Animal (Chapter 14 - Part 1)

John wakes to the sound of Jane’s voice. A sweet melody flows from her lips. She sits in the cubby beside the windowsill with her cheek pressed against the cool glass.
John crosses the room and places his hand upon her shoulder.
“You feeling well?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
The girl smiles and motions towards his bandaged wound.
“How’s your arm?”
“It’s better. How’s your face?”
Jane rubs her hand across the bruises, wincing at the touch. Their shade has lightened, no longer dark and blue but a soft purple.
“It’s a little sore, but I’m okay.”
“Okay.”
Jane takes his hand. “Watch the sunrise with me.”
John sits atop the perch and looks off into the horizon. Jane stares at him, never once glancing towards the rising sun.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes,” Jane says, “yes it is.”

* * *

Prince wakes to the warm hands of the morning sun. He stretches and stands, letting the heat flow through his form. He wipes his eyes and begins to gather grass and wood for a fire. He makes his way through the field, stooping to grab the branches that crack beneath his boots.
The rustle of wings pierces the silence. An inhuman cry echoes. Far above the vulture circles, its stench overpowering Prince, the rotten smells of old flesh torn from the carcasses of creatures unknown. The beast dives towards the earth and lands upon a dead tree, talons scraping against the aged wood.
Prince turns to face the creature. His fingers rest upon the handle of his revolver.
“Have you come for me? Have you come thinking I hold no fight within me? Did you think I would lie down and die? Vile creature, I am the shadow of the night, I am the blind prophet! And you, lowly beast, are nothing. I shall not fall to the likes of you nor the God to whom you serve.”
The vulture stretches its wings, head turned upwards, and shrieks to the sky.
“No help will come. You have escaped me once but no more.”
Prince draws his revolver and fires. The vulture’s chest bursts in a cloud of feathers and blood. The blind Rider holsters his weapon and approaches the creature. The vulture lies in a mass of blood and feathers, wings twisted in death. Its gaping maw stares up to the heedless clouds, eyes forever dulled. Prince stoops to claim his prize and clutches the beast’s talons in one hand. He carries the carcass towards his camp, the bundle of wood and grass tucked under his other arm.
Prince drops the pack and scoops the twigs together in a pile. He tosses the carcass onto the pyre and strikes a match upon the tinder. A fire catches to burn away the dead beast. The stench of scorched flesh drifts high. Prince drops to his knees and vomits.
Prince wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Sweat drips from his chin. He covers his mouth, feeling the heat of the fire upon his skin, laughing in the knowledge that the black messenger is forever gone. Tears trickle down his face. An immense sadness overtakes his joy and he cries beneath his laughter, hands buried against his useless eyes.

* * *

“Tell me about your family.”
Jane glances up. She sits on the edge of John’s bed, absentmindedly pulling a frayed string from its side. She lets the thread fall to rest upon her lap. John stands beside the window and stares out across the land. Rays of light wash his form. His hair shimmers in the afternoon sun. He rubs his hand across the band of stubble that sticks out beneath his chin.
“You need to shave,” Jane says.
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I never intended to address it.”
“Why do you hide your past?” John presses.
Jane sighs and lies back upon the bed.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
John shakes his head and crosses the room where he pulls a razor and a tin of shaving cream from his bag. He opens the door to the bathroom but Jane’s voice stops him in his tracks.
“I lived with my mother, my father, and my older brother. We had a house a few miles out of town. We were happy. My brother was kind. He taught me how to fly fish, how to work. I taught him to sew.”
She titters at the memory.
“My mother, she could have been a chef. We used to rush to the porch steps whenever she called us in for dinner. She had a small bell on a string that she tied above the doorway. She’d give us a ring instead of shouting. She had a weak voice. She taught me to cook. Now and then I make dinner for Jed and Billy. They wish I’d do it for them more often. I’m still nothing compared to my mother though. She was a good woman, but sad. She didn’t speak often, and even more rarely did she laugh, but she loved me and my brother, loved us with all her soul.”
John stands in the doorway, his lips sealed, knowing better than to speak.
“My father was a strong man, a mountain of a man. He always found happiness even in the darkest of times. He was also fond of the drink. Sometimes he would hit my mother and he would hurt so much when he became sober, try so hard to make things right. Sometimes when my brother and I came home from school we would find him on the front porch with his shotgun across his lap, sitting in his rocking chair and staring at us. His eyes would be sullen and red. Every time we saw him like that we’d fear he’d done the worst. But he was still a good man. He loved us and loved my mother, whatever hardships befell him in the past we’d forgiven.”
The first tear falls from her eye.
“It was night when they came for him. He’d been a captain in the war and abandoned after the massacre at Fort Pillow. They dragged him out into the dirt and shot him through the head. The Tall Man watched him die. Then they grabbed my mother, held her down and took…took turns.”
She struggles with the words.
“My brother managed to get me out of the house. He hid me among the crops. He tried to save my mother but The Tall Man gunned him down; shot him in the knees and made him watch. Then they slit his throat.”
John crosses the room and takes her in his arms.
“I remember sitting in the field late into the night watching our house burn. Because of the light from the fires I could just barely make out the glow of the fireflies as they flitted through the grass. I loved fireflies. At night I would run through the fields with a glass jar and catch as many as I could. I’d never keep them though, could never let something so beautiful be locked inside a cage. Every night before bed I would release them and watch as they scattered back to their homes. Jed found me a day later. He was my father’s best friend and business partner. He knew something was wrong. My father had missed work that day. My father never missed work. Jed found me and took me into the tavern, raised me as his own.”
John clutches the girl to his chest and smoothes her hair. She shakes against him.
“It hurts when I talk about them, John,” she cries, “Don’t make me talk about them again. Please.”
John nods and holds her close, comforting her through her tears.

