Animal (part 12)

Father Peter sits behind his desk, marking passages in a tattered bible with a makeshift pencil. He closes the book and removes his reading glasses from his eyes, rubbing his pale hands through his fiery red hair. He folds the glasses and places them back inside a black case. He opens his desk drawer and places the box beside the curved knife. The blade shines as brightly as ever. No blood remains upon its glittering surface. He picks the knife up and balances it between two fingers, spinning the blade back and forth. A pattern of light spills across his chest, traveling up his black robe and past his white collar. Peter’s eyes sparkle as he spins the blade faster and faster. He finally stops and lets the blade drop to the ground, shuddering from the ecstasy of the light.

He stoops and retrieves the blade, sliding the brown envelope the tall man trusted him with across the desktop. He slits the envelope open and empties the contents. Three black and white pictures flutter out. Two are separate pictures, one of a man with a wide mouth and a flat nose, the second a picture of his son. The boy’s hair is tangled and messy and he smiles a wide grin. His teeth are straight and white. Peter grimaces and sets the picture aside. The final photo shows three people leaning against a small wagon; the boy, his father, and a young man with two missing teeth and a short crop of hair. The tall man gave no mention of a third man. Peter hates surprises. Scribbled on the back of the letter in Anton’s own hand is a small sentence.

-The third man is the boy’s uncle. He owns the wagon. He may be with them. If he is, deal with him as well.-

Peter sighs. He stuffs the pictures back into the envelope and tosses it back on the desk. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. The door to his office opens quietly. Father Gabriel’s clean shaven face peaks through the doorway.

“Peter. I need a word,” he whispers.
“Come in.”

Gabriel enters, shutting the door behind him.

“I apologize if I’m interrupting.”
“No, go on,” Peter says, standing.
“There’s been a tragedy.”
“Tragedy?”
“Mrs. Carlyle. Her husband drowned her child in the kitchen before killing himself. Cut his own throat.”

Peter’s eyes open wide in feigned shock. He places his hands to his head.

“Oh dear. Oh dear. This is all my fault,” he says.
“You mustn’t blame yourself.”
“I should have tried to save them sooner.”
“It is not your doing. No one could have seen this coming.”

Peter shakes his head.

“I suppose you’re right. Where is Mrs. Carlyle? How is she?”
“She’s coming for morning mass. She seems devastated.”

Peter stands and taps the desk with his hand, grabbing his leather bound bible.

“We will honor her and pray for her today. Let us prepare.”
“Very well, Peter.”

The priest stands aside and lets Peter pass. Once again Gabriel finds his eyes traveling to the brown envelope. He hesitates and takes a step forward, then stops, shaking his head and turning back, closing the door behind him.

***

John’s horse speeds across the dusty road. As his horse plows down the road he glances down at the passing ground. The stagecoach’s tracks remain buried deep within the dirt, still fresh. The voice of the child keeps surfacing in John’s mind, prodding his memory. Something about the voice, the child, unnerves him. He shakes the image away and continues onward. The horse begins to slow. The harsh morning sun blazes high above.

John pulls the animal to a stop and dismounts. He pets the horse and removes a small bag of feed from the side of his saddle. The horse eats sloppily while John slowly walks ahead, scanning the field. His hair prickles upon the back of his neck, he sweats yet his body feels chilled as ice. The horse ceases its crunching. A whisper from an unknown voice echoes across the road. John draws his revolver and turns. The road remains empty. A shadow passes overhead a cloud drifts over the sun, blocking its rays. A second voice calls out, a soft whisper, rising in intensity. John spins to face the sound. The fields remain empty. He stands waiting, his fingers resting upon the triggers of the silver revolvers. A second shadow passes behind him and a shrill tune begins to play out across the earth. John turns, his weapon raised.

A small man stands beside his horse, stroking its fur. He’s dressed in tattered brown clothes, charred and burnt. A large black Stetson obscures his face. His head is bowed. He holds a bent and mangled harmonica in one hand. A beautiful instrument.

“You have a fine horse, John,” the man whispers, his voice quiet but familiar, soothing and not treacherous.

John keeps his revolver steady all the while.

“Who are you? Back away from the animal.”
“Do not be so hasty in your actions.”

The man raises his hands and steps forward.

“That’s close enough,” John says, his hand shaking, sweat burning his eyes.

The man stops.

“Very well. As I said, you have a fine animal, John.”
“How do you know my name?”
“We knew each other many years.”

The voice. That voice. So familiar. So strange.

“Who are you?” John asks.
“You seek the riders.”
“Who are you?”
“You seek the priest, the tall man.”

