying a drink.
There was an explosion of the wet cell batteries people were unaware of.
The fire eventually made it’s way to the makeshift whiskey cellar people were unaware of.
The house eventually collapsed into a burning pile of rubble. Through all this, people saw McPherson, sitting calmly in his chair, ignoring the people screaming and shouting outside, calmly enjoying his drink.
The fire would be something people of New Effin would talk for years to come. Incessantly. Some would swear they saw the burning corpse take a sip or two from his glass. Others heard the voice of the devil come from the burning house.
In a twist he would not have believed, the account of the last three years of Rudolf Steiner, the life of James McPherson in it’s entirety, became the legends of Hawkear.
And the town would be renamed in his “honor” a half a century later.
this was borrowed fom a facebook friend michelle.
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