Animal (Chapter 17 - Part 1)

"It seems we have visitors," Peter says.
Gabriel stands still, eyes locked upon the fellow priest, wary of turning away. Peter catches the glimpse of fear in Gabriel's eyes. He smiles, carefully lifting a bible from the top of his desk and holding it out, gesturing for Gabriel to accept.
Gabriel reaches forward with quivering hand, taking hold of the book and pulling it quickly to his chest.
"I hope you can have that back by the end of the day, it’s quite dear to me. And please remember to knock before you enter my quarters, it will make things so much easier."
Peter's false grin does not hide his empty eyes. Gabriel stares into them. A shiver arches down his spine. For the first time he wonders what Peter truly is, what drives him. He questions what sort of person hides beneath the sacred robes.
"We have newcomers, Gabriel. What sort of men would we be if we did not welcome them to our town?"
Gabriel nods. He makes his way out of Peter's room and down the stage, passing between the pews and out the church doors. Peter watches him go. He glances back into his room at the envelope on his desktop. He’ll need to send the letter off soon to inform Varlyn that the orders have been carried out. His master will be pleased.
Peter shuts the door behind him, locking it tight and jiggling the handle, before heading after Gabriel.
Dirt and dried mud kick up as the stagecoach rumbles to a stop. The horses whinny and tromp the ground, happy to have completed their journey. Robert stands atop the carriage and lets the reins drop. He removes his hat and smacks the brim against his soiled shirt, knocking clouds of dust away. He coughs, inhaling the dust and sneezing.
The door to the carriage swings open and Ben stumbles out. "Come on, Pa, get down!" he shouts, waving up to his father.
"Hold your horses now, I ain't as young as I used to be," Robert says, stepping off the carriage wheel and onto the ground, “can't always move so fast.”
"I can vouch for that."
Jesse ducks down and slips through the tiny door.
"Looks like a fine little town," he says.
"That it does," Robert replies.
A welcoming voice arises to put a premature end to the brother’s conversation. Peter and Gabriel approach, their black robes twisting in the desert wind. Peter passes Gabriel and advances upon the runaway. He stops before his target and offers his hand. Robert accepts.
"Name's Peter, Father Peter, and this is Father Gabriel. I'd like to welcome you to Garrison," Peter says, his face contorted into an exaggerated display of excitement.
He speaks proudly, laughing and shaking Robert and Jesse's hands in turn. His smile loosens a bit on the second greeting. He’ll need to dispose of the uncle as well.
"Robert Kern. It's a pleasure to meet you, Father.”
"Pleasure's all mine. So what brings you to our lovely town?"
Robert scratches his unshaven chin and points to the two family members behind him.
"We're on a bit of a trip, you see, heading farther west and hoping to settle down. This here is my brother, Jesse, and the fierce little youngster's name is Benjamin."
"Well I'm glad you decided to stop by,” Peter says, “I do believe you'll enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you, Father. Do you happen to know where we might find a place to stay for the night?"
"Of course."
Peter pulls Gabriel to his side.
"Gabriel, why don't you show our new guests to the tavern? I'm sure Clarence will be happy to have some new customers."
Gabriel nods mechanically, trying to discretely inch away but Peter holds him close.
Robert turns to his brother.
"Jesse, why don't you take Ben and the coach and get settled down in a room, I want to have a word with Father Peter.”
"No problem, don’t take too long.”
“I won’t. Try and have our bags unpacked before I return, will you?”
Jesse lets out an exaggerated bowl of laughter and punches Robert’s shoulder. He takes hold of his nephew and lifts him back into the coach. He closes the doors and mounts the carriage, ready for Gabriel to show them the way.
