Animal (part 11)

The tall man sits alone in his small tent. Outside the rumble of his men’s partying and drinking can be heard. The tall man is in no mood for festivities. His partner, Prince, the man he’d rode with for fifteen long years, is dead. Though he is a great man, the tall man knows in his heart that he is not divine. His anger fuels him. His hatred drives him. Now he must wait.

John is now truly an adversary, no longer a pest but a swarm of locusts, scurrying to devour him whole. The tall man stands and makes his way across the large tent to where his bags lie in a small heap. He quickly undoes the straps on the first bag and flings the main compartment open, digging through the mess of clothes, feed, and ammunition. His hand closes around her picture. He removes from the bag a small picture frame. Decorated in soft hues and patterns of silver and gold, the item is priceless, but inside the frame lies a beauty that rivals the heavens.

The woman is petite but strong, her face smooth and beautiful; a smile splashed across it. Though dressed in garments of a peasant she stands with the grace of a queen. Her blonde hair spills softly across her shoulders. Her soft eyes blaze with a warmth that can stand the harshest flames. The tall man carefully wipes the glass with the side of his shirt, clearing off the fingerprints and dirt left to mar her beauty. He holds the frame tightly, as though he fears that if he lets her go she will forever vanish into dust.

The woman is his one love, the love that no longer breathes within this world.
The woman is John’s mother.

***

John stands before an empty bed. Soft sunlight spills through the thin curtains that hang above a nearby window. The room holds all that is familiar to him. The dresser where Rose would comb her hair, the pictures of his family and his love, all that he remembers. Nothing evil lurks within the corners of the dream. He is at peace. His revolvers are gone, his worn Stetson and bloody shirt vanished. He glances down at his smooth skin. No scars ruin his body. No bruises or cuts or bullet wounds mark him. He is pure.

Behind him the door creaks open. He turns slowly, without fear. Rose stands in the doorway: a majestic sight. A thin gown clings to her naked skin, leaving a thin silhouette behind the silk. She smiles, shy and beautiful, brushing back her deep brown hair. She crosses the room and stands before him, her head bowed. John slowly places his hand against her cheek, sliding it down to her chin, and tilts her head to meet his stare. Her eyes shine in the filtered light. He kisses her softly upon her forehead and smiles.

He brushes her hair back and slowly slides the straps of her gown down her shoulders, letting the top half fall lightly to the floor below. Her smooth breasts are exposed. A set of jagged scars lie across her body, running from her breasts to her stomach. Rose quickly raises her arms to her chest, covering herself, and turns away from John. Her back holds even more wounds, some still red and fresh. Proof of the torture she endures under her father.

“Rose-”
“Don’t look at me, John, please just let me be.”

John places his hand upon her shoulder and turns her to face him. He stares deep into her eyes. Her arms fall from her chest. He pulls her to him, embracing her.

“You are beautiful. No matter what you believe. The scars are nothing. Nothing. You are beautiful. Do you understand?”

Rose nods mechanically, tears falling from her eyes.

“Look at me. Look at me, Rose.”

She glances up and meets his gaze.

“You are beautiful. Always remember that. I love you. I’ve loved you ever since I first laid eyes upon you. Ever since the day we ran laughing through the corn. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Rose replies, holding him close.

The two lie back upon the bed. Rose rests her head upon his chest, her eyes closed. John watches the curtains as they flutter in the soft breeze from the open window. He speaks.

“One day we will see the entire world. One day we will live in peace where nothing can harm us.”
“One day,” Rose whispers.

John remembers this day. The last day her father was ever in her life. From beyond the window the drunken screams of Rose’s father reach them. John holds her close and quickly stands. He opens the door to his room and stands in the doorway. He glances back and meets Rose’s fearful gaze.

“Stay here,” he whispers, and shuts the door.

***

John wakes slowly, trying to hold on to the memory, trying desperately to keep Rose with him. But she fades. Like the dying of a burning light, she fades into nothingness. The fire a few feet from him cracks with quiet glee, shooting forth small embers. The plain grass burns well. Not dying from drought but not drowned in rainwater, the plain grass catches fire quickly and burns slowly.

