Animal (Chapter 16 - Part 1)

Father Peter sits behind his desk marking passages in a tattered bible. He closes the book and removes the reading glasses from his strained eyes, rubbing his hands through his fiery red hair. He opens his desk drawer, folds the glasses, and sets them inside a black case beside the curved knife. The blade shines bright as ever. No blood remains upon its glittering surface. He lifts the weapon and balances it between two fingers, spinning the blade back and forth. A pattern of light spills across his chest traveling the length of his robe and past its white collar. Peter’s eyes sparkle as he twirls the blade faster and faster, lost in its glory. He finally stops and lets the knife drop, shuddering from the ecstasy of its shine.
He stoops to retrieve the knife and slides the brown envelope The Tall Man entrusted him across the desktop. He slits the envelope open and empties it of its contents. Three black and white pictures flutter out. Two are separate shots, one of a man with a wide mouth and a flat nose, the second his son. The boy’s hair lies tangled and messy and he flashes a wide grin. Peter sets the picture aside. The final shot shows three people leaning against a wagon; the boy, his father, and a younger man with two missing teeth. Scribbled on the back of the letter his master’s own hand is a brief message.

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

Varlyn gave no mention of a third target. Peter has never cared for surprises. He returns the photos to the envelope and tosses it across the desk. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, memorizing the faces of those he has been called upon to dispose of. The door to his office opens. Father Gabriel’s boyish face peaks through the doorway.
“Peter. I need a word.”
“Come in.”
Gabriel enters. His body sags from hidden burden, eyes clouded with unfallen tears.
“I apologize if I’m interrupting.”
“Of course not, go on,” Peter says.
“There’s been a tragedy.”
Peter leans forward in his seat.
“Tragedy?”
“It’s Mrs. Carlyle. Her husband drowned their child in the kitchen before taking his own life. Cut his own throat.”
Peter’s eyes open wide in feigned shock. He raises his hand to cover the upturned corners of his mouth.
“Oh dear,” he says, “Oh dear, this is all my fault.”
“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 nods, trying with all his strength not to laugh from the grace of his charade.
“I suppose you’re right. Where is Mrs. Carlyle? How is she fairing?”
“She’s coming for morning mass. She seemed devastated when last I saw her.”
Peter stands and raps the desktop with his knuckles. He gathers up the marked bible.
“We will honor her and pray for her today. Let us prepare.”
“Very well."
Gabriel moves aside and lets Peter pass. Once again he finds his thoughts traveling to the brown envelope. He takes a hesitant step forward, then stops, shaking his head and exiting the office.

