The Tall Man sits alone in his tent. Outside, the rumble of his men’s partying and drinking can be heard. The Rider, however, is in no mood for festivities. His partner Prince, the man he’d rode with for fifteen long years, is dead. Though a great man, The Tall Man knows in his heart that he is not divine. His anger fuels him. His hatred drives him. He must wait.
John is now an adversary, no longer a simple pest but a swarm of locusts scurrying to devour him whole. The Tall Man stands and makes his way across the tent to where his bags lie tossed in a heap. He 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 what he seeks, a small picture frame. Decorated in patterns of silver and gold, the item is priceless, divine, but within its frame sits a beauty that rivals all material wonder.
The woman is petite but strong, face lit by a bright smile. Though dressed in the garments of a peasant she stands with the grace of a queen. Blonde hair spills across her shoulders. Her kind eyes blaze with a warmth that could weather the harshest winter. The Tall Man wipes the glass with the side of his shirt, clearing away the fingerprints that threaten to mar her beauty. He holds the frame tight as though he fears that if he lets her go she will forever vanish.
The woman is his one love, the love that no longer breathes within this world. John’s mother.
***
John stands before an empty bed. Sunlight filters through the curtains drawn across a nearby window. The room holds all that is familiar to him, all that he remembers. The dresser where Rose would comb her hair. The pictures of his family and his love.
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 without fear. Rose passes through the doorway, a majestic sight. A thin gown clings to her naked skin leaving a silhouette behind the silk. She smiles, shy and innocent, and brushes back her hair. She crosses the room and stands before him with head bowed. John places his hand against her cheek, sliding it down to her chin, and tilts her head to meet his gaze.
John pushes the hair from her eyes and slides the straps of her gown down her shoulders letting the top half fall. A set of jagged scars twist across her body, running from her breasts to her stomach. Rose raises her arms to cover herself and turns away from John. Her back holds even more marks, some still red and fresh, proof of the torture she endures within her home.
“Rose—”
“Don’t look at me, John. Please just let me be.”
John takes her by the shoulder and turns her to face him. He does not glance upon her scars, does not see them.
“You are beautiful, no matter what you believe. The scars are nothing. Nothing. You are beautiful. Do you understand?”
Rose nods mechanically. Tears fall from her eyes.
“Look at me. Look at me, Rose.”
She glances up. He wipes her tears away.
“You are beautiful, always remember that. I love you. I’ve loved you ever since I first laid eyes upon you, ever since we ran laughing through the fields the day we first met.”
“I love you too,” Rose replies.
The two lie back upon the bed. Rose rests her head upon his chest, eyes closed. John watches the curtains as they flutter in the open window. He speaks.
“One day we’ll see the entire world. We’ll live in peace where nothing can harm us.”
“One day.”
John remembers this, the last day her father was ever in her life. From beyond the window the drunken screams reach them. John rises from the bed, dressing in seconds. He opens the door to his room and stands in the archway, glancing back to meet Rose’s fearful gaze.
“Stay,” he whispers, then shuts the door behind him.
***
John wakes grudgingly, trying desperately to hold on to the memory, to keep Rose with him. But she fades. Like the dying of a burning light, she fades. The fire before him cracks and shoots forth small embers. The plain grass serves well, catching fire quick and burning slow.
John opens the flap on his front pocket and removes a folded snapshot of Rose. He never entered his house after the fire; he’d always kept the picture on him to look upon whenever life became too great to bear. The picture is his sanctuary. Rose sits on his bed and smiles upwards, eyes brimming with wonder and beauty. He holds the picture to his chest. He tucks it in his pocket and lays down, his body turned away from the flames, falling back into slumber.
***
Father Peter sits alone in his office. His hands shake the way they always do before a sermon. He crosses his chest in faith. The Tall Man’s envelope rests unopened upon his desk. He has not yet glanced upon the man and 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 sickle. The silver weapon shines in the light of the reading lamp atop his desk. Beside the lamp lie three sets of the Good Book, some with passages and sermons heavily marked, yet only one remains untouched. The book was given to Peter by his father before his death. Gold lettering covers the frame spelling out the name of the holy work. Black leather, expertly sewn, wraps the aged pages in elegant form. Peter rubs his right hand across the book’s cover, clutching the knife’s sharpened edge in his left.