The priest. The rider on the train. The man hired to kill the runaway...
And his son.

“The boy in the stagecoach,” John whispers.
“Is it all coming to you?”

The man smiles, his eyes drifting to the revolvers clasped in John’s hand.

“Nice guns. Remember to keep the trigger loose and your finger around the guard. Don’t want you shooting the wrong folks.

John glances up at the man. His eyes are hidden in darkness. His hair sticks out under the hat’s brim in wild tuffs. He smiles once and raises the harmonica to his lips. A broken tune fills clear air, resonating with the wind, drifting with the breeze. He finishes and lowers the instrument.

“His church is a few miles down this road. Can’t miss it.”

John nods and swallows hard, trying to clear his dry throat.

“Thank you.”

The man glances down at the harmonica in his hand and shakes his head, wiping it off with the bottom of his ratty shirt. He looks up and meets John’s confused gaze.

“Doesn’t sound nearly as good without the corn fields and the sunsets, eh?”
“Dad?” John asks, his body shaking.

The man smiles and breaks John’s gaze, his eyes drifting past. He focuses hard upon something beyond the boy. John turns his head in the direction of the man’s stare. The road is empty. John glances back but the man has already left.

John stands alone in the dusty path. A chilling breeze meets his skin and the shadows fade. The sun drifts back out from behind the clouds to continue its harsh blaze. He slowly makes his way to his horse and mounts the creature, rubbing the animal where the ghost, the man, whatever he was, had touched it.

***

Peter stands before the small crowd of worshippers, his hands raised up to the sky. Rivers of colorful light burst from the stain glass windows. Sunlight spills them, splashing arches of rainbow across the floors and walls of the little church. His red hair blazes in the light and he lets his hands drop slowly to his sides. His voice resounds through the room, deep and somber.

“My children, my friends, we have gathered here to honor a great woman. A great woman whose most precious gifts were snatched away from her. Mrs. Carlyle.”

Everyone turns to face the small woman sitting in the last row. She sits with her head bowed, her hands neatly folded in her lap. Some worshipers reach out to pat her shoulder or whisper words of comfort. Father Maxwell kneels beside her and places his hand upon her shoulder. He leans in and quietly speaks words of comfort to her. Mrs. Carlyle quietly nods. Maxwell glances up and meets his eyes. They shine through him, crystallized and pure, untrusting for the briefest of moments, then they return to their normal warmth.

Peter realizes everyone is watching him. He feels soft beads of sweat begin to dot his forehead. He wipes his brow and struggles to continue.

“And-and we...we honor her.”

He coughs once and straightens his composure, breathing deeply, the image of Maxwell’s crystal eyes still burning fiercely in his mind.

“My followers, I do not pretend to understand our Lord’s divine will. I will not lie to you by saying I myself have never felt anger with our Lord. But remember that it is his will, not ours. Our divine Father always has a reason. We may not see his reason now. More likely we will never truly understand the path he has set out for us, but I know this: we shall survive. Mrs. Carlyle, you shall survive. One day, many years from now, you will look upon this horrible act and see that there was always a reason. Always a message in divine fate. I know your heart grows weary, but you shall overcome.”

Mrs. Carlyle glances up to meet his stare. She watches him with black, hollow, pitiful eyes. She smiles, a quiet smile, and nods.

Peter slowly makes his way down the aisle and stands before the woman. Maxwell remains kneeing before her. He lets go of her shoulder and steps aside. Peter stares deeply at the woman, his hazel eyes feeding upon her like a wild dog.

As a child he was looked upon with disdain among his family. The red haired boy with hazel eyes. A dark omen, his mother believed. She tried to drown him in the river by their house when he was five. His father found him lying in the ditch, half dead. His father beat his mother for the last time that night. Peter helped his father bury her the next day. They told the family and their friends that she left for another man. No questions were asked.

Peter feasts upon her, his eyes burning her soul. He places his hand upon her cheek and whispers softly to her.

“Mrs. Carlyle. I need you to speak. I want you to repeat what I say.”

Mrs. Carlyle nods lightly, still facing away from him.

“I need you to say: It was my Lord’s will.”

Mrs. Carlyle shakes quietly.

“You need to say it.”
“It was my Lord’s will,” she whispers, trembling.
“I do not understand his will,” Peter continues.
“I do not understand his will.”
“But I accept it.”
“But I accept it.”

Peter smiles and grasps her shoulder tightly.

“My family is better off dead,” Peter says.

Maxwell grabs hold of Peter’s arm.

“That’s enough, Peter.”
“Release me.”
“Leave her be.”
“Release me, old man!” Peter venomously spits.

