Animal (Chapter 11 - Part 1)

The boy wakes in fervor. Sweat drenches the filthy rags that cover his body. John dips a cloth in a basin filled with water and dabs the child’s face.
“Wh—who are you?” the boy stutters, still shaking from shock.
“My name is John. You mustn’t speak.”
The boy begins to cry. Silent tears slide down his cheeks to be washed away by John’s comforting hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be.”
“I just wanted a way out of here. The guards, you can pay them, they let you go for the right price or favor.”
“Favor?”
“They’re lonely men.”
John grimaces.
“But I don’t do favors,” the boy says, “I’ll pay my own way out.”
“That’s an honorable thing.”
Ribs stick out from the child’s thin chest. He shudders as he glances down at his wrapped hand and curls his two remaining fingers inward. His cheeks flush crimson, splashed with oil and grime. John washes his face. The boy lies quiet for several minutes while John works before finally speaking.
“I’m dying, aren’t I?”
John shakes his head and stares up at the shadows that dance across the tent’s sides. He smiles.
“Let me tell you a story.”
“A story?”
“That’s right. There was once was a man. He was a happy man. He had all that life had to offer, all he’d ever wanted, but one day what he loved was taken from him and the man was left with nothing but his pain. For many weeks the man toiled in anguish, begging to die. He grew to hate God.”
The boy watches with wide eyes lost in the tale.
“And this man, so full of hate and pain, began to search for some hope of atonement. He began to travel on a quest for vengeance. But something happened. Along his path the man met many people, people who’d suffered as he had, who’d grown to accept their pain and move on. And the man, the man who had been so enraged and pitiful, started to change. He began to see that what had happened was not his will, not his fault. He realized that wherever those he’d loved had gone he would one day be there too. And while the man knew he would never be the same, that his life would be one of hardship and pain, he finally found some peace.”
The boy smiles. His shaking stops. He lies against the mattress as John pulls a thin blanket over his body and closes his eyes.
“And did he dream?” he says, letting sleep take over.
John stares down at the child.
“Oh yes, he dreamt.”

* * *

The crowds have begun to thin as Prince exits the coffin maker’s tent. The scent of his wife lifts upon the air, mixed with the world around. But unlike John she holds an unmistakable scent. As he carefully buttons the tent flaps that allow entry to Alexander’s sanctuary he hums a soft melody to himself, a memory from his childhood. The hum turns to song.
“Tell me the tales that to me were so dear…long, long ago. Long, long ago…sing me the songs I delighted to hear…long, long ago, long ago…”
Prince sings softly. He doesn’t hear the crunch of the child’s approaching footsteps but he hears its gasp. A little boy stands in the clearing watching him with wide eyes. He takes a step back.
“No, no, no,” Prince whispers, “I won’t hurt you.”
The child lets out a soft gasp. His eyes shake inside their head. He’s frozen where he stands.
“I won’t hurt you. Do you like that song? My mother sang it to me when I was a boy.”
The child utters a few words in an unknown tongue. Prince smiles. He puts his hand behind his back and draws the hunting knife from its sheath. He continues the song, taking slow steps towards the boy, weapon hidden from view.
“Now you are come all my grief is removed…let me forget that so long you have roved…let me believe that you love as you loved…”
The child takes a second step back. Prince stops.
“Long, long ago, long—”
Prince reaches out and grabs his arm. The child thrashes against his hold. He pulls the boy to his chest and covers his mouth with his hand, muffling his screams. He raises the knife to the boy’s throat. The jagged steel touches skin.
“You know what this is?”
The child nods.
“Did you see me?”
The child shakes his head.
“Good.”
Prince releases his hold. The child takes off into the night, glancing back only once out of fear that the blind man follows. By then the Rider is gone from sight.

* * *

“What’s your name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
The boy sits across from John. He inspects the cast that nearly swallows the bottom half of his arm and scratches at the dirty bandages in spite of John’s insistence that he not. Outside, night has fallen, enveloping their tent in blackness save for the kerosene lamp that burns in the corner. The boy sits cross-legged atop the creaking cot covered by thin blankets. John lies on the floor, his sheet spread across the ground in a haphazard bedroll.
“I was brought here as a baby. My mother died when I was born and my father was killed in a well collapse before that. I never got a name.”
“Your English is excellent,” John remarks.
“You learn to speak it, the boss makes you.”
“So you have no name?”
The child shakes his head.
“No."
“Well then I’ll give you one.”
The child’s lips part in disbelief. He scrambles to the edge of the bed. A nervous smile spreads.
“What?” he asks.
“I’ll give you a name.”
“What name?”
“How about Samuel?”
The boy frowns as though he were deep in thought.
“Samuel…I like it.”
“I thought you would.”
John lies back against the dusty ground.
“Try and get some sleep," he says, straightening out against the blanket.
“Okay.”
John blows out the lamp and plunges the tent into darkness.