Dark blood drips 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 floorboards below. Suddenly, the door to the office creaks open and Father Gabriel enters. Peter tosses the knife into his desk drawer and stands.
“They’re waiting, Peter,” Gabriel whispers.
His eyes fall upon Peter’s sliced hand.
“My lord. Father, are you okay?”
Gabriel, though just a few years shy of Peter, is not the head of the convent and at times finds himself speaking to the priest as though the man were his superior.
Peter grabs a bit of cloth from inside his desk and wraps the wound.
“Yes, Gabriel, I’m fine, cut myself on my letter opener. And as I’ve said before, you do not have to call me ‘Father’.”
“Yes. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Let us not keep our Lord’s followers waiting any longer.”
Gabriel pushes the door open and lets Peter pass. His eyes travel the room, finally settling on the brown envelope that rests upon Peter’s desk. It's still unopened. He stares at it a moment longer and exits.
***
“My friends, yesterday I had a dream. A vision, you might say. I was walking through a field of corn hidden deep inside an ancient valley. On either side stood two towering walls of earth. The place was Elah, where David defeated the giant Goliath. I’m sure our children are familiar with the story as well.”
A rumble of polite 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, as they should. There is no room for nonbelievers in his society.
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 heavily freckled face, unmarked by age, stands thin and lanky. Maxwell leans forward, his broad shoulders matched by his mountainous form, hair combed back and 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 to one another as they watch Peter preach.
“Suddenly there were flames, piercing flames the likes of demons and witches. All around me they blazed. I stood strong, not cowering, waiting for the blaze to take me. But it was not to be! Instead, a figure emerged from the fire, a figure not of treachery, not adorned by a crown of jewels, but shining with a holy light. I stood before the figure, shielding my eyes, and waited. It had no face, no features, just smooth and empty and white, yet it spoke. It said, ‘take thy flock into your arms and speak to them, not in a shout, 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 robe shuddering around his form. He navigates the crowd until he reaches a young woman in back who holds a bundle of blankets in her lap. She stares up at him, stringy black hair spilling across unkempt skin. Peter kneels before her and takes her shaking hands in his.
“Mrs. Carlyle, your husband is a nonbeliever, am I correct?”
“Y—yes,” she whispers.
Peter shushes her.
“Do not be afraid, you are in the house of God. No one shall judge you here. He is a nonbeliever?”
“Yes.”
“I see. I understand you bore child recently?”
“Yes.”
“And our good Dr. Mallory tells me there were some complications.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Carlyle sputters. Tears form in her eyes.
Peter glances at the bundle in her lap.
“Is this the child?”
“Yes.”
“May we see him?”
“I can’t,” she says.
“We are all friends here. Do not be afraid.”
Mrs. Carlyle’s hand drifts away. She stands and lets the blankets fall. All around the convent people cry out. A young woman faints. Shouts of ‘abomination’ and ‘demon’ rise.
The baby stares off without focus. Spit dribbles from its lips, misshapen hands uncurling as it glances around the room. Its mouth drops off to the side and curves upward. The child struggles to support its bulging head, skin hanging loose upon its body. Mrs. Carlyle drops back in her seat and covers the babe. 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 nonbeliever, the atheist, the condemner of our God. But do not seek him out. Instead, 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 to be eaten by dogs. Mrs. Carlyle, it may be too late for your husband, but this child can be saved. I was given a gift in my dream. I can see the evil within this boy. A beast, a demon, has a hold of your child, and I will suck this demon out.”
Praises reverberate. Peter places his hands above the child and hovers over its face. He speaks soft at first, but his voice slowly rises. He lifts his arms and makes 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 beast! Leave now and do not come back. 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 kick you back into your pit. Go back to where you came from! Get out of here you vile demon!”
Spit flies from Peter’s lips. His eyes shine black. He raises his hands high towards the sky and brings them down, flinging the imaginary object from his grasp. The child shrieks in fear, its bulging hands reaching for the safety of its mother.