John opens the flap on his front pocket and removes a small picture of Rose. He never entered his house after the fire. He kept the picture on him, whenever life became too great to bear. The picture is his sanctuary. Rose sits upon his bed, smiling up at him, her eyes brimming with wonder and beauty. He holds the picture close to his chest and sighs. He tucks the picture back in his pocket and lies back, his body turned away from the flames, and falls back into a deep slumber.

***

Father Peter sits alone in his office. His hands shake the way they always do before a sermon. He crosses his chest, kissing his hand in faith. The tall man’s envelope rests upon his desk, unopened. He has not yet glanced upon the man and the boy he has been hired to kill. He is faithful to the tall man, never placing him before the needs of his savior, but as Anton said, he is still a rider.

He clutches a curved blade, bent in the shape of a small sickle, in his right hand. The silver weapon shines in the light of the small reading lamp atop his desk. Beside the lamp lie three sets of the holy book, some marked with passages and sermons, but only one remains untouched. The book was given to Peter by his father before he died. Gold lettering covers the frame, spelling out the name of the good book. Black leather, expertly sewn, wraps the aged pages tightly in elegant form. Peter rubs his right hand across the book’s cover, his left hand still clutching the curved blade, hard enough to draw blood.

Dark blood drips slowly down his palm as the blade digs deeper into his skin. Peter continues to stare at the bible, ignoring the steady drip of blood upon the cheap carpet below. Suddenly, the door to the small office is flung open and Father Gabriel enters. Peter quickly tosses the knife into his desk drawer and stands.

“They’re waiting, Peter,” Gabriel whispers.

His eyes fall upon Peter’s blood soaked hand.

“My lord. Father, are you ok?”

Gabriel, though the same age as Peter, is not the head of the convent and at times he finds himself speaking to the priest as though the man is his elder.

Peter quickly grabs a bit of cloth from his desk and wraps his hand.

“Yes, Gabriel, I’m fine. You do not have to call me ‘father’.”
“Yes. Are you sure you are okay?”
“I’m fine. Let us not keep our Lord’s followers waiting any longer.”

Gabriel pushes the door open and lets Peter pass. He stands in the doorway a few seconds longer, his eyes traveling the room, finally settling on the brown envelope upon Peter’s desk. He stares at it a moment and turns, shutting the door behind him.

***

“My friends, yesterday I had a dream. A vision you might say. I was walking through a field of corn, hidden deep inside a small valley. On either side stood two towering hills. The place was Ellah, where David defeated the giant known as Goliath. I’m sure our children are familiar with the story as well.”

A small rumble of chuckles echoes through the crowd. Fifty or so men, women, and children sit before Peter, their eyes locked upon him. Most of the town follows the true way, and Peter makes sure of it. There is no room for non believers in his society. Peter’s smile fades and his brow furrows. All eyes lock upon him. Father Gabriel and Father Maxwell watch him from behind the crowd. Together they look as different as God and the Devil themselves. Gabriel, with his deep red hair and freckled face, young and unmarked by age, stands thin and lanky. Maxwell, his broad shoulders matched by his mountainous form. Though not tall, he stands strong, his brown hair combed back, touched with spots of gray. Though many years Peter and Gabriel’s elder, he moves with grace and power, his sermons often matching in energy those of his younger brethren. The two whisper quietly as they watch Peter speak.

“And I stood alone in this field. Suddenly all around me were flames, piercing flames the likes of demons and witches. And all around me they blazed. I stood strong, not cowering, waiting for the flames to take me. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the fire, a figure not of treachery, not adorned by a crown of jewels and greed, but blazing with a holy light. I stood before the figure, my eyes shielded, and waited. It had no face. No features. Just smooth and empty and white. And yet it spoke. And it said, ‘take thy flock into your arms and speak to them, not in a shout, but with a calm voice. Not a whisper, but a firm demand. Take the sick in your arms and heal them.’”

Peter leaps from the stage and lands before the front row, his black robes shuddering around his form. He quickly navigates the crowd until he reaches a young woman holding a bundle of brown blankets. She stares up at him, her stringy black hair spilling across red eyes. Peter kneels before her, taking her shaking hands in his.