* * *

Selina waves off her last customer of the night, a young teenager questioning the future of her love life, obsessed over a certain boy. She’d given her a tailored reading.
The fortuneteller pulls back the flaps to her and pins a sign in the cloth advising the close of her little business. The lantern that hangs from the edge of her wagon roof shines bright to both potential customers as well as casting a filtered light upon the wagon’s cloth sides. Selina stacks the last of her cards back into a pile and extinguishes the single candle that burns in the center of her table.
“Do you remember the paths where we met? Long, long ago…”
Selina rises up from her seat to the sound of soft singing.
“Ah, yes, you told me you’d never forget…long, long ago…”
From outside the wagon the voice becomes clearer, louder. Prince’s silhouette stretches along the outside of Selina’s wagon cloth, its lanky form stretched impossibly long. Twisting fingers cast shadows in crooked angles, feet long, curving inward as he brings them to his side.
“Then to all others, my smile you preferred…love, when you spoke, gave a charm to each word…still my heart treasures the phrases I heard…so long, long ago.”
The flaps pull back and Prince steps inside. He removes his hat slowly and lets it fall to the ground.
“I apologize, always forget my manners.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m no longer doing readings for the night, sir.”
“I’m afraid I must insist,” Prince replies, “Your husband assured me I’d not be wrong in doing so.”
Selina’s eyes light up at the mention of Alexander, yet her face remains unmoved, suspicious.
“You a friend of my husband?”
“Acquaintance would be a more appropriate term. My name is Prince. He told me you could assist me in a little matter, I was stopping by tonight to pay for a box he’d made me and he mentioned you might know a man I was looking for,” Prince lies, noting the cards that lie stacked on the table, “And imagine my surprise when I realized you were a reader.”
“My husband delivers his wares himself, Mr. Prince, and only then does he take the second half of payment.”
Prince lets forth a sigh of relief. His shoulders drop. With a jerk he pulls his revolver from his holster.
“Thank you so much for seeing through that façade. It was killing me.”
Selina reaches slowly for the metal bar tucked into the corner of the wagon. Prince leaps forward, pushing her off her feet and down to the floor. He breathes in the scent of her hair.
“I can smell him on you…in you…”
“What did you do to Alexander?”
Prince sits up. Selina scrambles into the corner towards her bat. Prince rolls his eyes and clicks his teeth. She takes note of his revolver and settles back, knees drawn up to her chest as far from the Rider as possible.
“He’s still alive. Might take a while for all the bumps and cuts and bullet holes to heal, but he’ll live as long as someone gets to him before those wounds bleeds him dry.”
Selina rises but Prince shakes his head and nods towards her seat.
“Sit down. I won’t say it again.”
The fortuneteller complies.
“That’s good,” Prince says, “Now tell me where John went.”
“John?”
“You heard me.”
“What do you want John for?”
Prince frowns. “Take a wild guess.”
“You can go to Hell, Mr. Prince.”
“Now, why say that? Why not just give me what I want? I’m getting so…very…tired…of this. You barely even know the man, why bother putting your life on the line for him?”
“You intend to kill me, Mr. Prince?”
“No, pain is usually enough.”
Prince snatches up the deck of cards with his free hand and begins to shuffle them. The muscles in his hand contract as the cards shift with lightning speed.
“You feel like giving me a read, darling?”
“I repeat, Mr. Prince, go to Hell.”
Prince slaps Selina sharply across the face. He lies out a set of four cards, then reaches into his pocket for his matchbook and strikes a head. The candle in the center of Selina’s table glows once more.
“Come on, it’ll give you a chance to have some valiant knight come to your rescue.”
Selina offers a snide smile, proud in her strength to stand against him, as Prince reaches towards her. But he doesn’t strike. He simply lays his hand upon her stomach.
“Read the cards,” Prince whispers, “or I’ll cut you in a way such that your child will be stillborn.”
The fortuneteller gasps at the pressure Prince’s bony fingers exude. She nods rapidly and leans forward, scanning the card. She speaks, but does not allow her fear to rise with her voice, instead shadowing it with disgust.
“This one’s The Chariot,” she remarks, finger poking a figure of a well dressed man driving two sphinx, one black, the other white, “Reversed. The Chariot represents a man driven by single-minded needs and goals. The reversal indicates you are a man struggling to control his fears and emotions.”
Prince laughs. Sonya returns his scoff with a laugh even louder, almost manic.
“Let me guess, you have no fear?”
“Next card.”
A structure of impossible height, built by mortar and brick, descending to the clouds. Lighting strikes its sides yet it remains unscathed.
“The Tower. A good omen. It shows a steadfast dedication to one’s beliefs, one’s world. But it can mean that one has relied far too long upon his ways, refusing to change.”
“I always have been stubborn.”
Sonya cocks her head. She studies the pistol.
“You’re a Rider, correct? Least that’s what John called you. Said he was after your boss. Varlyn, was it?”
Prince slams his fist upon the table. The candle tips with the force and spills across the tabletop. Hot wax reaches the bottom of his hand but the pain seems absent.
“You don’t speak his name.”
“There’s that Chariot acting up again.”
“Next card.”
A man trumpets his word from a mountaintop to the citizens below. From his call the people divide. Some rise in glory, others cower in fear.
“Judgement. A card of transition. A powerful card, one that may bring light or darkness to your life. You will see a sign, Mr. Prince, an omen. And your actions towards this omen will lead to doom or redemption.”
“And what will this omen be?” Prince asks, voice taunting. Biting. Cruel.
“I can’t say, could be anything.”
A sudden shout rises from outside. Nothing more. Prince pauses, eyes drawn from Selina, revolver turned towards the outside world.
“Taking a risk, aren’t you?”
“That’s the point,” Prince states mechanically, emotionless, “One more card.”
The final card shows an angel on high, freed from clothes save a single sash. The being holds two swords of steel, lowered in welcome, guard dropped from the path between land and sky.
“The World. Quite a card. Rarely drawn,” Sonya remarks, adding offhandedly, “Maybe because it represents the end of your line. Maybe death, maybe redemption, maybe you give up your ways? But I doubt it, Mr. Prince.”
“You’re trying to say that John will be the man to end me?”
“I’m not saying anything. The cards talk for me.”
“Hocus Pocus from a dead culture.”
Selina’s hand draws back into a fist. Her teeth grind together. The muscles in her thin frame tense. Hidden behind Prince a silhouette rises, advancing slowly, hand clutching a lengthened tool.
“You want to kill me?” Prince asks, lying his pistol down atop the table, handle facing the fortuneteller.
Selina’s breath catches in her throat. The silhouette stops outside the entrance. The shadow raises its hand, catching hold of the flap that twists in the wind and lifting it back. Her hands pull up to her side, preparing to call the Rider’s bluff. Prince leans forward, slowly, lips nearly touching Selina’s ear.
“Do you think I can’t hear him outside?”
Selina dives for the weapon. Prince easily disarms her. The figure outside the wagon enters.
“Selina!”
Harrison stands in the doorway, bat raised. Prince doesn’t bother training his revolver on the intruder. Instead, he simply cocks the trigger and pushes it into Selina’s stomach.
“You the valiant knight?”
“No, I’m her brother, and I’m the man you want to be talking to.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I know where John is. And if I tell you you’ll leave us.”
Selina shakes her head.
“Uriah, no.”
“Shut up, Selina,” Harrison says, “I’m sorry but you aren’t dying for him.”
“Like I always say, I like a man who cuts to the chase.”
Prince smiles. He slips his revolver back into its holster, bends over and returns the fallen hat to his head.
“Let’s have ourselves a talk.”