“Don’t you dare come back! And with that, can you hear it, can you hear it crying? Can you hear it burning where it belongs? With that, our beast, our demon, is gone.”
His voice drops to a whisper and his sermon ends. The communion rushes forth to embrace him. He lets them come, soaking in their love. Father Gabriel shouts the Lord’s name. Father Maxwell offers an uneasy smile. The followers return to their seats as Gabriel approaches the stage to begin the next sermon.
Peter leans forward and whispers in 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.”
Peter smiles as he bows his head. The child below him grasps his finger in its deformed hand. He strokes its cheek.
“Yes, the Lord has.”
***
“I want ma girl!”
John stands before Rose’s father, guarding the entrance to his home with his father’s rifle. Rose’s father clutches a half-filled bottle of whiskey between loose fingers. His eyes are ragged, face beat red. He shakes with drunken rage. He points at John, finger stabbing the air, and speaks with heavy slur.
“You,” he says, “You boy! You tryin’ ta steal ma daughter away?”
“Why don’t you just go home and sober up, Mr. Kelly?”
“Don’ you tell me what ta do!”
Rose’s father hurls the bottle at John which catches him by the shoulder. The cheap glass shatters, spilling whiskey down John’s clothes. John clutches his collar. Red seeps up beneath his shirt. Blood pours from where glass has stuck him. He tears out a shard and tosses it down.
“Let me see ma daughter!” the drunkard shrieks.
John stands tall.
“No.”
“What?”
“You’re no father. Get the hell off our property.”
“You snide lil’ shit!”
Mr. Kelly takes off towards John. John fires into the air. The man 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 out the front door and down the steps, taking his place beside his son. Samuel stands in the doorway.
“Anyone who beats his daughter with a horsewhip is not a real man. She’s staying here from now on, Mr. Kelly. You had your chance to be a father and lost it. You sober up and you can come see her. Go talk to the Judge Marcy if you want, but it won’t do any good. He’s a friend of mine, known him since grade school. Now I suggest you get back on your horse before my son fulfills his promise.”
Rose appears in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket. Mr. Kelly stands watching them, too stupid to turn and too drunk to fight. He motions towards his daughter and points to his horse.
“We’re leavin’, Rose.”
Rose stays put. She clutches John's arm and hides behind him.
“You deaf, girl? Get ova’ here now!”
Rose shakes her head.
“No Daddy, I’m staying,” she says, “You tell Ma I’m staying.”
“You lil’ whore. You’re no better than a street walker!”
John sprints forward 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 weapon, landing a blow across his cheek. Rose’s father drops to the ground and spits blood into the dirt. John raises the rifle again but his father stops him. Mr. Kelly leaps to his feet, stooping to grab the shards of his shattered teeth, and mounts his horse. John’s screams follow him.
“You come back here again and I’ll kill you! You hear me?”
John turns to face Rose and lets the rifle fall. He pulls her close. His father takes the cue and turns, grabbing Samuel and dragging him away as he stares at the kissing couple.
***
John awakens to a strange rumbling. A stagecoach approaches from behind, the thunderous tramp of hooves bursts forth. He dives aside as the wooden monstrosity plows through his fire, scattering wood and debris along the roadway. The stagecoach rocks and it moves on. A young boy sticks leans out of the window and calls after him.
“Sorry!”
John shakes his head and coughs from the dust. He rises and grabs his bags, pulling them off the side of the road and into a nearby ditch, a less comfortable but also less treacherous location.
***
The stagecoach bounces its way through the darkness. A young boy sits in one seat, clothes well worn but not tattered, 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.”
“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 his son rock with anticipation. His black beard travels down his chin but is smoothly combed. Hazel eyes rest above a flat nose. His smile stretches for miles.
“Boy, if I didn’t know better I’d think you had a spider in your pants, 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. Stars sparkle in the dark. He smiles, feeling the wind upon his face. He leans back in and shuts the window. He covers his son with a blanket.
“Try and get some sleep, kid.”
“How? We’re bumping up and down.”
“Just try. For me.”
“Fine,” the boy says, his voice already heavy with exhaustion.
The man kisses his child on the cheek. The boy opens his eyes and rubs his face.
