He has forgotten how to laugh, he thinks, as he jumps down from the top bunk with nary a sound. He has forgotten how to sing, he thinks, as he struggles with his holster in the pre-dawn light. He has forgotten how to say ‘sorry’ and really mean it, he thinks, as he closes the bunkhouse door behind him, careful not to wake the sleeping occupants. If he tries hard enough, he can remember when he felt righteous. If he tries hard enough, he can remember when the rumble in his stomach meant so much more than hunger. If he tries hard enough, he can remember when the kindness of strangers was all he survived on. This life has robbed him of laughter, songs, and sincere apologies. It has swallowed his carelessness, innocence and youth. And even though there are days when the price seems fair, most of his time now is spent thinking of how much the world has stolen from him. Lou says he looks tired, and Rachel says he should eat more. Jimmy says he’s angry all the time now, and Kid says he should stop taking things so personal. Ike says he is haunted by demons, and Buck says he needs to be alone. But they are all in agreement that he is restless. The sun rises, and in it’s red-orange glow, he sees the incredible fire that ravaged his boy-hood home. He remembers the smell of burning wood, and later, burning flesh. He remembers the sound of creaking floors, and later, the groan of the building giving way. And above all else, he remembers the ashes Sally scooped into a glass jar days later when they returned to survey the damage. He still wonders what she did with them. They were not among her possessions when he went through them shortly after death, but he knows instinctively that she would never have parted with them voluntarily. His heart is heavy with memories, and something else he can’t quite define, when he finally stands in front of Sam’s stall. He stroke’s the Palomino’s muzzle, smiling slightly when he snorts in something akin to indignation. At least Noah imagines it so. His eyes travel, almost of their own volition, to the fine-crafted silver saddle in the corner of the barn. He runs a hand along one side, his fingers tracing the engraved initials almost reverently. He’d never realized how important the saddle was to him until it was gone. He used to resent it. Saw it as a symbol of his father’s arrogance and eventual downfall. And if he kept it, it was only because it was the only thing left of his father’s memory. He couldn’t remember his father’s features, or the sound of his voice. And he felt guilty. There were days when, horseless, he would carry the weighty saddle over his shoulder for miles. There were days, when starving, he would refuse to sell the heirloom for the feast it would surely provide. There were days, when exhausted, he would fight off the other boys-and sometimes men-who coveted his only possession. Sally had found the saddle in the rubble and ashes of their destroyed home. Had called it miraculous and a sign from God. Had carried it for three miles because Noah couldn’t. Had polished it to a shine every night before bed from everyday thereafter. She worshipped it. Noah stayed with Sally until he reached the age of ten. He grew tired of her memories and stories, hated the way she could make other people laugh, and then cry, when she spoke of his father. He resented the way people looked to him in admiration, and sometimes pity. He can remember vividly the last night in her modest home; the leaky roof and the loose shutters, the small stove that provided heat in the winter, and the pallets on the floor filled with escaped slaves. Free men and women, then. She knew he was leaving, and he never asked how. There had always been a hint of mysticism surrounding Sally in Noah’s eyes, and he simply attributed her knowledge of his departure to the same secret gift that alerted her to the presence of bounty hunters within a five mile radius. She’d patted his arm, gestured to the much-hated saddle, and mumbled something about gathering dust. She’d never said goodbye, and when he crept out into the dawn that morning with the saddle strapped to his back, he hadn’t either. He learned how to fight, how to hide, and how to accept his suffering. He learned how to ignore taunts, how to share the meager scraps he received with others, and how to sleep with one eye open. And he learned how to love. He loved the look on the faces of auctioneers when he bought two slaves. He loved the gratitude in a mother’s eyes, and the sheer amazement in her son’s. He loved the hunger for days afterwards because he knew he’d done something incredible. He felt the sacrifice of the saddle was worth it, because his father would have been proud. And the pride of a father is what he kept to warm him when he had no blankets. “Noah?” He jumps slightly, and turns to face Rachel. One eyebrow is arched in curiosity and she smiles at his discomfort. “You ok out here?” “Yeah, of course,” he lies smoothly as he blinks away tears. “That’s a beautiful saddle,” she says wistfully. He wants to tell her that she’s already told him this, but he thinks it sounds rude, and so he only nods his head. He wants to tell her many things, to repay her kindness, but he finds it difficult to form those words. And so instead he sighs. “It is, isn’t it?” “Well, I only came in to tell you that breakfast is ready. I made the bacon extra crispy, just how you like it.” “Thanks,” and he smiles because he knows that she is saying so much more. Sometimes he feels older than his years, broken and defeated. And sometimes he thinks about how easy it would be to walk away from his friends-his family. But then there are days when Lou smiles just the right way, or Teaspoon praises him. And he knows that, although he’s been dealt some hard blows, the destination is just as important as the journey. And those are the days he wouldn’t choose to be any place else. He’s home. ~El Fin~ Email Jess HOME