* * *

John awakens to the rumble of earth and the screams of unknown men. Samuel stands in the corner, wrapped and hidden beneath his blankets. His eyes shine with fear. John draws one of his revolvers and peaks through the tent flaps. All around workers rush and shout. Sporadic gunfire cracks in reply. Across the field John can see Orson and his guards crowd the oil rig. The monster shakes with fury. Steam bubbles from its pipes.
“Stay here,” John whispers.
“No.”
“I need you to stay.”
Samuel's eyes well. He shakes at the knees. John places his hand upon his shoulder.
“You’re too weak. I’ll come back, trust me.”
“You won’t leave me?” Samuel asks.
“Never.”
Samuel nods. John pushes the flap aside and runs into the fray. The workers twist and pull at the valves beneath the structure. Steam spits from iron pipes and bolts shoot forth. A roar the like of thunder sounds from the metallic beast. John stares down at the unstable ground. Oil leaks to the top. He takes off at a sprint.
“Get away from there! Get away!”
The rig blows. Chunks of wood and metal shower the workers. The twisted frame plummets to the black earth. A gusher of oil bursts from the ground and rushes high. Black gold rains from the sky as John’s clothes stain a muddy hue. A worker shrieks a hopeless plea moments before a mound of iron crushes him. A spark ignites and the geyser bursts into flame, spraying liquid fire. Flames drift upwards to light the night. Thick smoke spreads above the land while fire illuminates the camp. John stoops to grab a worker and drags him out of the pit. He glances across the field where the guards stand.
Orson stares up at the burning structure, fire reflected in his eyes. His mouth opens wide in a twisted grin, patched hair sparkling under a layer of crude. He laughs endlessly. Thick splotches of oil cover his face but his eyes shine bright.
John pulls the man to safety and crosses the field. He pauses before Orson and shouts to be heard over the chaos.
“What do we do?”
“Nothing to do, boy,” Orson replies, “the fire will die out, but my, what a sight.”
“But the workers—”
“We’ll get more.”
“You’re sick.”
Orson cackles. Spittle flies from his lips.
“What a sight…this sight makes you believe in all the wrath of God, all the beauty of His destruction. Do you feel the rush? Do you feel it, John?”
“What happened to 'boy'?”
“You’re a man now, a sight like this will make any boy a man.”
The two guards stand on either side, their faces blank. They question nothing.
“These men need doctors,” John says.
“Do you know how much a doctor costs? I’ll save more just letting them drop. I can have more shipped. The oil is all that matters.”
John turns and makes his way back to the tent. He lifts the flaps and steps inside.
“Samuel, get the medicine bag—”
The tent is vacant, Samuel gone. The bag lies in the middle of the floor, emptied of its contents. Atop the mattress lie torn sheets stained with blood. John turns and shouts into the night, calling for the child.