* * *

John and Jane make their way down the wooden staircase. Below, Jed and his son stand beside several bar tables pushed together into a single table. An early dinner sits laid out for each of them. Steam rises from the food and a sweet smell permeates the air. John glances to the corner where the piles of broken glass and wood have been swept, the blood from the fight the night before washed away.
Billy pulls two chairs back, their feet groaning against the hard floor, and nods to the guests. John and Jane take their seats. Several once fancy but now chipped plates lie with gracious bounties of food piled atop. Jed whispers a short prayer and the four begin their meal.
John stares at the two men, smiling and nodding to each in turn. Thick bandages wrap Billy’s arm severely hampering his skill with a fork and knife. He grumbles as a slice of meat slips from his utensil to the safety of the floorboards below. A white pad covers his cheek. Thin lines of blood blotch its surface.
“You did well on your son,” John says to the tavern owner.
“Thank you.”
Sunlight stretches through the tavern’s front door to spill across the tabletop. Jed sets his fork down and looks to their guest.
“How long?” he asks.
“How long what?”
“How long until he arrives?”
“Sunset,” John says and continues eating.
“You could just leave.”
John shakes his head. “No I can’t. He’ll know where I was staying and he’ll hurt all of you simply for housing me. Then he’ll hunt me down. I have to face him.”
“Please, John.”
“No.”
Jed grabs his fork and resumes eating, pausing between bites to speak his peace.
“You’re a stubborn man. A quiet, kind-hearted man, but a stubborn one nonetheless. Why do you do this?”
“Someone has to, otherwise the Riders will never stop.”
“And you think killing a few will end the slaughter? Violence only begets violence.”
“Someone has to try.”
“But why you?” Jed asks, “Why you, John?”
All eyes lock upon the young man. He shifts against his seat and wipes his lips. He sits for some time staring down at his bruised hands.
“Because I was chosen.”

* * *

John and Jed sit together on the tavern porch. Inside, Jane and Billy gather their plates and return to the kitchen to wash. John cleans the chambers of his pistol, parts laid out in his lap atop a dirty rag. Jed watches his son work.
“What was he like?” John asks.
Jed turns back to John. He scratches his ruined nose.
“He was a quiet boy. Didn’t talk to people he didn’t know, one of the few good lessons his mother taught him. So it took him a while to warm up to me when his mother first came to work in my tavern. Jane’s father and I took him under our wings, you could say. We had to; he couldn’t stay with his mother when she was working. We taught him how to pour and mix and clean. He caught on quick.
Jed shakes his head. Something passes across his face. Regret?
“He could’ve been a good man, if not for the accident. Could’ve gone on to do good things. He was smart, not just book smart, either. He could always spot the grafters before they could pull their cons, the thieves before they could pull their guns. Think it had to do with the lack of trust between the people in his life.”
“He ever meet Billy?”
“He took care of Billy after his mom passed a few years, but Billy was too young to remember any of that. I’m thankful for that. Always hard to see a friend descend.”
Jed lifts the glass that sits between his legs and sips at its contents.
“I remember the day he went blind. It’d happened in his mother’s room, never know what happened exactly. His mother wouldn’t say, she was protecting her customer. Course Barclay, that was the bastard’s name, wouldn’t talk. And Prince, he wouldn’t say. I thought maybe he was scared that his attacker would finish the job, but now I know that had nothing to do with it. He wanted to secure the man’s punishment himself.
“There wasn’t some middle of the night ruckus. No. I was cleaning a glass when I heard his mother’s screams. She always woke late. Went to check in on Barclay, maybe talk to him about what he’d done, I don’t know. We used to keep straight razors on the bathroom sinks in our rooms for guests to shave with. Found Barclay with his throat cut so violently that the razor tore clean through the trachea. Man’s head was damn near off its shoulders.”
Jed drains the last of his glass.
“And that’s the story of why we have complementary cigarettes instead.”
John stands from the chair and stretches his arms out, arcing his back till he hears an audible pop.
“And what happened to Prince?”
“Nothing. Never found his clothes. No blood anywhere on him. But he was changed after that. He spoke more, was quicker to anger, didn’t tolerate timewasters. He’d head straight up to a card shark and tell him to get the hell out, not even bother consulting us first. I’d find him on the roof in the evening, eyes closed, listening to the world. He’d sleep up there. When I asked him why, said he was preparing.”
“Preparing for what?”
“That’s just it, John, I have no idea.”
“I feared the boy, and I think he knew it. But he still respected me and Phil, cared for my son too, never raised his voice to him, nor his mother. He left after she died; guess he felt she was the only thing that bound him to this place. Stories of the Riders had been around for years, but new ones always rose. I heard tell of a blind boy who’d joined them; earned fast, killed quick, could track like no man. Only got worse from there.”
The tavern owner clears his throat and speaks.
“Sun’s coming down in a few hours. You should get some rest.”
John adjusts the fresh wrap that presses the gunshot wound courtesy of the Rider.
“You think losing his sight like that made him bad,” he asks, “or was it just the excuse he needed to do so?”
Jed doesn’t reply. He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. John opens the door to the bar and steps inside, leaving the man alone to his thoughts.