* * *

John’s horse speeds across the dusty road. As the animal plows through the earth he glances down at the passing ground. The stagecoach’s tracks remain fresh, planted deep within the dirt.
The voice of the child surfaces in John’s mind, prodding his memory. Something about the voice unnerves him. He shakes the image away and continues onward. The morning sun blazes above.
John pulls the animal to a stop and dismounts. He rubs the creature’s neck and removes a bag of feed which he attaches to its head. The horse chomps noisily while John walks ahead. His hair prickles upon the back of his neck. He sweats, yet his body feels chilled as ice. The horse ceases its crunching and raises its head. Its ears twitch. Words rise from unknown voice. John draws his revolver and turns. The road remains empty.
The world dims as clouds drift in front of the sun. A second voice calls out, a soft whisper. John spins to face the sound. The fields remain barren. He waits, fingers resting upon the triggers of the silver revolvers. A shadow moves behind and a shrill tune plays out across the earth.
A shrouded man stands beside John’s horse stroking its fur. Tattered brown clothes, charred and burnt, hang from his form. A black hat tilted forward obscures his face. He holds an aged harmonica in one hand, a beautiful instrument.
“You have a fine horse, John,” the man says, his voice quiet but familiar. Soothing and trustworthy.
John keeps his revolver steady all the while.
“Back away from the animal.”
“Do not be so hasty in your actions.”
The man raises his hands and steps forward. The beaten instrument rests against the crook of his thumb.
“That’s close enough,” John says. His hand shakes. Sweat burns his eyes.
The man halts his approach. He slides his fingers across the brim of his hat.
“Very well. As I said, you have a fine animal.”
“How do you know my name?”
“We used to know each other.”
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 Rider from the Black Rail. 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 sight drifts towards the revolver clasped in John’s hand.
“Nice guns,” he says, “remember to keep the trigger loose and your finger around the guard. Don’t want you shooting the wrong folks."
John studies the man. Shade hides his features. His hair sticks out under the hat’s brim in random tuffs. He raises the harmonica to his lips. A broken tune fills the clear air, resonating on the wind, drifting with the breeze. His performance comes to a close and he lowers the instrument.
“His church is still several miles down this road. It will take you till nightfall to reach the town’s borders. Just head straight, you can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
The man glances down at the harmonica in his hand and wipes it with the bottom of his ratty shirt. He meets John’s confused gaze.
“Doesn’t sound nearly as good without the sunsets, does it?” he asks.
“Dad?”
The man’s smile fades and he breaks the connection. He focuses hard upon something beyond the boy. John turns in the direction of the stare. The road is empty. He looks back but the stranger has already gone.
John stands alone on the dusty path. A chilling breeze meets his skin and the shadows fade. The sun drifts out from behind the clouds to continue spreading its warmth. John 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 crowd of worshippers with his hands raised to the sky. Rivers of colorful light filter through stained glass, splashing rainbow arches across the floors and walls of the church. His hair bathes in the glow beneath the window, voice resounds through the cathedral.
“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.”
All eyes turn upon the woman. She sits with her head bowed and hands folded in her lap. Some worshipers reach out to pat her back or whisper words of comfort. Father Maxwell kneels beside her and places his hand upon her shoulder. He glances up and meets Peter's gaze. His eyes shine through, crystallized and pure, untrusting for the briefest of moments.
Peter realizes everyone is watching. Soft beads of sweat rise against his forehead. He wipes his brow and struggles to continue.
“And—and we…we honor her.”
He clears his throat and straightens his composure, breathing clear, the image of Maxwell’s gaze still burning fierce 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 Him but remember that it is His will, not ours, that decides our fates. Our divine father always has a reason. We may not see that reason now, more likely we will never truly understand the path He has set out for us, but I can tell you one thing; 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. I know your heart grows weary, but you shall survive.”
Mrs. Carlyle meets his words with pitiful eyes. Peter makes his way down the aisle and stands before the woman. Maxwell lets go of her shoulder and steps aside allowing Peter all the room he needs to perform. Peter stares hungrily at the woman, his hazel eyes feeding upon her like a wild dog, drinking in her pain. He places his hand upon her cheek.
“Mrs. Carlyle, I need you to speak. I want you to repeat what I say.”
The woman nods.
“I need you to say ‘It was my Lord’s will.’”
Mrs. Carlyle shakes her head. Her bottom lip trembles.
“You need to say it.”
“It was my Lord’s will,” she whispers.
Peter continues.
“I do not understand his will.”
“I do not understand his will.”
“But I accept it.”
“I accept it.”
Peter grasps her shoulder tight. His nails dig into her delicate skin. She tries to pull away but he holds her in place, fingers locked around the bottom of her chin.
“My family is better off dead.”
Maxwell touches Peter’s arm.
“That’s enough, Peter.”
“Release me.”
“Leave her be.”
“Release me, old man!” Peter spits.
Maxwell steps away as if burnt. Peter turns back to Mrs. Carlyle. Venom drips with each word that rolls off his tongue.
“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. Her shoulders shudder as she weeps.
Peter glances up and meets the eyes of his followers.
“She is clean.”
They cheer, crying out to the heavens, praising their savior’s name. Peter turns back to Mrs. Carlyle but she’s left. Father Maxwell sits in her place. His crystal eyes drive deep.