“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, nudging his son, but the boy frowns.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“We won’t have big beards.”
“But we’ll both be gray.”
“No,” the boy says, “You’ll be dead by then.”
The boy’s father gasps in fake shock.
“Who told you that?” he asks.
“No one. I just guessed.”
The boy scoots over as his father sits down. The man takes his son in his arms and rocks back and forth.
“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 all too shortly.”
“It’s a long time.”
“I know. Go to sleep, kid.”
The boy shuts his eyes and lies back. Suddenly, the vehicle swerves off the road and the two passengers slide to the right side of the coach. The boy jumps up and sticks his head out the window. A blast of wind hits his face, ruffling his hair. His eyes dance with excitement.
“Wow. We almost hit someone!”
“Michael, get down from there.”
“Yes sir.”
The boy sits back, pausing for a moment, then jumps forward, leaning over the side of the carriage.
“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. Dead embers float down from the sky. All around, holes half-filled with dust and ash burrow into the earth. Corpses line their sides. John remembers this place.
The bald man lies covered in dirt, body bloated and green, beady eyes empty. Dried blood stains his shirt, having exited the wide cut across his throat and the puncture in his neck. A fat, glistening beetle scurries down his temple and disappears inside his mouth. John shudders and turns.
The young Rider stands before him, arms outstretched like a wooden puppet. The hole in the middle of his forehead where John ended his suffering remains. He stares at his savior, head lolling against his shoulder, face ghostly white and body smeared gray with the ash of burnt lands. He breathes sharp, strained intakes of air. His hands thrash and convulse, opening and closing with blinding speed. He chokes out a single word.
“Hide.”
***
John awakens. Little light remains. The fire has dwindled thanks to the actions of the careless stagecoach driver. He scrambles to his feet, grabbing his bags and carrying them to the ditch.
John removes his rifle from the bag and steadies it over the edge of the ditch. Voices reach out from beyond the night. John readies the weapon, finger wrapped tight around the trigger.
Three men emerge from the darkness, their features hidden in shadow. They dress in black clothes, hair long and ragged, moving without sound as they approach the dead fire. One crouches beside the mound and rests his hand inches above the charred remains.
“It’s still warm. Either we just missed him or he’s out there somewhere,” he mutters.
“Quiet. He ain’t our problem,” the second says, “We’re supposed to get the kid and his dad.”
“I thought Anton hired someone else to deal with it.”
“That don’t mean we stop looking, nothing more than a little competition. We collect bounties, Ryan, and we get paid to do it.”
Riders.
John places a chunk of rock behind the rifle to steady it and reaches into his bag in search of a pool of string. His fingers dance as he loops the thread around the trigger and guard of the rifle, tying it tight. He feeds out a few feet of line and stops, testing the results. The trigger moves with his pull.
“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 and wipes the dust from his eyes. A rough beard obscures the majority of his features.
“He ain’t here, just some sticks and ash. Probably passed by not too long ago. If we’re lucky we can catch up with him later.”
“All I can say is, for a rancher, he had some good taste. You see his lass?” the first asks, nudging the third.
“See her? I made her squeal.”
John grits his teeth. The spurs on his boots grind the earth as he readies his attack. He draws his hunting knife and lays it at his feet.
“She was somethin—”
He never finishes. John pulls the string and the rifle goes off, bullet piercing the empty air. The three men turn with their guns raised and fire at the ditch. John leaps up with revolver drawn and steps into the fray. He fires once on the first Rider. His skull bursts in a fine mist. John twirls around and fires into the third’s gut. The man’s screams follow his fall. The second Rider’s shot sails wide.
“Is this what the Riders have been reduced to?” John shouts, pumping three rounds into the bearded man’s chest. The Rider spins to the earth and lies still.
John holsters his pistols and returns to the ditch, lifting his hunting knife from the dirt. He approaches the fallen Rider, drawn through the black by the man’s wheezing breaths, and stops before the extinguished pit. He pushes the remaining grass and wood into a pile and sets a spark to it. The fire won’t last long. He returns to the bodies, form shaded by night, and listens to the Rider’s suffering.