“Mrs. Carlyle. Your husband is a non believer. Am I right?”
“Ye-yes,” she whispers, shaking.

Peter shushes her, holding her hands tightly.

“Do not be afraid. You are in the house of God. No one shall judge you here. He is a non believer?”
“Yes.”
“I see. And I understand you bore a child recently?”
“Yes.”
“And our good Dr. Mallory tells me there were some complications.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Carlyle sputters, tears falling from her eyes.

Peter glances at the bundle in her lap.

“Is this the child?”
“Yes.”
“May we see him?”
“I can’t.” she whispers.
“We are all friends here. Do not be afraid.”

Mrs. Carlyle’s hand drifts slowly to the bundle. She stands and lets the blankets fall to the floor. All around the convent people cry out. A young woman faints. Cries of ‘abomination’ and ‘demon’ can be heard. The baby stares off silently, spit dripping from its lips. Its misshapen hands slowly curl and uncurl as it glances around the room. Its mouth drops off to the side, curving downward. The child struggles to support its bulging head. Its skin hangs loosely upon its body. Mrs. Carlyle drops down and quickly covers the child, weeping. Peter grasps her shoulder.

“Do not condemn this woman. Do not fear her child, for she is not to blame. The fault lies with her husband, the non believer, the atheist, the condemner of out Gods! But do not seek him out, let him live with what he has created as a sign of what awaits him after his death. When we are accepted into our Lord’s divine place he will be shut out, begging for forgiveness, and our Lord will deliver none. He will cast the man into the fires of hell; let him be eaten by the dogs below. Mrs. Carlyle, it may be too late for your husband, but this child can be saved. I was given a gift in my dreams. I can see the evil within this infant. A ghost, a demon, has a hold of your child. And I will suck this demon out.”

Praises and shouts reverberate all around. Peter places his hands above the child, hovering over its face. He speaks softly, but his voice rises slowly. He raises his hands and begins to make his way through the crowd, clutching his hands together as if holding something.

“We do not need you. We do not want you here. Leave now. Leave now or face the full wrath of the heavens. Leave now, vile demon! Leave now, wretched ghost! Leave now and do not come back. Don’t you dare turn your face to me. Do not attempt to take hold of any other within this church. For if you do all the armies of salvation will rush behind me and I will kick you back into your pits. I will beat you, strike you, bite you! Go back to where you came from! Get out of here demon! Get out of here ghost!”

Spittle flies from Peter’s lips. His eyes are deep and black. He raises his hands high towards the sky and brings them down, flinging the imaginary object from his grasp.

“Don’t you dare come back! Don’t you dare! And with that, can you hear it, can you hear it crying!? Can you hear it burning where it belongs!? With that, our ghost, our demon, is gone.”

His voice falls to a whisper and he ends. All around people rush forth to embrace him. He smiles. Father Gabriel nods and approaches the stage, beginning the next sermon. Maxwell watches him, his eyes wide, a look of disgust splashed across his face. Everyone takes their seats. Peter leans in and whispers into Mrs. Carlyle’s ear.

“I wish to meet you tonight. I will speak to your husband.”

Mrs. Carlyle stares up adoringly at the priest.

“Bless you, father,” she whispers, clutching the deformed child to her chest.
“Yes. The lord has.” Peter replies, smiling.

***

“I want my girl!”

John stands before Rose’s father, his father’s rifle clutched in his hands. Rose’s father clutches a half filled bottle of whiskey in his hands. His eyes are ragged, his body pale. He shakes with rage. He stretches out his arm and points at John, his finger stabbing the air. He speaks with a heavy slur, stumbling on shaky legs.

“You. You boy! You tryin’ ta steal ma daughter away!?”
“Why don’t you go home and sober up, Mr. Kelly.”
“Don’t you tell me what ta do!”

Rose’s father hurls the bottle at John, catching him on the shoulder. The cheap glass shatters in a burst, spilling whiskey down John’s shirt. John clutches his shoulder, blood pours from where glass has stuck inside him. He tears out a shard and tosses it down. Red seeps up under his shirt.

