"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 creature 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 Anton 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. He chuckles as he wipes his nose.
The door to the carriage swings open and Michael stumbles out. wav "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 Michael."
"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 Charlie 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 Michael 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 angry red 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."
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 re-baptized. 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 re-baptized, surely you have not committed such grievous sins that you wish to be re-bathed 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 comfort, 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 as a line of goose bumps 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 the 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 of wood 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 wood 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 from sorrow. 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.”
***
"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 with a tightening of the jaw.
"Do you believe in evil, Father?"
Maxwell leans forward to match her stare.
"I do."
***
Robert and Jesse enter the dining hall. Michael 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 Michael 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. Michael’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 Michael 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," Peter replies.
"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.
"A long time. More than fifteen years, I believe. 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. Michael 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? Michael, is it?"
"I'm nine. Actually I'm still eight, but I'll be nine in about a week," Michael 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 sight never wavers. His eyes lock upon the child.
"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 continues. 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. Michael'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, Marcus, 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.
He waits.
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 evening 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, holding nothing but darkness beneath the light of the moon.
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 to light 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.
"What has been brought into this place?"
***
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, muscles flexed, 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's voice finally quiets.
"This town is mine."
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