#red dead edemption 2

[tahitianmangoes]

The Story of Ephraim Bird

Sister Amata woke suddenly. She's not the type to wake during the night so suddenly, usually a heavy sleeper but that night felt different somehow. She left her sleeping quarters, the stone floors freezing under bare feet. 

The sound was faint, so faint hat she half wondered whether it was in her head but she followed it, somehow she knew she had to, right to the door of the convent. She opened it gingerly, knowing she’d be in trouble if Mother Superior caught her.

She realised, as she saw a basket on the front step of the convent that she had been woken for a reason. She knelt down beside the basket and the sound became louder; the cooing and gurgling of a baby. The baby was sleeping quite soundly, not undernourished or in distress.

Sister Amata took the baby inside and the convent decided to take care of it.

A baby boy. They called him Ephraim.

Ephraim grew up in the convent which was located a little over the border from New Austin, past Hennigan’s Stead. It was a pleasant childhood, perhaps a more sheltered childhood than most - Ephraim would help the nuns around the convent, fixing what needed fixing or running errands for them. 

He realised early on that he liked to help people - he found being needed and depended upon was addictive.

He would drive the wagon to Blackwater every Sunday for the service there and studied the bible alongside the nuns back at the convent. At first he was unquestioning and took comfort in the pages of the book but as he grew, he saw other children his age whenever he went to the Macfarlane’s Ranch to get supplies or even when he drove the nuns to Strawberry for their evangelism… They always seemed so happy and normal. They had their friends and their toys and most importantly, they had their parents.

He was eleven or at the oldest twelve when he asked Sister Amata about his parents.

She smiled gently at him, slipping her arm around his shoulders and squeezing him. “I knew this day would come,” she said more to herself than Ephraim. “The truth is, dear boy, we don’t know for certain.”

Ephraim hadn’t prepared himself for this answer. He blinked up at the nun who had raised him with unwavering love, kindness and benevolence, her clear, blue eyes met Ephraim’s.

“I had my thoughts over the years…”

“Tell me..!” Ephraim pleaded almost desperately. 

Sister Amata smiled kindly at the boy. “Well, there was a young woman who used to come to the church over in Blackwater. Always on her own she was but she came every Sunday without fail. I would talk to her and she was polite but never really said too much… I noticed that she was in the family way but when I asked her, poor girl started sobbin’... She wasn’t married but the man she was layin’ with was. She didn’t say much about him but he was important, that was clear and he wasn’t interested in havin’ a family with her or financing her and a baby...”

Ephraim chewed his lip. “Was she my mother?”

“I don’t know for sure, dear boy. But a few months later, sure enough you were left outside on our doorstep and that poor girl stopped coming to church.”

“What did she look like?” Ephraim asked shyly. His whole life he had searched the faces of women he didn’t know hoping to see something familiar looking back at him, hoped to run into her one day in the general store or at the butchers or even just on the trail. He dreamed about her coming to the convent to take him away with her where they would live happily together.  But she never did. 

When he caught his reflection in a mirror or water, he wondered what part of him was from her? Her eyes? Her mouth? And his father? Maybe the brow or nose?

He didn't look like anyone else he knew; his skin was coffee coloured suggesting maybe Mexican or Native… His eyes round and hazel, nose crooked and lips wide and full. His hair was sleek and straight, dark mahogany. He was without a doubt handsome, but what did that matter? he’d been discarded, like trash. 

"Why, she looked just like you." Sister Amata answered with a wistful tone to her voice. 

Ephraim did his best to stop his eyes from filming over with tears, clenching his fist in his lap so the nails dug into the soft flesh of his palm. “W-why didn’t she love me?”

Ephraim was taken aback when Sister Amata threw back her head in a light-hearted laugh. “Oh Ephraim, your mother loved you very much. She loved you enough to carry you and birth you and then to make the difficult decision to give you to people who would take care of you in a way that maybe she couldn’t.” 