“Let me see ma daughter!” he shrieks.

John stands tall.

“No.”
“What?” Mr. Kelly asks.
“You ain’t her father. Get the hell off our property.”
“You snide lil’ shit!”

Mr. Kelly takes off towards John. John raises the rifle and fires into the air. Mr. Kelly stops dead in his tracks.

“You take one more step, Mr. Kelly, and I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
“I’d listen to what the boy says.”

John turns. His father makes his way down the steps. He smiles and stands beside his son.

“Any kind of man that would beat his daughter with a horsewhip ain’t a real man. She’s staying here from now on, Mr. Kelly. You sober up and you can come see her. Go talk to the judge if you want, but it won’t do you any good. He’s a friend of mine, known him since grade school. Even still it won’t matter. You had the chance to be a father and you lost it. Now I suggest you get back on your horse before my son fulfills his promise.”

Mr. Kelly stands watching them. Rose appears in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket. He motions towards his daughter, pointing to his horse.

“We’re leavin‘, Rose.”

Rose stays put, slowly shaking her head.

“You deaf, girl? Get ova’ here now!”

Rose shakes her head.

“No daddy, I’m staying. You tell ma I’m staying.”
“You lil’ whore! You’re no better than a street walker!”

John takes off at a sprint and brings the rifle butt down on Mr. Kelly’s foot. A crack issues. He screams and strikes out but John ducks and swings the rifle, landing a blow across his face. Rose’s father falls to the ground, spitting blood. John raises the rifle again but his father stops him. Mr. Kelly leaps to his feet, stooping to grab his two teeth and mounts his horse. John’s screams follow him.

“You ever come back here again and I’ll kill you! You hear me!?”

John turns to face Rose and lets the rifle fall to the ground. He pulls her close and holds her in his arms. John’s father takes the cue and turns, grabbing Samuel and dragging him away as he stares at the kissing couple. Mr. Kelly died that night in a bar fight.

John smiles and holds the sobbing girl close.

***

John wakes to the sound of rumbling ground. A stagecoach approaches from behind. He dives out of the way as the wooden monstrosity plows through his fire, scattering wood and debris across the ground. The stagecoach rocks as it slowly moves away. A young boy sticks his head out of the window and calls after him.

“Sorry!”

John shakes his head and grabs his bags, pulling them off the side of the road, moving into a large ditch. He wraps himself back up and lies in the blankets. Watching the stars above as they twinkle in the night.

***

The stagecoach rumbles through the darkness across the empty road. A young boy sits in one seat, his clothes well worn but not torn, his black hair tussled but not dirty. He stares at his father.

“How long until we get there, pa?”
“Should be there by noon tomorrow. Maybe mid afternoon.”
“And we’re gonna stop at the church before we leave?”
“Yeah, I guess we should do that.”
“Good,” the boy says, breathing a sigh of relief.

The father watches the young boy as he rocks in anticipation. His black beard travels down his chin but is smoothly combed. His hazel eyes rest above his flat nose. He smiles a smile that stretches for miles across his large mouth.

“Boy, if I didn’t know better I’d think you had a spider in your pants, the way you’re jumping.”
“Don’t even joke about that!” the kid replies in a fake-scared voice.

The man leans his head out of the cab and watches the night sky. High above stars sparkle in the dark. He smiles, feeling the wind upon his face. He pulls back out and shuts the small window. He stands and retrieves a small blanket from the floor, covering his boy.

“Try and get some sleep, kid.”
“How? We’re bumping up and down.”
“Just try, kid. For me.”
“Fine,” the boy replies, already sleepily.

The man kisses his boy on the cheek. The boy opens his eyes.

“Your beard is rough,” he says.
“I know.”
“When will you get rid of it?”
“When this thing is over.”
“You mean when the people who killed ma stop chasing us?”

The man sighs.

“Yeah. When they stop chasing us,” he replies.
“That won’t be for a long time.”
“Not until we both have big gray beards!”

The man laughs but the boy frowns.