"Alright, where we heading?" he asks, looking down at the priests.
Gabriel turns but Peter grabs him by the arm. His fingers dig sharp into the priest's skin leaving growing welts beneath Gabriel’s robe. He pulls him back and whispers in his ear.
"We still have much to discuss, Gabriel. Now go on, I wouldn't want my dear friend to be gone from my side too long, for we have many things to discuss."
He releases Gabriel, patting his back and swiping a layer of dust from his robes. Gabriel continues onward, his face bleach white and hand on the side of one of the horses as he leads the carriage down the roadway. Peter calls out to Robert as he makes his way up the church steps.
"Come with me and let's get out of this horrid wind."
Robert follows the priest into his sanctuary through the expertly crafted wooden entryway. The heavy doors open without sound and close with a soft rumble. Dust spills across the church floor as the wind pierces the doorway before it shuts. Peter rubs his hands through his hair to shake the dirt from his scalp. He grabs a ratted broom and dustbin that lay beside the collection plates and begins to sweep the debris into a small pile. He speaks as he works, eyes turned from his guest.
"So what is it you wish to discuss, Mr. Kern?"
"Please, call me Robert."
"Very well."
Robert studies the rapturous church, taking in all its glories. He stares in silent wonder at the painting of Christ that composes the cathedral roof.
"This truly is a beautiful house of worship you keep," he remarks.
"Thank you."
"My family and I are believers. We may not be the most devout of all families, but we love God and we honor him as often as we can."
Peter rolls his eyes at the words, his back kept to the visitor.
"I understand."
"I've been through some rough times and I was hoping my family and I could be rebaptized. We wish to attend a few sermons as well before we leave."
Peter shrugs and sets the broom aside, dustbin full.
"Sermons, of course, but rebaptized, surely you have not committed such grievous sins that you wish to be rebathed in God's light? Have you committed such sins, my son?"
Robert glances towards the priest. A wary frown forms. Peter's smile remains wide as ever.
"One can never be too close to the Lord, don't you agree?"
"Yes. I meant no offense."
"None taken.”
An uneasy stillness settles overhead. Robert stutters as he catches sight of the shimmer in Peter’s eyes. The shine remains but a moment before dulling away. The crushing silence surrounds them.
Peter claps his hands together, his warm demeanor returned.
"Anyways, back to your question, the answer is yes, we can certainly offer rebaptism. I may not understand why someone who has professed his love of Christ would hold enough fear to bath again in His glory, but it can be done."
"This has nothing to do with fear, Father."
Peter taps his finger against his temple and nods. He gives Robert a sly wink.
"Of course not. We hold mass twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening after suppertime. Which reminds me, I'm sure that the priests of our church, as well as myself, would love to have you as guests for a special feast."
Peter drags the scruff of his dress shoes against the floor. Robert stares at him with uncertainty.
"I'm sure my family would be honored but I do not which to impose."
Peter laughs and pats the man's back.
"Nonsense, I insist!"
"Very well then, what time should we arrive?"
"Seven will be fine."
Robert shakes Peter’s hand again, letting go sooner than before.
"I'll see you tonight, Father," he says, pushing open the heavy doors and stepping back into the whirlwind of sand.
Peter holds the door open and watches the runaway as he makes his way through the town, his hat pulled own and hands held up against the fierce wind. As Robert rounds the corner he shuts the door, turning away from the storm and grasping the broom once more. He sweeps the fresh dust into a new pile, carefully cleaning every inch of his church, his home, his sanctuary.