* * *

John is back inside the bloody room. The bed lies matted and torn but several seams are haphazardly stitched together. The hanging bulb remains dim as ever but the dust that once engulfed it has been washed away. Several picture frames hang again upon the wall, the photos within covered by a black film. John’s reflection enters from the shadows.
The reflection remains broken yet healed. Its legs no longer sag beneath the crushing weight, twisted in frame, its face no longer deformed, instead pieced together like an unfinished puzzle. Its arms remain mangled and shattered, hanging limp at its sides. Small pieces of glass dribble from its lips as it speaks.
“Hello, John.”
“Hello.”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
John nods. The reflection continues.
“Prince is nearly upon us. Now is the time to strike. Do not fear, for I will be alongside you. You can defeat him.”
John draws his revolvers, checking the chambers. He snaps the cylinders back in place with a snap of the wrist. He steadies the gun without shaking and breathes clear.
John sits on the bed. The reflection approaches and takes a seat beside him. The two men, mirror images of one another, one shattered, the other whole, stare out across the room. The figure places its misshapen hand upon John’s shoulder.
“Wake now, John.”
The reflection does not burst into shards of glass. Instead its form is yanked back into the darkness like a rag doll on a string, hands outstretched.

* * *

A figure stands over John. He wakes in fury, revolver drawn, pulling the person down across the bed and shoving the barrel of his gun beneath their throat. Jane lies frozen, her arms raised in feeble defense, locked in his grip. John releases her. His breaths come in sharp gasps. He lets the revolver fall from his hands.
“I…I’m sorry,” he says, struggling to speak.
John glances out through the thin curtains. From beyond the desert sand Prince emerges riding his black horse through town, head raised and twisting from side to side. He rounds the corner and approaches the tavern.
John snatches his shirt off the bed and hastily pulls it around his body, doing up the buttons in a blur of motion.
“He’s here.”
“The Rider?” Jane asks.
“Yes.”
“The man who hunts you?”
“Yes.”
Jane watches as he checks both revolvers.
“The dead don’t trust those who rush to meet them,” she whispers.
John matches her haunted stare. The words hang in the atmosphere.
“What?”
“You want to die, John, is that it?”
“This is my fight.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
From the first floor a gunshot issues. A scream follows. John snatches up his hat. Jane takes hold of his hand.
“It is not your fight.”
“Yes it is. It was made my fight, our fight, when they took everything we had. Don’t you see? They’ve orphaned us. We wander the world searching for hope only to find heartbreak and pain. It must end.”
“Please.”
A second blast rises from below with the shatter of glass. John turns but Jane holds him in place, both hands now locked around his wrist.
“Let me go.”
“No.”
Jane begins to sob yet her grip does not loosen. John pulls her close. A third shot resounds. The screaming continues. A second voice rises.
“Look at me, Jane. Look at me.”
Jane looks up. Her face shines from fallen tears.
“I will be fine. I will come back for you.”
“I want to believe that," Jane replies.
“Then believe it.”
Three more shots. The tinkling of broken glass.
“I must go.”
John flings the door open. A hectic confusion of voices spews forth. Jane calls out to him, her words piercing the chaos.
“You’re not dead yet.”
John replies, his voice calm and without fear.
“I know.”
With that he turns and speeds down the steps, revolver raised, ready to face Prince, the hunter who has finally cornered his prey.