Ephraim swallowed, unconvinced.

"I'll let you into a secret, child, mothers don't tend to give their babies up due to lack of caring… Usually due to caring too much."

Ephraim wrinkled his nose at this. He couldn’t quite believe her, even if she was a nun.

By age thirteen, Ephraim began to question everything. If God loved everyone then why did people suffer? Those poor folk in Armadillo dying of sickness and beggars in Blackwater thankful for even a cent thrown their way. If God loved everyone, why did Ephraim’s parents abandon him?

Maybe Sister Amata could see him becoming contemptuous and jaded because she tried to talk to him, to involve him more but the more she did, the more he withdrew until, when he was fifteen, he left the convent. 

He missed Sister Amata dearly, she was the closest thing to family he had and maybe ever would have. But he needed to find himself somehow and he couldn’t do that confined in the convent’s four walls. 

Ephraim was naïve and didn’t know the way of the world. For that reason, he ended up falling in with gangs when he shouldn’t have but he found himself attracted to them. 

A few months after he had left the convent, he found himself weary and starving, feet blistered from walking and exhausted from the relentless New Austin sun. He collapsed somewhere outside of Benedict Pass and when he awoke again, he was lying on a bedroll and could smell cooked meat. When he sat up slowly and let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the evening, he could make out a large camp. He could hear chatter and laughter. That meat smelled delicious.

“Estas despierto?”

Ephraim started, looking around wildly at where the voice had come from to see a man who must have been in his late thirties or so, he was average build with a goatee and moustache, piercing dark eyes the held him in their gaze sitting beside him on a small stool.

He repeated himself, voice deep and for some reason, cast fear in Ephraim. 

“I...I don’t understand.” Ephraim stammered.

“Ah, English…” The man responded. He didn’t say anything else for a few moments and then, “are you hungry?”

Ephraim nodded hesitantly. 

“Then let’s eat!”

“Eat?” Ephraim repeated.

The man raised a thick eyebrow at Ephraim, “you think I would leave you to starve?  Flaco Hernandez might be a bastard, but I am not the devil.”

That was his name, Flaco Hernandez. He was the leader of a gang of ten or so men. He treated Ephraim with surprising care, feeding and watering him, letting him recuperate in the camp for as long as he needed. Flaco was unlike anyone Ephraim had ever met, he was boisterous, loud and had a presence that made most people shrink away. He fascinated Ephraim no end. And his gang, well they treated each other like brothers despite not being related in any way. But they were family. 

Ephraim rode with them for a while, going as far as Mexico for a month or two before they were chased by the law back into America. During this time, Ephraim learned to shoot a gun, albeit badly at first but his aim improved over time and he would often practice with empty whiskey bottles around the camo when the others were gone.

He tasted his first alcohol and had his first smoke, even had his first kiss. He learned to kill and skin an animal, how to clean and dress a wound, how to start a fire and take care of a camp. At the age of sixteen, he felt like a man and most importantly, he felt like part of something bigger than himself. He felt accepted.

But like all good things, it ended all too soon. Something had happened that caused a rift in the group - Ephraim had learned some Spanish here and there but not enough to understand the arguments. Some of the gang left for the Del Lobo. Ephraim wanted to stay with Flaco.

Flaco sighed and told him, “you’re a good boy but Flaco has to go alone. When you’re older, come and find me.”

He was being abandoned again.

He was eighteen now and Ephraim  had nothing but a horse and a revolver to his name after Flaco. He felt bitter and betrayed, his veins felt like they knotted and twisted themselves with venom. He didn’t hate Flaco for living him, he loved the man like a father and it hurt. It hurt so much that it brought stinging tears to his eyes. He spent his time in saloons, drinking until he forgot or blacked out. 

Soon enough the money dried up but his thirst for booze didn’t. He was no good at pickpocketing and lacked the guts to rob a homestead without a gang to back him up but he had befriended a working girl in a saloon in Valentine who suggested that maybe he could probably charge for his services, too.