“What’s wrong?”
“We won’t have big gray beards,” the boy whispers.
“But we’ll both be gray.”
“No. You’ll be dead by then.”

The boy’s father gasps in fake shock.

“Who told you that?” He asks, exaggeratedly.
“No one. I just guessed.”

The boy scoots over as his father sits down. The man takes his son in his arms.

“Listen. I’ll always be here for you.”
“Always?” the boy asks.
“Always.”
“Always is a really long time.”
“Yes it is. But it won’t seem very long with you. In fact, it’ll be over too shortly.”
“It’s a long time.”
“I know. Go to sleep, kid.”
“Ok.”

The boy shuts his eyes and lies back. His father stands. Suddenly the vehicle swerves to the side and the two passengers are thrown to the right side of the coach. The boy jumps up and sticks his head out the window.

“Wow! We almost hit someone.”
“Get down from there, Michael.”
“Yes, sir.”

The boy leans back and jumps forward.

“Sorry!” he shouts as the man by the fire disappears into the night.

***

John is walking again, but this time he isn’t with Rose. His clothes are torn and dirty. His revolvers hang from his belt. Ash floats slowly down from the sky. All around are holes half-filled with dust and ash. Mangled corpses lie piled in heaps inside. John remembers this place. He glances down the hole. The bald man lies half covered, his eyes dead. Dried blood stains his shirt, having exited from the wide cut in his throat and the puncture wound in his neck. He is dead. His body lies bloated and green. A fat, glistening beetle scurried down his head and disappears inside his mouth. John turns away and stumbles back in shock.

The young rider stands before him, watching him, his arms outstretched like a wooden puppet. A small hole remains in the middle of his forehead where John ended his suffering. He stares at John, his head lolling against his shoulder. His pale face is colored a ghostly white. His body is smeared gray from the ash of the burning lands. He breathes in and out harshly. His hands thrash and convulse, opening and closing with blinding speed. Spit flies from his lips as he chokes out a single word.

“Hide!”

***

John awakens, already on his feet. Ahead the fire has dwindled into nothingness thanks to the efforts of a careless stagecoach driver. John quickly scrambles to his feet, grabbing his bags and blankets and carrying them to the ditch. His horse stands in the darkness, unmoving, fast asleep. John removes his rifle from the bag and steadies it over the head of the ditch.

Voices reach out from beyond the night. John steadies the weapon, his finger wrapped tightly around the trigger. He waits.

Three men emerge from the darkness, their features hidden by shadows. They dress in black, their hair long and ragged. They move quietly, approaching the dead fire. One of the men crouches beside the mound, placing his hand inches above the charred wood and grass.

“It’s still warm. Either we just missed him or he’s out there, somewhere in the plains.” the kneeling man whispers.

“Quiet. He ain’t our problem. We’re supposed to get the kid and his dad.” the second man says.
“I thought Anton hired someone else to deal with it.”
“Then that means we’re out of the job. We collect bounties, Thomas. And we get paid to do it.”

Riders.

John slowly places a large rock behind the rifle, steadying it. He reaches into his bag and removes a small pool of string. He quickly loops the string around the trigger and trigger guard of the rifle, trying it. He feeds out a few feet of string and stops, holding it tight. He can see the trigger move slowly.

“But what if this John guy is here? You heard how much trouble he’s been giving Anton. Imagine what we’ll get if we do him in.”
“Rewards. Rewards,” the third rider says.

The crouching rider stands, wiping his face.

“He ain’t here. No sign of him. Just some sticks and ash. If we’re lucky we can catch up with him later.”
“All I can say is for the son of a traitor, he had good taste. You see his lass?” the second rider asks, nudging the third.
“See her? I made her squeal.”

John shakes slowly, he carefully removes his hunting knife from its sheath and places it at his feet.

“She was somethin-”

He never finishes. John pulls the string and the rifle goes off, shooting into the empty night. The three men turn with their guns raised and begin to fire on an empty ditch. John leaps up, his revolver drawn, and steps into the fray.

