Disclaimer, dear reader: this is not a Disney story. The facts are taken from actual historical events. If you feel hurt or offended by the content, I advise you to seek therapeutic help. I do not change a line or a word; the past cannot be reinterpreted just to fit some fashion.
❤
Ucigă L. Toaca1 , you don't know him, and you can't help it. You know him, and still can't help it...
Long brown hair, military boots, and always accompanied by his Nokota horse, a Reverse Dapple Roan. Many people think he is an Indian, and they are not far from the truth. Originally from the northern bank of the Danube downstream, being an orphan, he grew up next to the cavalry regiment of Colonel Henry Favours. Tragic events followed, and dismayed, he exchanged his cavalry sword for an axe, but he still kept his broad belt, his Schofield, and his rifle. In other words, he deserted from the Unionist army, and at 17, he found himself for the first time in the middle of a real family, being adopted by the Wapiti tribe itself.
There followed a period not without vicissitudes, but compensated by the love of those around him. He could still consider himself happy until one unfortunate day...
He was returning with necessary supplies from Saint Denis, obtained after selling furs—the earnings of a difficult hunting season—all these goods indispensable to the survival of his tribe. In the covered wagon, he was accompanied by Yime, his step-sis. She had never visited a city before and was deeply impressed. The illuminated La Plaza, the cobbled streets, charming ladies coming out of the theater with flowered hats and shades shielding their pale skin from the scorching sun, so corseted in long dresses, accompanied by elegant gentlemen with toppers, addressing each other in perfect French, and leaving behind a lovely scent. The market, the showcases, the cattle, the collection of customs and merchants of foreign ethnicities, the ebb and flow of the huge boats, goods and travelers passing through the wharf... she almost felt a pressure on her heart reflecting on the recent experience, especially by an old and jovial Gus, a merchant who bought almost all the furs from her brother. Pleasantly impressed by her sweetness, he offered her a brioche, she had never tasted anything so delicious. He even allowed her to take another one for the road. Leaning on her brother's shoulder, she felt the emotions of the day causing her a slight dizziness, that she had no air... At that moment, the rhythm of the horses' hooves on the cobblestones became irregular, began to shake, swell, and squeal.
"There is probably an alligator around; they sometimes approach the entrance to the city looking for a nap", was all her brother could say. In the blink of an eye, their horses were hindered as many other hands tried to pull them down from their seats. A group of runaway slaves was trying to take their wagon, banging and waving long knives. He quickly emptied his revolver at the assailants, then grabbed his heavy axe and started hitting them as hard as he could without stopping. His face was burning and blood was covering his vision, but he didn't stop. When he couldn't hold the axe anymore, he started fighting with his bare hands, clinging, even from his knees, to the enemies. But they were so bold, so many... that's the last thing he remembered.
Soaked in the mud on the side of the road, which probably saved his life by preventing too much blood from flowing through his wounds, he was starting to recover his mind. His first thought was Yime, sweet, poor Yime. He didn't know how long he lay unconscious. Even though it was a fairly busy road, no one tried to see what happened to that body. Who cares about an Indian who fell drunk in a ditch? From that moment, he was no more. He became a moroi2, but a real one—a cold and lost spirit in human flesh—with no feelings towards people.
And he got lost, and still got lost... with his Nokota, "christened" Xenos, the fastest horse in the West. He chased after runaway slaves again and again. He had become a bounty hunter, but he only accepted work from old-school plantation owners. Although he caught them every time, he never brought one negrito alive. Yet, the rewards received were far beyond what an unambitious man could spend, even after he shared part of the profits with his men—all outcasts, but with honor—who would have joined him at any time and in any way, just at a single sign.
Many years passed since then. The fugitive slave hunt had become obsolete, and our man, or whatever he had become, now owned a beautiful property in Saint Denis. Many prominent people of the city now sought his friendship, and sometimes he would stop to listen to their banter or accept an invitation to a lavish party. But for him, they were just that world that had abandoned him; they were just ghosts. There was still a world he frequented with "pleasure" further north of the city, into depravity's hotbed, in a tavern dripping with sweat and syphilis. He would sit at a table and begin to get drunk, revealing a stack of bucks whenever he paid or bet on a poker hand. He waited until the darkness left and went down a lonely alley, ensuring that the notorious few didn't lose him... and no one would see them again. The crocodiles must be fed too.
His only oasis in Saint Denis, the place where he remembered who he was, maybe through the art of some magic or ritual, was the shop of a young and handsome collector of antiques. He never dared to ask if it was a he or a she... he just listened in silence to the stories of those values. He filled a cup of hot tea from a strange object, meticulously decorated with golden figures representing a floral scene. This tea was served to him together with a cranberry muffin. When he cracked it, its fruit oozed like bloody wounds... and it was so sweet, the sweetest brioche.
This is the story of the one known as Ucigă L. Toaca, as much as it could be verified from sources who knew him or official trades. There are also legends about a howling rider, in blackened clothes, riding a dark horse with a silver pins decorated saddle, from whose hoofs strike flames, but it is only a unconfirmed legend: you don't know him, and you can't help it. You know him, and still can't help it...
❤