Animal (Chapter 17 - Part 2)

Robert and Jesse enter the dining hall. Ben follows close behind. They dress well in clothes clean and pressed. Father Gabriel sits before an extended table. Peter stands beside him. He beckons them forth.
"Welcome, my friends, I'm glad you could make it."
"Wouldn't miss it," Jesse says as he leads Ben to his seat.
Robert takes the place beside his son. Peter and Gabriel sit side by side across from them.
The table is set, stretching long enough to seat many, but only six plates have been laid out. An enormous feast extends across the top. Ears of corn stack high in porcelain bowls. Steam rises high from platters of mashed potatoes and freshly cooked chicken. Ice dances in metal pitchers full of glistening water. Ben’s mouth hangs open.
"Easy, kid," Jesse remarks.
Peter smiles. "By all means."
The feast begins. Peter wastes no time with prayer. He simply reaches forth, piles food onto his plate, and leans back, focused on the family. Jesse and Ben eat quietly, whispering to one another. Robert sits still, chewing slowly, eyes set upon the priests.
"Do you mind if I ask you something, Father Peter?"
“Of course.”
"How long have you been a priest?"
Gabriel pauses, fork implanted in a bowl of peas. Peter removes the steak knife from his napkin and holds it up. The blade glitters in the light. He twirls it across his fingers with boastful grace. His eyes drift back to the runaway.
"Quite some time. More than eight years. I was raised in a wild family, you could say, and I guess the longing for a life of purity influenced my calling."
Robert reaches over and picks up his son's plate. He draws his knife and sets about cutting his boy’s meat for him. Ben reaches for the food, embarrassed by his dad's actions, but Robert ignores his protests.
"I hear some people start a life of priesthood after having sinned. How do you feel about people like that, Peter?"
Peter bows his head. He glances over to Gabriel who inches back, throat clenched and hands locked in a vice grip around the table end. Peter's hand loosens on the knife and he sets it down atop his plate.
"I think there are those who hide their true forms under the guise of being faithful to the Lord. I profess there are some people I have crossed paths with who condone such practices. As for myself, I find those people to be snakes, pitiful and vile. I think they know they cannot be saved and so they try and turn as many as they can to their side, try and take as many people with them as they can when it's their time to go."
Jesse stops. He looks from his brother to the preacher.
"Maybe we should try shifting the conversation to something more pleasant,” he suggests.
"I think you're right.”
Peter selects a fat cob from the bowl and digs in. He listens to the young boy converse with his father.
"Tell me, how old is your son? Benjamin, is it?"
"I'm nine. Actually I'm still eight, but I'll be nine in about a week," Ben replies. A naïve smile stretches across his face.
Peter pretends to gasp. "Nine years old? Wow. You must be a quite handful for your dad."
"He is that," Robert says.
The priest’s eyes lock upon the child. His sight never waivers.
"I remember when I was nine, it was a good age. Do you like being nine?" he asks, speaking to the child.
"It's okay I guess."
"Just okay? It's one of the best times of your life! You should take care, because it doesn't last very long."
Peter's focus shifts back to the father.
"It isn't long before they leave, before they're gone. It's important to keep your children safe because they are precious. I know you'd hate to lose your child, wouldn't you, Robert?"
"It'd be a nightmare."
"You hear that? A nightmare."
Peter's pins his meat with his fork and cuts away a fresh strip.
"A man should take care of his children because there's no telling when he might lose them."
Jesse no longer laughs. His hand tenses against the surface of the table. Peter smiles. The corners of his mouth twitch. His hold tightens around his knife. A voice emerges from behind.
"Hello everyone."
Peter turns towards the source of the interruption. Father Maxwell stands in the walkway, arms crossed, rosary held in closed fist. He makes his way to the table and takes a seat directly across from Peter.
"I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to meet you all until now. My name is Father Maxwell. I preach at the church alongside Father Gabriel and Father Peter, both of whom I think you know well by now," he says, shaking the newcomer’s hands.
Peter sighs. He dons his mask once more.
"Father Maxwell, what a surprise, I figured you weren't going to be able to attend. Might I ask where you've been?"
"I was visiting poor Mrs. Carlyle. I tried to comfort the woman, but she's still a wreck. Who can blame her?" Maxwell says, addressing the family, "Mrs. Carlyle recently lost her husband and child in a terrible accident. A dreadful affair."
"I can only imagine," Robert replies.
The steam has settled from Peter's plate, leaving his meat cold. He taps the side with his fork, still focused on Maxwell.
"And what, might I ask, did you discuss?"
Maxwell shrugs.
"Her health. Her family. I tried to convince her that she played no part in what happened. We discussed the church, our sermons, how she'll still be coming in each day. Talked about Gabriel and I. And you, of course," the priest remarks. His piercing eyes settle upon Peter.
Peter raises his brow, feigning interest.
"Really?"
"Oh yes," Maxwell says, playing along and matching Peter at his own game, "we had a very long talk."
Peter's tapping has stopped. He sets his fork down and drains his glass.
"How interesting."