He fires once into the first rider. His head bursts in a quick spray and he plummets to the ground. John swerves around, ducking and fires into the third rider’s gut. The rider falls. The second rider’s shot misses John by a wide distance.

“Is this what the riders have come to?” he shouts, pumping three rounds into the second rider’s chest.

The rider spins to the earth and lies still. John holsters his pistols. The grunts of the third rider echo in the empty night. John returns to the ditch and lifts his hunting knife from the dirt. He quickly makes his way to where the rider lay. He stands in the darkness, listening to the rider as he moans in pain. John turns and makes his way to the dead fire. He pushes the grass and logs into a pile and sets them aflame. The fire won’t last long but it will do. He turns and makes his way to the rider.

“Does it hurt?”

The rider reaches for his pistol but John pins his arm to the ground with his boot. He draws his pistol and puts a hole in the man’s palm.

“No more incentive to go for the weapon now?”

The rider shrieks in reply. John grabs him by the scuff of his shirt and drags him to the failing fire. He lets him fall. The rider lies in a fetal position, his bloody hand raised.

“Why-?” the man begins.
“I wanted to see your eyes. See the pompous eyes of a man who can take away everything from a family and still sleep soundly at night.”
“You’re John...”
“Yes, I'm John! Not as defenseless now. Did you enjoy it? Did you enjoy raping her?”
“You’re dead,” the rider whispers, chuckling

John kicks him once across the teeth.

“Speak for yourself.”
“Go ahead and kill me. You the kind of man to torture? You gotta have no soul for that. Kill me, you coward!”

John drives the hunting knife into the man’s other hand. He yanks it out in a smooth motion. The man shrieks. His strong demeanor cracks.

“Please just kill me! Don't torture me, I’m sorry!
“No. I’m not gonna torture you. My Rose wouldn’t want that. But I’m not gonna kill you. I’m leaving you with a fire. It’ll keep the coyotes away for now. When it goes out, if you’re still alive, you’ll wish you weren’t. Enjoy the warmth.”

John turns and retrieves his bags, blankets, and weapons. He makes his way to where his horse lies and rouses it from its sleep. He mounts the steed and rides away, the rider’s screams and pleads for mercy following him.

***

Father Peter knocks twice upon the red painted door. A few seconds pass and finally the door swings open. Mrs. Carlyle stands in the doorway.

“Hello, Father Peter.”
“Hello, Mrs. Carlyle.”
“What happened to your hand, father?”
“Shaving incident. Nothing to worry over.”

Peter stands watching Mrs. Carlyle. Mrs. Carlyle jumps as if shaken out of a daze.

“Oh yes, where are my manners, please come in.”

Peter enters the house, closing the door behind him. The living room is small but quaint. A single table sits in the middle of the room. A pack of cards sit scattered across the top.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess. Jeffrey and I were playing old maid,” Mrs. Carlyle remarks.
“I see. No harm in that. Where is Jeffrey?”
“He’s in the bathroom, tidying up before dinner.”
“So that’s what that heavenly aroma is! Who’d have thought angels could descend through ovens.”

Mrs. Carlyle laughs, her face turning red.

“Thank you,” she replies.
“Indeed. Where’s you young one?”
“He’s in his crib. It’s beside the chair. I moved it in so we could watch over Jeffrey when we played cards.”
“Jeffrey Jr. Such an inventive choice.”
“Don't tease, Father.”

Peter smiles.

“I shall do none the same. Now I need to speak to you about Jeffrey, you husband. More importantly I need to speak to him. I am convinced I can save him.”

Mrs. Carlyle’s eyes open wide. She beams.

“Truly?” she asks.
“Yes. He is in the bathroom, correct?”
“Yes.”

Peter turns and moves away from Mrs. Carlyle. He navigates the small house and enters a small corridor. At the end he can hear the sound of the sink faucet running. He makes his way down the hallway, drawing from his pocket the curved blade. He clasps his hands behind his back and places his head against the door. From inside he can hear Jeffrey humming. He knocks twice.

“Hello Jeffrey. It’s me, Peter. Can I have a quick word?”
“Oh yes, please come in,” Jeffrey replies, his voice muffled from beyond the door.