“You’re pretty and young enough and there’s plenty of lonesome fellers out here prefer a man’s touch to a woman’s.”

Ephraim thought about it for a few days. He’d been propositioned before but had been so scared that he had fled the saloon and ended up sleeping on a bench outside the general store for the night. 

There were indeed plenty of lonely fellers out there, he knew that much. Sometimes they bought him drinks and talked to him, glad of the company of a handsome young man. Sometimes they laid their hand on his thigh and he would casually brush it off whilst talking to them. Not many of them tried to push it any further, one or two but Flaco had taught him how to deal with men who wouldn’t heed notice.

The need for drink made up his mind for him.

“Five dollars if you want me to jerk you off, ten if you want me to suck it and twenty-five to fuck.” Ephraim told his clients firmly. The words felt crass coming out of his mouth, never had he spoken like this before but the working girls had told him that boundaries were necessary in this business, lest he wanted to be taken advantage of. 

To say he liked the work would be a lie, but he liked being close to someone even if it was for a short bit. 

He could get more money in places like Saint Denis or Blackwater, steered clear of places like Strawberry where folk like him weren’t welcome. But he found that wherever he went, the men he met regardless of age or profession, were the same in a way; lonely and touch-starved like him. 

Some wanted to talk, to tell him how their wives wouldn’t fuck them anymore and that they just wanted someone to hold them, others didn’t want anything but his body. Some men returned to him a few times, taking him out for dinner or a show, showering him with compliments and gifts and paying him extra; they didn’t want the sex, just the company. Somehow that was worse.

Regardless, he always felt unclean and worthless afterwards, whether they’d fucked or not, when they left and he cleaned himself up...

What would Sister Amata say if she could see him now?

The money added up nicely and he was able to afford himself fine clothes and fancy lodgings. But no amount of pretty shirts or coats could fill the emptiness that people could. 

He drank more until the pain became nothing but numbness. Got into a few fights because of it and now bore the scar from a broken nose.  One of his regulars cooed as they stroked the scar carefully, “you need to be more careful. Wouldn’t want to ruin your pretty face, boy.”

****

After whoring for a while, he met a mysterious woman named Madam Nazar whose intricately painted cart played music and boasted of rare oddities. She was beautiful with long dark hair and bright green eyes, Ephraim had never seen a woman quite like her before. She sold him maps of hidden treasures and when he returned to her with those things, she paid him handsomely. 

He found himself on the trail a lot more because of this but it meant that he wasn’t selling himself as often and maybe that was for the better. 

The trail was a lonesome place, sometimes he went days without seeing a soul and when he did, he  became so excited, he wanted to greet them, lured in by the thought of having a conversation with someone other than his horse. He found out that this was not always the best thing to do, to his detriment. 

One afternoon while riding through Roanoke Ridge, he came across a man who was complaining of illness. He remembered those days in the convent when he had helped the nuns and the rush of pride he got from doing so and, eager to help, hopped down from his chestnut Arabian and went to the aide of the man.

When Ephraim got closer, the man rose to his feet and pointed a gun to his face. 

“Your money, now!” He demanded. 

Ephraim felt violated but more importantly, stupid. So darn stupid. He handed over his money and then, when the man turned to leave, he drew the revolver that Flaco Hernandez had given him and shot him in the back. 

He took his money back and whatever else the man had in his pockets. 

His hunger for blood was spent but his hunger for human contact was not.

 In 1898, Ephraim Bird  is 23 and travels the country looking for shiny trinkets and strange tarot cards to sell to the exquisite Madam Nazar, he tries to keep away from liquor but it seems it’s a vice he can’t shake. Along the way he beds many people in whatever town he stays in, some for cash and some for lust - men or women, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he can pretend that he is wanted by someone, even if it is for a short bit.