“Does it hurt?”
The Rider reaches for his gun 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 shallow fire. The Rider lays beaten, bloody hand raised.
“Why?” he asks.
“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—”
“Not so defenseless now. Did you enjoy it? Did you enjoy raping her?”
“You’re dead,” the Rider whispers. A cold chuckle breaks forth.
John lands a kick across his teeth. The man rolls over and spits blood into the sand, laughing still.
“Go ahead and kill me. You the kind of man to torture? You don’t have the stomach for that. Kill me, you coward.”
John drives the hunting knife into the man’s other hand and yanks it out in a smooth motion. The man shrieks, his strong demeanor cracked. He balls up in submission, arms wrapped around his chest.
“Please…just kill me! God, don't torture me. I’m sorry!”
“I’m not going to torture you, my Rose wouldn’t want that. I’m not going to kill you, either. I’m leaving you with a fire. It’ll keep the coyotes away for now. When it goes out, if you’re still of this earth, you’ll wish you weren’t.”
John gathers his supplies and weapons. He calls back to the Rider as he finishes.
“Enjoy the warmth.”
He makes his way to where his horse stands and rouses it from its sleep, returning his load to the bags that sling around its back. He mounts the steed. The Rider’s pleas for mercy fade in the distance.
***
Father Peter knocks twice upon the red door. A few seconds pass before the doorway opens a crack. Mrs. Carlyle peaks through the opening. Her face brightens.
“Hello, Father Peter.”
“Mrs. Carlyle.”
Mrs. Carlyle’s head twists to the side. “What happened to your hand, Father?”
“Shaving incident. Nothing to worry over.”
Peter watches the woman. A teasing smile forms. He raises his eyebrows and lets out a soft whistle. Mrs. Carlyle jumps as if shaken from a trance.
“Oh yes, where are my manners, please come in,” she says, stepping back and allowing entrance into her home.
The living room is uninspiring but decorated with the lovely little touches unique to the family. A single table sits in the middle of the room, a pack of cards scattered across its top.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess, Jeffrey and I were playing Old Maid,” Mrs. Carlyle remarks.
“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 giggles. A swirl of red stains her cheeks.
“You’re too kind.”
“And where is your young one?”
“In his crib beside the chair. We moved it into the dining room so we could watch over Jeffrey Jr. while playing cards.”
“Jeffrey Jr.? Such an inventive choice.”
“Don't tease, Father.”
Peter nods. He lets out a false laugh as his eyes drift across the room.
“I shall do none the same. Now I need to speak to you about Jeffrey. More importantly, I need to speak with him. I’m convinced I can save him.”
Mrs. Carlyle’s eyes shine. She beams up at the priest.
“Truly?” she asks.
“Indeed. He is in the bathroom, correct?”
“Yes.”
Peter turns from Mrs. Carlyle. He navigates the cramped house and steps into a nearby corridor. He can hear the sound of the sink faucet running. He makes his way down the hall, drawing the curved blade from his pocket, paused outside the bathroom entrance. He clasps his hands behind his back and places his ear to the door. Inside, Jeffrey hums over the rush of water. Peter knocks twice.
“Hello Jeffrey, it’s me, Peter. May I have a quick word?”
“Sure. Please come in,” Jeffrey replies, his voice muffled behind the doorframe.
Peter enters the bathroom and closes the door behind him. Mrs. Carlyle’s husband and he stand eye to eye, meeting each other’s gaze through their reflections in the mirror. Jeffrey smiles as he wipes his tan skin and crooked nose. He’d had it broken in a bar fight two years before he married.
“What can I do you for? Hope you don’t mind if I fix my hair while you talk.”
“Not at all.”
Jeffrey runs the comb through his curly hair, trying in vain to hold the wild flow back with each brush.
“I want to speak with you about your religious choices.”
“This again? I’m sorry, Peter, but if Father Maxwell failed to convince me I doubt you’ll have any more luck,” Jeffrey says, setting the comb down and abandoning any notion of taming his curls.
Peter sighs. His hand tightens around the knife.
“That’s what I feared.”