* * *

Maxwell stands before the podium. The house is full, every pew packed tight with followers. It's his turn to lead the mass.
He glances across the crowd, all familiars accounted for. Mrs. Carlyle sits in the far back beside Robert and his family. Ben's feet kick back and forth above the ground as he waits for Maxwell to begin. A smile crosses Maxwell's lips, tickled by the innocence of youth.
Peter and Gabriel sit side by side. Gabriel's eyes shine as he looks up towards his friend, awaiting his words. Peter's flaming hair spills across his face as he stares down at the floor, head tilted slightly.
The rest of the members lie in wait, bibles resting in their laps, their tongues silenced. They watch with anxious eyes. Maxwell clears his throat and places his book upon the podium. He smoothes its crinkled pages and begins.
"I've decided to forgo my normal routine and instead focus on something I believe we must, as God's followers, concern ourselves with. Snakes."
The members of the crowd whisper amongst themselves, excitedly swapping rumors and gossip. Women in feathered hats waft their faces with cheap fans while their husbands try in vain to quell their fears. Maxwell raises his hand and the crowd falls silent.
"Not snakes in any sort of literal term, I believe Satan and his minions are far too clever than to try and tempt us in the shape of a reptile."
Chuckles follow. Jesse and Robert focus on Maxwell, their bibles lowered, offering the man their undivided attention.
"No, I speak of the snakes that walk among us, shifting form and bewitching us with false kindness, by far the most dangerous and vile of all Satan’s minions. They sneak into our midst and bewitch us with charms before picking us off one by one. Like Judas, the man responsible for the betrayal of our savior, they hide in plain sight. Only these men are not responsible for a death that saves us all. No, these men crave only violence. They feed upon fear and suffering."
The crowd is entranced. They hold their breath, enraptured by the words.
"I do not put this message forth to scare you. This is a message of warning, yes, but there is hope at the end of this den. We can drive these monsters out. We can stop them. This world was made for the righteous and good. Only through Satan's corruption does the Earth often seem a dark and violent place. We are, in our hearts, all pure. I believe this. I believe that those who are cruel can be made good, but not these snakes. These snakes can only be stopped by breaking from their hold and casting them out. As God cast down Lucifer to Earth so shall we cast him back to Hell."
The crowd cheers. They praise the Lord's name, speaking His wonders and glories. Maxwell steps down from the stage and makes his way through the throng of believers.
"We can stop this suffering for there is nothing stronger than faith. Nothing stronger than love. Nothing stronger than all the things we hold dear!"
He passes down the rows, grabbing the hands of his followers, holding them tight and raising them high. He laughs and sings and praises with them, claiming glory unto God in the highest. He calls out glorious salvation as he retakes the stage. He can see Robert and Jesse cheering, see Mrs. Carlyle smile up at him with hope in her eyes.
"We can live in peace and with love, I swear to you, but first we must be mindful of any who would cause us harm. Any who would have us fall. Be watchful, my flock, for there are snakes among us, and they hide so very well."
Peter raises his head. His flaming hair drifts back as he stands. He meets Maxwell's eyes and smiles, clapping with the roaring crowd.

