The Man in the Myth

Chapter 1

Sometime around the 1700's

The fading black eye looked out of place on the little blonde boy. With his stiff, spotless white shirt tucked tightly and perfectly into his stiff spotless black pants, the boy looked every bit the perfect little boy the orphanage wanted to present to the public. With his hair combed and slicked to be parted to the side without a single strand daring to slip out of place, the black eye looked truly out of place on the little proper nine-year-old boy.

That was until one caught sight of the look in his eyes. The glint in his eyes was a clear indication of where the black eye came from. The little boy was a troublemaker and from gleam in his eyes, it was very clear that he enjoyed it.

But at the moment he was tugging at the collar of his shirt, certain that it was going to strangle him if he didn't get it to loosen just a little bit.

"Mr. Cromwell, you leave that alone." The headmaster of the orphanage slapped the offending hand away. The headmaster insisted that each of the ruffins that he had the misfortune of bringing into his orphanage was referred to by mister, hoping that it would encourage them to act like gentlemen.

The little boy shot the man a look that could have killed if such powers existed. "That's not my name."

The heavy-set man slapped the little boy across the ear. "You will not correct your elders. Your name is Oliver Cromwell."

The little boy clenched his fists by his sides. He knew that if he were to contradict the headmaster would only lead to more punishments.

The headmaster ignored the boy's visceral response and kept speaking.

"You have one thing going for you, Mr. Cromwell. Your unfortunate heritage," that's how every adult at the orphanage referred to the little boy's Irish background, "is hidden by your white blonde hair. Clearly someone in your past had the advantage of being English. You will adopt the name Cromwell because he was a great English statesman. You should be grateful I'm allowing such a name to be used by an Irish dog."

The little boy clenched his fists tighter. He could feel his nails bite into the flesh of his palms. His hair may have been white blonde, but the fire in his blood was all red. He allowed the anger to ripple through him, but even at nine, he had learned to control his reaction to it. The headmaster had insisted that he had managed to beat the Irish temper out of him, and he took credit for the control the little boy showed.

"Leave that collar alone." The headmaster insisted again.

The little boy hadn't even realized that he had once again reached up to loosen the tightening noose around his neck. He hated things around his neck. It made him feel like the dog the headmaster and other adults often referred to him as. He hated that feeling.

The boy sighed and dropped his hands.

He would obey the headmaster for now. It was almost noon and that would mean that they would eat soon. The little boy wasn't looking forward to missing another meal. He would eat first and then he would rip off the collar and accept the punishment in the evening.

Deciding that he needed to focus on something else to get his mind off the suffocating collar, he looked around the market. He had been dragged to the town square because the headmaster decided that he was old enough to become an apprentice and start providing for his board in the orphanage. That's why the boy was all dressed up. It was a ploy to trick the masters of the trades into thinking he wouldn't rob them blind the moment they turned his back on them.

The market was busy with everyone preparing for the beginning of the day. The carts were pulling into the square with the produce from the outside farms. The shops were opening preparing for the customers that would be arriving soon. But none of that interested the little boy. He wanted to be free and run in the fields outside the town. He wanted to be climbing the trees that grew thick to the north of the town.