Peter draws the curved blade up. He presses the knife against Jeffrey’s throat and slashes, leaving a smooth gash in its wake. Jeffrey’s eyes open wide and he clutches his wound. Blood sprays in bursts against the mirror. His legs buckle and he starts to drop but Peter grabs hold of his hair and hoists him back up.
“Oh no, you won’t die like that, you’re going to watch,” he whispers, “Look in the mirror.”
Jeffrey’s horrified eyes focus upon his reflection as the mirror smears with blood. His body shakes, legs dancing across the hardwood. The spray of blood begins to slow. Peter holds him until the struggling stops. He relinquishes his grasp and lets the dead man crumple. Jeffrey lies with his legs pulled to his chest, eyes rolled back into his head, perfectly still save the occasional reflexive twitch.
Peter exits the washroom. His shoes and clothes are clean but his hands stain with blood. He makes his way through the kitchen and past Mrs. Carlyle to the sink. The faucets start with his pull and a rush of water flows forth. He washes the crimson blood from his hands.
Mrs. Carlyle stands from the table, setting the cards she holds aside and glancing back into the empty hallway where her husband should have passed.
“Father Peter, are you alright?”
Peter ignores her. He grabs a white rag from the counter and stuffs it into the drain. The water rises. He waits until the sink is full then shuts off the tap.
“Your problem is dealt with,” he says as he steps back from the counter.
“What do you mean?”
“Jeffrey will no longer poison you or your child.”
“Wha—what…what did you do?”
Peter pushes her aside and makes his way to where the deformed child lay. He slides his pale hands across the child’s twisted face.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Carlyle asks. Her body trembles.
“Jeffrey is dead.”
“No.”
Mrs. Carlyle turns to flee but Peter grabs her shoulder, pulling her to his side and locking his arm around her throat. He whispers in her ear as she kicks and bites his skin, calling out for her husband, anyone, to free her.
“Do you fear for your soul, woman?”
“Get off me!” she screams.
“Do you love your child?”
Mrs. Carlyle ceases her struggle.
“Do you love your child?” Peter repeats, loosening his hold.
“Yes.”
“How can he be saved when a nonbeliever polluted him so? Look at your boy.”
Peter shoves the terrified woman into the crib. She cries out from the impact and stares down at her baby. The wretched child opens one eye and begins to cry, a wild, gurgling sound.
“Look at it! Do you want your child to be saved?”
“Yes.”
“He is beyond that. This beast is a mockery of God. It must be destroyed.”
“No! Please, I beg you, just leave us and go!”
“It must be destroyed, dear girl, and you must do the deed.”
“No…”
“You brought this tortured creature into this world and so you must be the one to end it.”
Peter scoops the shrieking child up and shoves him into his mother’s arms. He drags her to the kitchen, hand locked around the nape of her neck the way one might carry a disobedient dog, and stands before the flooded sink.
“Kill the beast,” he says, tapping his curved blade against the child’s bare skin.
“Please—” she begs, eyes red and shining, tears falling without control.
“It is your only hope to save your child and your own soul. Kill it. Kill it or I’ll do it myself.”
Peter releases the woman and turns away. He stands outside the kitchen with back pressed to the thin wall. Mrs. Carlyle’s weeping reaches forth. The infant’s cries pierce the air with the sound of splashing water. Two voices cry together. Two becomes one. The splashing stops.
Peter enters the kitchen. Mrs. Carlyle lies shaking on the floor, dress soaked, blue eyes staring off. Peter glances at the floating dead thing and closes his eyes. He can feel the purity return to the house. The Lord is pleased, His will carried out.
Peter stares down at the broken woman.
“When the town asks, Jeffrey went insane, drowned the child and killed himself. You were never here. I was never here.”
Mrs. Carlyle nods. She stares down at her trembling hands.
“Good, Peter says, “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
Peter pauses at the front door, hand clasping the iron handle, and glances back.
“Make sure you lock this door. There are many bad people out nowadays and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. I expect you at mass tomorrow.”
Peter exits onto the porch and stops, breathing in the cool air, savoring the silence. He makes his way down the main road towards his church, path lit by the candles that blaze in the windows of his follower’s homes.
Man, that guy makes my skin crawl.