Maxwell backs away as if burned. Peter turns back to Mrs. Carlyle.

“Say it. They’re better off dead.”
“My family is better off dead.”
“For now they live eternal.”
“For now they live eternal.”
“In our Savior’s glory.”
“In our Savior’s glory,” she finishes and looks away, weeping.

Peter glances up and meets the eyes of his followers.

“She is clean.”

They begin to cheer, crying out to the heavens, praising their savior’s name. Peter turns back to Mrs. Carlyle but she has already left. Father Maxwell sits in her place, his hands folded, his crystal eyes piercing deep into his heart.

***

The stagecoach rumbles to a stop. Michael and his father exit the compartment. From atop the carriage a scraggly young man leaps to the ground. He breaks into a smile that manages to show every inch of his teeth, even the two missing.

“Time to switch, Robert,” he says, patting Michael’s father, his brother, on the back.
“Already?”
“You know the deal. Two hours each. Mine are up. Trust me, I’ve been counting.”

Michael runs up and hugs the scraggly man.

“Hey, Uncle Jesse! “
“Hey kid, easy, I’m not as young as you,” the man says, pretending to gasp for breath.
“You ain’t exactly a prize winner when it comes to looks either,” Robert says.
“Funny. But I now have two hours to go over how great that joke was. And you have two hours to come up with something better.”

Robert shakes his head.

“Yeah, sure,” he whispers, mounting the ladder and taking his seat atop the carriage.

Jesse helps Michael up into the carriage and closes the door behind them. With a crack of the whips the carriage sets off. Michael sits leaning outside the window, watching the road go by. Jesse chuckles and takes off his hat, tossing it on the ground below.

“Am I really that bad of company that you already wish your pa was back here?”
“Of course not!” Michael shouts over the rumble of the carriage wheels, looking hurt.

Jesse laughs and messes the kid’s hair.

“Just kidding with ya. You know you should keep your hair like that, looks distinguished.”
“Distinguished?” Michael asks, his eyebrows raised.
“Really important.”

The kid nods. Jesse sighs, staring off into the passing plains.

“Learned a new word today huh?” he asks, continuing to watch the plains roll by.
“Yep.”
“Almost eight, ten days, right?”
“Nine.”
“Nine. Wish your mother was here to see this.”
“Me too.”

He stares off into the distance, not moving.

“You miss her?” Jesse asks.
“Yeah.”
“So do I. She was a pretty cool. Like the sister I never had.

Jesse glances back. The boy sits with his head bowed. Jesse touches his shoulder.

“You ok?”
“Yeah.” the boy replies.
“You scared?”
“Yeah.”

Michael nods and meets his uncle’s concerned gaze.

“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you scared?”
“Of course. You’d have to be crazy not to be.”
“Then my dad’s crazy.”

Jesse laughs and shakes his head, facing the window.

“No. He’s just a strong guy,” he whispers.
“Like you?”
“No. He’s a lot stronger.”
“He’s my dad,” Michael says, smiling proudly.
“Yes he is.”

Michael stares at his uncle’s smile. His uncle sees him out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” Jesse asks.
“How’d you loose those teeth?”
“What these teeth?”

He slips his tongue between the hollow space on the right side of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Michael replies.
“It’s a long story.”
“We got two hours.”

Jesse laughs.

“You got the humor from out side of the family. I’ll give you that.”

His nephew continues to watch him.

“Oh right, the teeth thing. Well, I was about...I don’t know, sixteen? Anyways, I’d known this girl my whole life-” Jesse begins but his nephew interrupts.
“Was this girl Aunt Sarah?”
“You want me to tell the story or not?”

Michael turns red.

“Sorry.”
“No problem. Anyways. Yes, it was Aunt Sarah. And as I was saying, before a little badger interrupted me, there was this girl. And I’d know her many years. And I’d always loved her. Since, God, I don’t know, since I was your age I knew I loved her. First time I saw her I poked your dad and said, “That’s the woman I’m going to marry.” Course he was ten years older than me at the time so he just bopped me on the head and-”
“You’re talking too much, Uncle Jesse.”

Jessie shakes himself out of his trance.

“Oh yes, right. Sorry. You know how I get.”
“Yep.”
“Anyways, I always loved her, but I never got around telling her. Well when you’re sixteen you start hanging out with girls you like.”
“Yuck,” Michael remarks.

Jesse raises his eyebrows.

