The tiny fire was too small to do anything but give off smoke. No warmth came from the little sparks of yellow and orange, that lazily fed on their offerings of sticks and twigs. The old man shifted and prodded the tinder with his sturdy cane, pulling the coarse cloak tighter around his shoulders. Fires were dangerous. Fires were giveaways. Fires were risks not worth the taking. He'd forgotten how many times the young 'adults' had lectured him about not lighting fires unless it was absolutely necessary, as if he were one of the children. Well, it was a cold afternoon and after years of running from one camp to the next, he thought he deserved a little of the comfort fire-warmth brought to his rheumatic bones. If his grown up kids didn't like it, they could just send him out into the desert to die or be killed by the slave posses. They probably would too, the ungrateful brats. Thought they knew everything about everything, from fires right down to the stories they told their own children at bedtime. He'd heard them of a night from his warm spot near the back of the cave, talking about what life was like before it had become an endless nomadic affliction. Talking as if they knew! They'd been born into the endless nomadic affliction!
Everything the youngest children were told was a lie. Perhaps his own grown up children believed their lies as well. After all, he'd never talked about life before his existence as an Apostate, how were the young 'adults' supposed to know any better if they didn't know anything at all?
"Grandpa?" it could have been anyone of the children's children; they all called him Grandpa.
"Yes?" God's blood, but it made him feel old though. How on earth could thirty-seven years have passed so quickly?
"Why are you sitting out here? Mom says it's bad to sit outside the cave,"
"When you're my age son, it makes no difference what's good or bad. All that matters is what hurts and what doesn't," the boy couldn't have been more than about ten, maybe eleven.
"Sitting outside doesn't hurt?"
"Sitting hurts, but when it's by a fire, it's not so bad. Come, sit down," the boy did.
"Grandpa?"
"Yes son?"
"Can my friends sit here too?" the old man looked up. Several pairs of wide, curious eyes stared from the entrance of the cave. Looked like he'd have company tonight.
"Of course they can," the little boy's innocent smile lifted the old man's cynical spirits a little. The company of the younger ones was much better for him, it lifted a few of the years from his shoulders and made him feel strangely more alive.
Very quickly his youthful companions, some as old as sixteen and some as young as eight, crammed themselves around the small fire, all gazing up at him expectantly. He concentrated on warming his hands from what little heat seeped out of this paltry excuse for a fire.
"Grandpa?"
"Yes?"
"Can you tell us a story?" was there anything the young children liked better than stretching the wings of their imaginations? And the rudimentary instinct of spinning yarns around a campfire had probably put in a helping hand.
"What would you like the hear?" a few seconds of low murmuring suggested they were all in agreement.
"We'd like to hear about St. Floyd --"
"-- And how he built a wall to keep the Worms out!" the old man stiffened. So this was the garbage his kids had been implanting in the brains of their children!
"Oh yes, Saint Floyd, that martyr of martyrs, who selflessly gave up his life in an attempt to protect humanity from domination by the Worms. Is that what your parents have told you about Floyd and his godforsaken Wall?"
"I . . . yes. . . ." the boy looked confused, as well he might be. These children had no defence as yet against sarcasm. The old man would normally have held his cynicism back on a leash in front of the younger ones, but any mention of Floyd and all his courteous restraints went up in smoke. "Mom said that . . . that St. Floyd --"
"St. Floyd?! Saint my eye! That man was no more a saint than I am!"
"He is too a saint! Mom said he is!"
"Dad told me he died trying to save us from the Worms!"
"St. Floyd was a blessed man!"
The children were all throwing their protests at him, defending the hero they'd built up in their minds. Regurgitating the words their parents wanted them to believe.
"Pink Floyd was a blessed monster! He built his Wall to separate his own people, and it was the Worms who patrolled it, day and night!"
"No Grandpa, you're wrong! My Momma said --"
"You're Momma wasn't even born when I was forced to watch Floyd hang from the end of a rope,"
Staring at him, the younger ones didn't say a word, but he could feel their obstinate determination radiating towards him. Like the children they were, they would stubbornly believe in Jack rather than the Giant. He sighed.
"Alright. I'll tell you a story about Pink Floyd, but I'm telling you now, it'll be the story I know, most of which I saw with my own two eyes. None of this rubbish your parents have made up to keep you happy," even his half-hearted disclaimer couldn't wipe the smiles of the younger ones' faces. They thought they were going to hear a tale all about the supposed valour and altruism of their St. Floyd. Oh well. He sighed, really not in the mood to exhume all his old memories, that were happiest sleeping in their graves. But the children's children had asked for a story. They were going to get the truth.
He sighed again. There were going to be a lot evil looks being sent his way before this night was over.