* * *

"I've gathered all of you here today because of a matter of great concern."
Peter sits cross-legged in his stiff chair. Five men, his most fierce believers, sit before him, eyes trained upwards in reverence. They do not speak. None dare question his lead. They wait for his words, anxious to hear his teachings.
"I'm sure you all were here today during evening mass," Peter continues.
The men nod in agreement. Their faces shine.
"I'm sure you were present for Father Maxwell's rousing speech."
"It was still matched by yours, Father," the youngest of the group says, lost in the inspiration of his idol.
Peter nods. They love him dearly. So naïve. They can be twisted and shaped into whatever image he desires. He holds this power, but will he use it? Can he sacrifice his humanity to change the fate of another? He has no choice. Maxwell has forced his hand, drawn unwanted attention to matters best left alone. He has no choice.
These men will not fail. They will not question his will, no more than they question the teachings of the Creator himself. He must preserve the sanctity of his church.
"You honor me, Byron, but one must give credit where credit is due. The man outdid himself. Now enough frivolities, we have much to discuss."
Peter clasps his hands together and scans the men.
"What do we do when there are betrayers amongst us? What do we do? We cast them out. What would you do if you were born in the time of our savior, Christ? Would you allow Judas to stab him in the back? Even if it was our Father's will that His son die for our sins, would you not be hard pressed not to reveal the snake hiding amongst his apostles?"
The men nod in agreement, following Peter's every gesture and movement.
"We cast these creatures out. Father Maxwell was right, there are snakes among us, but you must also know how well a snake can disguise itself. Before the serpent became a tool for the devil's use it was nothing more than a beast of God's creation. No one could have suspected what this being would become. How could Adam or Eve know this, how could they? They were blind to the treacheries of evil, unacquainted with its ways."
Peter's eyes shine. His lips curl into a sneer.
"I am well acquainted with the treacheries of man. Though I may seem calm in spirit and in heart trust me when I say I am well acquainted. Through my trials I have emerged purged of the darkness in my soul. My eyes see the traitors, the snakes, the monsters that hide so well amongst us. I see them all."
Peter rises from his seat. He opens his drawer and pulls forth the curved blade. It shines in the light, illuminated by the candles surrounding the room.
"I am well acquainted with the evils of men, my brothers. It's time you became acquainted as well."

* * *

Father Maxwell leans back in his faded chair. His bible rests in his lap, hands pressed against the worn leather that binds its pages. The howl of the wind meets his ears, rattling the windowpanes of his house.
He drums his fingers across the holy book. The wind roars now. Cracks of dust and rock clatter against the sides of his home. He sets the bible aside.
Maxwell reaches forward and grabs hold of his rifle, touched for the first time in many years. Dust clings to its surface leaving the imprint of his fingers upon its frame before being wiped away. He cracks the weapon and cleans the breech, slowly and deliberately, taking time to insure the weapon's strength be at its peak for what lies ahead. He slides several shells into the weapon and snaps it shut.
The tap of boots against the earth arises. Outside, a lantern hangs from the edge of the roof and rocks in the wind, creaking on its iron latches.
The creaking stops.
The light extinguishes.
All is silent.
With a smash the door bursts open, freed from its frame. Maxwell presses the rifle to his chest. His large fists curl around the weapon. Beyond the porch steps, darkness creeps forth.
Peter emerges from the black, the five men close at his side, watching but not speaking, brandishing crude bats and wooden planks. He spreads his arms, shining blade held out.
"Hello, Maxwell," he says.
"Peter."
Peter glances at the rifle and spies Maxwell's hands. They do not shake.
"Are you going to shoot me, old friend?"
"That was the plan.”
Peter smiles. He places his hands against the shoulders of the two closest followers and edges them forward.
"Would you risk killing these men just to reach me? Would you sacrifice what you hold so dear, lives of the innocent?"
Maxwell's hands tighten around the handle. The men share nervous glances but continue to advance. They surround the preacher. His eyes drift from one to the other, no longer recognizing the people he once loved.
"Forgive these men, Father, for they know not what they do."
"Do not speak to the Lord, vile snake, for you will but poison his name!" Peter shrieks, his calm demeanor cracked.
Maxwell lets the rifle drop.
"So have you poisoned these men's minds, but the righteous will see you for what you are, nothing more than a tool of evil ready to be tossed away once you’re no longer needed.”
He smiles as he meets Peter’s crazed gaze.
"You know this, don't you?"
The men close in with weapons raised. The first blow falls, crashing against the preacher's head.
Maxwell sinks to his knees, palm steadying his fall. Blood pours from the open cut across his temple. A swung board cracks his wrist and he drops. Boots pound against bruised ribs. Strikes rain down upon him. He endures for longer than most but like all men, soon succumbs to the pain. He closes his eyes and shuts out the light of the world.

* * *

John draws his horse to a standstill. The town of Garrison lies ahead. The moon wanes above. No stars shine in the sky. It's as if they are hidden from view, driven out by some unseen force. The world seems empty, closed off from all that exists.
The road stretches for miles. Pinpricks of lantern light emerge as guiding stars in the black. John’s horse whines and digs its hooves into the ground. Its hair bristles against his hand, nostrils flare.
John dismounts and leads the animal down the edge of the road. A twisting glow lifts from the land. A raging inferno, drawn from a pyre that rests atop a pit of sand, burns high.
The fire lies far ahead yet John can see it clearly. Something has happened here, violence birthed beneath the cold and darkened sky.
A horrid odor rises with the smoke.