* * *

Mrs. Carlyle sits alone in her rocking chair pushing back and forth against the wooden floorboards. The groans of the frame reverberate throughout the empty house. The sounds are all that remain. The laughter once shared by all now exists only in the mind of the broken woman. She whispers to herself words of sorrow, words no man can hear. A cloak of death envelopes the room, the helpless feeling of floating despite her being planted firmly on the ground.
The steady drip of the kitchen faucet echoes in her ears. The sink where her child drowned has been left untouched. She fears the place, fears dipping her hands into the water lest some shadow drag her down into the depths. She cannot look upon herself, cannot dare to glance into the mirror rinsed with her husband’s blood, and see her face. There is nothing here for her. No light. No sanctuary. No God. Only the cold, suffocating call of death.
She holds a tiny, single-shot pistol. The cold steel prickles her skin, sending a line of goosebumps rise across her arm. She rubs her finger against the handle and prays to her lord. Tears stream freely down her cheeks and splash against the surface of the gun.

* * *

Father Maxwell stands upon his follower’s porch and taps against the doorframe. A rosary strung of white beads hangs between his fingers.
"Mrs. Carlyle! Mrs. Carlyle, please answer, I know you’re there. I need to speak with you."
No reply greets him. He steps back and begins his descent down the porch steps when a loud pop issues. Maxwell turns, scurrying up the steps and banging his fist against the door. He cannot see beyond the closed shades but he knows the sound of gunfire, knows it well.
"Mrs. Carlyle? Mrs. Carlyle, are you all right?"
Maxwell kicks hard into the door, his boot smashing against its frame. The door swings inward on snapped hinges. Splinters litter the floor. Maxwell passes through the doorway and sprints down the hall, calling out for the woman. He enters the living room.
Mrs. Carlyle sits in her rocking chair, hands drawn up to hide her face. The pistol lies on the floorboards. Smoke rises from its barrel. A hole where the bullet entered bursts inward beside the foot of the chair.
Mrs. Carlyle looks up with swollen eyes. Her once glowing hair lies limp across her face, stringy and unwashed. She brushes it back with trembling hands.
"Father Maxwell?"
Maxwell kneels beside the woman. She stares off into some place unknown, face twisted in grief. He slides the weapon away and touches her cheek.
"Alice?"
"It's my fault, Henry," she replies, her eyes tearing up once more, "it's all my fault."
Maxwell holds the desperate woman close, patting her back, unsure of what to say or do. Mrs. Carlyle weeps, her tiny hands clutching the priest’s shoulders. She babbles to herself, repeating the words again and again.
“It’s all my fault.”

* * *

Father Gabriel exits through the front of the tavern and makes his way down the steps. Maxwell’s house lies to the south. He wonders what he must say, how to approach the conversation regarding his concern over Peter’s recent actions. That’s when the voice comes.
“Were you planning on going somewhere, Gabriel?”
Gabriel turns to see Peter cloaked in a fresh set of robes, leaning against a hitching post.
“Of course not, where would I go?” he mutters, taking his place at Peter’s side.
Peter slips his arm around the priest’s shoulder. His breath draws hot upon Gabriel’s neck as he speaks.
“Join me in the church. We have a table to prepare.”

* * *

"I'm sorry I broke your door," Maxwell says as he enters carrying a cup of warm tea in tow.
He passes the cup to Mrs. Carlyle who rests in her chair still shaking from grief. She places the tea upon her lap, not bothering to drink.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Maxwell sits across from her and clasps his hands together.
"Alice, I'm sorry for what has happened but I need to speak with you."
Mrs. Carlyle glances up. She raises the cup to her lips and sips at the steaming drink. She straightens her hair and clears her throat.
"Why? What could you possibly learn? That a woman drowned her little boy? That both her husband and child are now buried in the earth? There is nothing to learn. I'm bound to burn."
"It’s not your fault—" Maxwell begins, cut short by the woman’s tortured shrieks.
"Of course it is! I held my Jeffrey under the water and watched him die. His body may have been twisted, cursed perhaps, but he was still my boy."
Mrs. Carlyle's eyes drift to the pistol upon the table.
"Don't think of it," Maxwell says. He places his hand upon her knee, voice stern and commanding.
The woman breaks from her trance.
"Why are you here, Father?"
"I need to ask you something, Alice, something I need to have the truth on."
"Very well."
The priest watches the woman, afraid to press her any harder.
"I want to know what happened. I need to know what happened two days ago."
"I've told you everything," Mrs. Carlyle replies.
Maxwell shakes his head. "No. No you haven't. Jeffrey didn't take his life, did he? You didn't have some mad fit and drown your child either. I need to know."
"Know what?”
"Was Peter here when it happened?"
Mrs. Carlyle stops shaking. Her body tenses, the muscles in her neck constrict. She sets the cup aside. A sharp intake of air fills her lungs.
"Do you believe in evil, Father?"
Maxwell leans forward to match her stare.
"I do."