Peter enters the small bathroom and closes the door behind him. He turns to face Jeffrey. Jeffrey and he are roughly the same height. Jeffrey smiles, wiping his tan skin and crooked nose. He’d had it broken in a bar fight two years before he married Alice.

“What can I do you for? Hope you don’t mind if I fix my hair while you talk.”
“None at all,” Peter replies.
“Thanks.”

Jeffrey begins to run the comb through his hair.

“I want to speak with you about your religious choices.”
“This again. I’m sorry, Peter, but Father Maxwell has already tried to convince me. I doubt you’ll have any more luck,” Jeffrey says, setting the comb down.

Peter sighs.

“That’s what I feared.”

Peter draws the curved blade in one smooth motion. He place the blade against Jeffrey’s throat and slashes once, leaving a smooth gash. Jeffrey’s eyes open wide and he clutches his throat. Blood sprays in bursts against the mirror and walls. His legs begin to buckle and he starts to drop but Peter grabs him by his hair and hoists him up.

“Oh no, you won’t die like that. You’re going to watch. Look in the mirror,” Peter whispers.

Jeffrey’s horrified eyes focus on his reflection as the mirror smears with blood. His body begins to shake and he thrashes in his death throws. Peter holds him up until he stops. He relinquishes his hold and lets the dead man fall to the floor. He opens the door and closes it quietly behind him. His shoes and clothes are clean but his hands are stained with blood. He makes his way to the kitchen, past Mrs. Carlyle, and to the sink. He quickly washes the crimson blood from his hands.

“Father Peter, are you alright?”

Peter ignores her, placing a towel in the drain. The water begins to rise. He waits until the sink is full, then he shuts off the tap.

“Your problem is dealt with,” he whispers, turning away from the counter.
“What do you mean?”
“Jeffrey will no longer poison you or your child.”
“Wha-what did you do?”

Peter pushes her out of the way. He makes his way to where the deformed child lay.

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Carlyle shouts, her body shaking.
“Jeffrey is dead.”
“No.”

Mrs. Carlyle turns but Peter grabs her by the arm.

“Do you fear for you soul, woman?”
“Get off of me!” she screams
“Do you love your child!?”

Mrs. Carlyle stops.

“Do you love your child?” Peter repeats.
“Yes.”
“Then how can he be saved when a non believer polluted him so. Look at you child!”

Peter shoves the crying woman into the crib. The deformed child opens one eye and begins to cry, a wild, gurgling sound.

“Look at it! Do you want your child to be saved?”
“Yes!” she shrieks
“Your child is beyond that. This beast is a mockery of God. It must be destroyed!”
“No! Please.”
“It must be destroyed, dear Alice, and you must do the deed!”
“No...”
“You brought him into this world and so you must end it.”

Peter scoops the crying child up and shoves it into its mother’s arms. He drags her to the kitchen and stands before the flooded sink.

“Kill the beast,” he whispers, clutching the curved blade in one hand and Mrs. Carlyle in the other.
“Please...” she begs.
“It is your only hope to save your child and your own soul. Kill it!”

Peter releases the woman and turns away. He stands outside the kitchen. Inside he can hear Mrs. Carlyle weeping. The baby’s cries pierce the air. Suddenly the sound of splashing water, made more likely by the mother than the infant, meets his ears. The baby’s cries cease. A few seconds later and the splashing stops. Mrs. Carlyle’s cries intensify. Peter turns and enters the kitchen. Mrs. Carlyle lies shaking on the floor, her legs drawn up. Peter glances once at the floating dead thing in the water and turns away. He stares down at the weeping woman.

“When the town asks, Jeffrey went insane, drowned the baby and killed himself. You were never here. I was never here.”

Mrs. Carlyle slowly nods. Peter turns.

“Good. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

He makes his way to the front door and glances back.

“Make sure you lock this door. There are many bad people out nowadays. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. I expect to see you at mass tomorrow.”

Peter turns and shuts the door. He slowly moves down the steps and stops, breathing in the cool air. He turns and begins to make his way down the main road, heading towards his church.

Michael Carr
Copyright 2008