3 June 2012
"Gather round, gather round," he calls to us all. "Tonight is a night for stories and tales of the world. Gather around the fire children, and listen well."
The crackling flames of our campfire sets Old Jameson aglow with light. His wrinkled skin and bushy, grey beard stands out against the backdrop of the pitch black tunnel. It gave him an almost mystical look and made sure all our eyes were trained on him.
It was the same treat every week. Each Sunday night, he would gather all the children in camp around his fire and then he would tell us the most wondrous tales. Tales of danger and excitement, monsters and beasts, swamps and mountains.
Tonight would be no different.
"Who would like to hear the tale of the Jumping Jackal?" He asks us. Our group murmurs with excitement. "Or perhaps the story of how I lost my leg to the vicious Drake Bat?" He laughs in his strange way, something between a chuckle and a guffaw, slapping his old peg leg with a mighty thud. Our whispers grow louder, with even the very quiet Henry Shackletop bouncing with excitement; he had always loved that story. "Or... How about something new? Something very recent? A new story that I have yet to tell any of you?"
We roar with excitement, pleading with Old Jameson to share his knowledge. Our chatter could be heard from the other side of camp, echoing all the way down the subway station.
"What's it about?" One child asks. "Oh! Oh! Does it involve mutants?" Another shouts out. "Of course it does, what story doesn't? They're everywhere out there now, after all," I tell him, "Isn't that right, Mr. Jameson?"
He looks at me with a steady gaze, a smile on his lips. "Right you are, Daniel. Mutants are everywhere, don't you ever forget that kiddos. Why do you think all the big adults always leave camp armed to the teeth? It's because it's not safe out there." He warns and then releases that strange laugh of his.
We bicker amongst ourselves, talking of mutants and the swamp, how cool the Guard Patrol is and on what Old Jamesons' story could be about. One kid who I barely knew, wouldn't shut up about how his father was in the Patrol group for tonight. My friend, Bill, tried to counter that by saying how his father let him fire his gun down at Target Practice the other week.
'Alright, alright. Hush now, children." Old Jameson had his hands spread out, signalling for silence.
We all went immediately quiet, anticipating his every word.
"Now... The man in this story, I knew him personally. Riley Morgan was his name."
"Never heard of him," Graeme Lernel, a short, chubby kid who got his kicks out of bullying kids weaker than him, interrupted.
"I wouldn't expect you to," Old Jameson replied patiently, "Like I said, this only happened recently."
"Continue with the story, please?" I beg. I've always adored the old man's stories, just as much as he enjoys telling them. He gives me another smile and nods.
"This, is the story of Riley Morgan and the fearsome mutant who hunted him..."
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To be continued
Campfire Tales • Opuss № I