“You won’t think that way in eight years.”
“Eight years and ten days.”
“That’s right, now shut up. So I never got around to asking your Aunt Sarah if she liked me back. So I almost lost her. She went with a fella by the name of Lloyd. Big fella. Twice my size. And he treated her like horse sh-poop. Anyways, he went with another girl without even telling your Aunt. And he hurt her. Made her cry. The man was so stupid he didn’t realize what he was losing. So naturally, being a mad sixteen year old in love, I challenged him to a fight.”
“Like a duel?” Michael asks, his eyes wide.
“No, like a fight. With fists.”
“And what happened?”

Jessie clicks his tongue against his teeth, staring up at the ceiling.

“Well the kid was twice my size. So he pretty much beat the piss out of me. By the way, don’t tell your pa I used that word,” he remarks.
“What word?”
“Never mind. He landed a blow on my mouth. Knocked my two front teeth out. Found ‘em later that day in a puddle. So he leaves me there a mess and your Aunt Sophie comes and holds me in her arms. And being the bloodied, madly-in-love, teenager I was, I told her I loved her.”

His nephew giggles.

“Really?” he asks.
“Yeah. Two years later we were married. Matter of fact I still have those two teeth. We had them in two separate little boxes. We each kept one.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah. But we loved each other. You can make it through anything when you’re in love. And you never forget them,” Jessie whispers, poking his nephew’s chest with his finger, “so I’m telling you right now, don’t you ever forget your mom. Don’t ever stop loving her. If you love someone, you never back down, because if you wait too long you’ll lose them.”

Michael smiles.

“So you still love Aunt Sarah?” he asks.
“Kid. I love her with all my heart. I just have to wait a while till I get to see her again. But I can wait. And I’m pretty sure she can too.”

Jessie and his nephew sit in silence. Jessie reaches into his pocket and draws a deck of cards. He begins to shuffle them quickly in a haze of black and red.

“Enough stories, how ‘bout we play some poker?”

***

Gabriel stands over Peter’s desk, staring down at the brown, opened letter. A strange force calls to him. He sweats and glances quickly around the room. His knuckles crack as he flexes his arm. He reaches out and grabs the brown envelope. A voice issues from behind.

“Can I help you with something?”

Gabriel turns quickly, dropping the envelope to the ground. Peter stands in the doorway, watching him, carefully flicking a coin over his right hand’s knuckles in rhythmic motion.

“Oh, you scared me a second, Peter. I left my bible at home and I was wondering if I could see yours. I need a few psalms for my next sermon. You always underline the best passages.”

Peter continues to stare at him, the coin flickering in the light, moving with blinding speed.

“Nice trick.”
“My father taught me how to do it when I was a boy. They say that if a coin shines when the trick is done, then a person holds a terrible secret in their heart.”

The quarter blazes.

“You have a secret?”
“Indeed I do, Gabriel.”

Gabriel stoops to pick up the brown envelope. Peter nails it down with his boot and the priest backs away. Peter retrieves the envelope, holding it in his hands. He moves it under the reading lamp’s light.

“Nothing’s moved,” Peter whispers.
“Why would it have?”
“Indeed.”

Gabriel fidgets slowly, moving towards the desk.

“Can I borrow one of your bibles, Peter?”
“Of course.”

Peter quickly moves around his desk and opens the drawer a crack. He slides the envelope inside and reaches in. His hands close around the shining blade inside. His knuckles turn white as he tightens his grip along the blade.

“Gabriel, did you open the envelope?”
“Of course not.”
“Gabriel...”

Peter slowly withdraws the knife, quickly sliding it behind his back.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” he asks.
“Never.”

Gabriel steps back. Peter watches him still, his hazel eyes swirling in their darkened pools. Suddenly a soft rumble echoes from outside. Gabriel turns and Peter places the small sickle-like knife back inside the drawer. He approaches the window to his office and pears out through the glass. Far off down the road a small stagecoach approaches, trembling as it slows to a stop. Atop the carriage, guiding the working steeds to their standstill sits the runaway.

***

The tall man stands outside the rickety shack. Molted wood hangs from weak hinges as the wind blows through the holes in the roof, creating a loud, creaking sound. Soft sunlight spills through the doorway he slowly forces open the front door. He waits in silence, listening against the wooden frame for sounds of movement. Dust drifts slowly through the thick air as he enters the house, closing the door behind him.

Rotten oak lines the floors of the hallway as the tall man carefully makes his way through the house, sweeping the rooms one by one. His drawn revolver glitters in the dusty light. He turns back to the hallway and stops. Ahead lies a single door, shut against the outside world.

The tall man slowly approaches the single doorway, perplexed. Soft rays of light spill from the bottom of the door, trickling out into the hallway. The soft light twinkles across the ground in small kaleidoscopes of color. The rider places his ear to the cold wood, waiting. No sound meets him. The universe is silent. He slowly raises his free hand and lets it drift towards the door knob, hesitating for a moment. He slowly wipes cold sweat from his brow and turns the handle, letting the door drift open.