* * *

Gabriel pushes the church doors open, the groaning of its hinges all but absent. No light fills the halls of the sacred house. No candles flicker before the mantel of Christ.
He travels down the aisle past wooden benches stuffed with prayer books and old hymns. He does not stop, does not hesitate. He moves up the stage steps and beyond the podium to where the private rooms lie, reaching Peter’s door. All that separates him is a single lock.
He draws a kitchen knife from his pocket and forces it into the tumbler. The lock shatters and the door swings open.
Gabriel enters Peter's room. He scans the area, listening for the slightest sound. He hears nothing. He reaches Peter's desk and strikes a wooden match, setting the flame against the candles Peter uses when reading late.
Books of psalms, the three tattered bibles, notes with unintelligible writing, all litter the illuminated desktop. Almost none of the oak surface can be seen. Gabriel shifts through the pile. Nothing.
He pushes Peter's chair back and pulls open the drawers. In the bottom shelf atop a cache of white candles lays the envelope. Gabriel removes it. Candlelight reveals the shapes inside but he cannot make them out.
Gabriel tears the envelope open and spills its contents across the desk. The faces of the runaway and his family meet him.
His heart beats in his ears. His blood flows as ice. His limbs go numb. He raises his head and stares out the doorway across the silent church.

* * *

Maxwell rouses. His limbs ache with sharp, stabbing pain. Dried blood mats his face and chest. He draws thin breaths, sputtering and coughing as blood trickles from his lips. He tries to move, but cannot, for he is held in place by bonded rope, tied to a firmly planted post. The line loops in several arcs across his chest and slithers down to bind at wrist and ankle.
His legs stretch straight, feet buried beneath a wood pile stacked pyramidal around him. Cold sweat burns his eyes.
Peter stands before him calling to his followers. Each of the surrounding men carries a torch of cracking fire. Peter's face twists in the light. Shadows cling to his skin, contorting his features.
The followers form a circle around the bound priest. They shake and laugh, making wild signs of the cross, singing their hymns. One lets out a piercing howl that shadows the valley, his tangled words carried upon wind. Peter does not join them in their celebration, their happiness following the capture of this supposed monster. He approaches Maxwell and places his hands upon the man's shoulders.
"Look where we are, my friend, look how far our paths have strayed. How did it come to this?"
Maxwell utters a low, guttural laugh. He smiles through the blood that stains his teeth.
"How? Because you chose to sneak among the truly righteous, slither into our midst and taint what we hold so dear. You may even believe what you preach, but it does not matter. With my death, you prove what you are and what you always will be; a servant to sin."
Peter grasps Maxwell’s head and presses his thumbs into the man's temples.
"No, no, no! Do you not see? Do you not see what I have done?"
He releases the preacher and dances away, waving his arms high.
"I have freed these men! I have freed them all! Freed them from fear and suffering and guilt, freed them to truly embrace our lord and savior. They no longer live for petty human morality. They live only to serve the will of God!"
"They serve only your will and your will alone."
Peter turns, his face no longer bright, eyes no longer shining. They are dark and cold and pitiless. He draws his knife and makes his way to the bound priest, arms swaying to some hidden beat.
"You’ll never truly accept what I have done, will you?"
"Never," Maxwell spits, spraying blood across Peter's face.
Peter wipes the red away, deliberately stalling the moment. He dries his hands on the back of his robes.
"Very well."
Peter tightens his hold on the blade and drives it into Maxwell's chest. Maxwell gulps and gasps for air, choking on the blood that fills his lungs. His eyes droop. Labored breathes pass into his form.
Peter rests his forehead against Maxwell's and smoothes back the elder’s hair.
"A simple act to ease your passing from this world."
He rips the blade from Maxwell's chest.
Peter turns from the priest and gives the signal to each of his followers. The men surrounding Maxwell drop their torches onto the pyre, stepping back as the flames take hold. Maxwell begins to scream.
Peter shrieks alongside Maxwell's tortured cries. His blade, slick with blood, shines bright. He dances and sings, wild and fierce, whispering to himself as Maxwell falls silent at last.
"This town is mine."