A small flash of light dances across the tall man’s face. Beyond the doorway lies a small bedroom, cramped and desolate. Small tattered pictures line the room, held up in filth covered frames. A bedside lamp stands dimly lit in the corner. A box of used bulbs lies in a mildewed box beside the nightstand. The tall man enters quickly, shutting the door behind him.

A crooked bed stands in the center of the room. From beneath the moth eaten sheets signs of movement emerge. A ragged voice meets the tall man’s ears.

“Who is that? Paul, is that you? It‘s been so long.”

The tall man remains silent, hidden by the shadows that lie beyond the ray of the filthy, dying lamp. He stands without moving, looking out across the room.

“Paul?”
“Paul is dead,” the rider replies.

The tall man emerges from the shadows and stares down at the frail body before him. A shrunken, wrinkled man lies in the tattered bed. He shifts under the covers and groans, staring up at the rider. His eyes shine with the glare of fear. He smacks his dry lips quietly.

“You...” he whispers.
“Yes. Me.”
“I knew you’d come.”
“Of course you did.”
“Ever since you met my boy I knew you would bring him to his fall.”

The tall man chuckles under his breath. He removes a rolled up cigarette from his breast pocket and a match box from his pants. He strikes the match, briefly igniting his hands as he lights the cigarette. The match dies with a small plume of smoke that drifts to the ceiling and vanishes into the darkness above.

“Care for a smoke?” the tall man asks, stretching his hand out in the bed ridden man’s direction.
“You know I can’t.”
“I know.”

The man shakes beneath the sheets.

“What did you do to my son?” he asks.
“I did not kill him.”
“Liar.”
“The name of the man who murdered your son was John. A young boy. Your stupid child lived with him. Your son cared for him. And this boy abandoned him to die. Your son died alone. Alone in this desolate world.”

The old man lifts his head and raises his arms with sudden grace. His hands lock upon the side of the bed stand, sending bottles of medicine and crusted over dishes tumbling to the floor. He sits up with difficulty, wheezing and coughing. The tall man watches this sudden display of strength with quiet interest.

“I know that’s a lie. I know he would never let a heartless man into his house. My son was a strong man. A good man!”
“Your son was a murderer. No better than I.”

The old man’s arms shake and he falls back into the bed. He laughs softly, his ragged voice echoing through the empty house.

“My son had sinned. But he was a better man than you. Better than you,” he whispers.
“But I’m still breathing.”
“Don’t worry. God will strike you down.”
“There is no God,” the tall man replies.
“He will strike you down through another. Through one of his servants.”

The tall man shakes his head and removes the cigarette from his lips, letting it plummet to the ground. He snubs the butt out with the toe of his boot. His hand drifts down to his side and he slowly draws the revolver from his holster. The black metal glimmers in the dusty light.

The old man watches the rider with a face of stone.

“Go on then. Kill me. Kill the last of us.”
“You’re not the last.”

The old man raises his eyebrows.

“So there is another. I know Charlie’s dead, so it must be Hank,” he says.
“Hank is dead.”
“Then it’s his son. I thought as much. Hank was always the strongest.”
“No. Not the strongest.”
“His son will find you.”
“He’s nothing but a slimy bastard. The spawn of Hank’s whore.”

The old man smiles.

“You always loved her.”
The tall man smiles and removes the silk pillow from behind the old man’s head.

“Your son is waiting,” he replies.

The tall man pushes the silk pillow with one hand against the old man’s face. The old man begins to thrash with the last of his strength. The tall man pushes his revolver into the pillow and fires twice. Feathers scatter across the bed. Blood begins to seep through the pillow case. Paul’s father twitches once and lies still.

The tall man turns from the corpse and exits the room, shutting the door behind him.

***

John kneels in the middle of the road, tracing his hand through the dirt. A deep imprint lies ground into the soft dirt. This is where the coach had stopped. Footsteps mark the ground, scattered in wild angles. John stands wipes the dirt from his hands, batting his dusty shirt. The tracks are only a few hours old.

John glances off across the barren roadway. The next town is still nowhere in sight. By now the runaway and his son have reached the town. The priest will see them. He will dispose of them according to the tall man’s wish. John will have to hurry. Another family will not be destroyed. Too many have died.

“It may be too late for me,” John whispers, “but I still have a chance to save another.”

He swiftly mounts his horse and spurs its sides, tracking the runaway’s route in the road. The fate of a family rests in a young man’s hands. He must fly.