Red Rider Revolution

by Randall Allen Dunn

  Touraine, Father Vestille, and even Pierre hung their heads. I had to make them understand what was happening. But how could I, when I didn’t understand it myself? How could Simonet’s body be in that casket after I saw him alive, twice? What did it all mean?

  “I trust you are enjoying the view, Helena,” said a soft voice behind me.

  I whirled and threw my back against the door.

  Siegfried Simonet stepped forward from the dark shadows of the opposite wall, studying me with his beady hawk-like eyes. Father DuChard crept up beside him as they both grinned like demons. Where had they come from?

  I shouted through the bars, “They’re in here! Simonet and DuChard! They’re both in here!”

  “Rant all you like, Helena,” Father DuChard gloated, his hands folded beneath his belly. “They’ve already seen the inside of this carriage. They know it’s empty.”

  He marched at me. I tried to back away but he grabbed the back of my neck and forced my face against the bars. Pierre and the others continued to argue with Lieutenant-General Vitton as he waved at the carriage.

  “Ya-Hyaah!” the driver called from above, as a whip snapped at the horses and we began rumbling away.

  I recognized his voice. It was the same man who drove Simonet’s coach earlier today. The coach from which Simonet had disappeared.

  “Say good-bye to your friends, Helena,” DuChard said.

  “Help!” I called through the window. “They’re in here! They’ve got me! Help me!”

  They all stood there, helpless and unmoving. There was nothing they could do. Pierre’s hands hung limp at his sides, while Father Vestille folded his hands, perhaps praying, facing me as our wagon rumbled down the path.

  “Please continue, Helena. Show them how desperate you are. You’re only demonstrating why you belong in our care.”

  I struggled to break free but he held me firmly in place as we jostled away from the graveyard, away from anyone who could help. “In your care? What are you talking about?”

  “We’re taking you to your new home, Helena,” he said proudly. “At Asile de DeSarte.”

  I gasped. “No.” I turned back to the barred window, but it was too late. We turned a corner and the townspeople vanished. Pierre and Touraine and even Father Vestille were replaced by trees and darkness. I struggled to free myself but it was useless.

  Father DuChard delighted in my attempts to wriggle free. “Yes, that’s exactly right, Mademoiselle. We are transporting you to the DeSarte Asylum.”

  35.

  The carriage rumbled along the road leading out of La Rue Sauvage, away from anyone who could help me or know the real truth. I had no escape. Once we had vanished from the sight of any witnesses, Father DuChard finally released me. I sat on the floor near the door, resigned to my fate. Or still trying to figure it out.

  Father DuChard joined Simonet on the opposite wall, gloating as they regarded me.

  “I’m sure you have several questions, as to how we managed to bring you here,” Father DuChard began. He smiled at Simonet. “We took great pains to capture you. Of course, we could have killed you, several times. But that would not have been sufficient.” He stepped forward, hands folded behind his back. “You made a name for yourself, Helena. This ‘Red Rider’ legend has spread throughout the provinces, and I don’t mind confessing that it’s spooked a few of our order. But no longer.” He knelt in front of me and grabbed hold of my chin, squeezing hard on my cheeks. “You won’t be a bother to anyone anymore. Will you, Helena?”

  I yanked my face away as he released me.

  He chuckled and stood, strolling back toward Simonet. He moved to the corner of the far wall and pressed both hands against it. He then pulled his hands across, making the entire wall slide sideways. Revealing a hollow space behind it.

  “Simple, isn’t it, Helena? I have learned several illusions, though I lied about performing them for children at the mission. Or about belonging to any mission or priesthood. My public role

  – whenever anyone cares to see me – is that of Director of the Asile de DeSarte. Treating those who are mentally unstable, suffering from delusions such as men changing into wolves. Or dead men like Simonet here, coming back to life.”

  “How did you do it?” I asked, breathless. “I shot him. We all saw his body in the casket.”

  Simonet simply grinned as Father DuChard laughed. “You thought you killed me, child,” Simonet said. “Haven’t you noticed I lost my paunch?”

  It was true. When we fought at La Maison, he had developed a gut, but now he appeared slim again.

  He put a hand on his stomach. “Another of DuChard’s tricks. I wore a false cushion, made of material that looked and felt like flesh, with a packet of berries and an oily mixture to look like blood, when you shot me.”

  “That false stomach protruded enough to allow a crossbow bolt to sink into it,” DuChard explained. “And enough to tempt you to shoot Simonet there, as the simplest and most obvious target.”

  Simonet’s eyes burrowed into me, looking equally thrilled and malicious. “It was quite difficult to remain still until Séverin

  – as ‘Father DuChard’ – took me away to prepare my body for burial.”

  DuChard laughed, putting a hand on Simonet’s shoulder. “What we actually buried was a figurine, made of wax and stuffing. Although not much different from the stiff original, is it?”

  DuChard turned away with a chuckle. Simonet watched him, no longer smiling.

  DuChard continued, like a general explaining his battle victory. “With tonight’s darkness, when the body was right there in the coffin where it should be, no one would realize that it wasn’t Simonet, but only a clever facsimile. You couldn’t even tell the difference while you were stabbing it.”

  My chest heaved in and out, my heart beating hard. In the rush of the moment, that figurine felt just like a human body, and I was the closest to it. If it fooled me, it would certainly fool everyone else, even now.

  No one would be coming for me.

  “What about –?” I stopped myself, hearing the croak in my voice. “What about Pierre? How did you get control of him, to make him attack me?”

  “The simplest trick, Mademoiselle,” DuChard said, spreading his hands. “Why do you think I chose to pull those magic coins from behind Pierre’s ear? I needed his hair. A simple tug gave me enough to put a curse on him and take over his mind.”

  I heard my breath, blowing in and out of my nose, my mouth, as we rumbled along. “Where are the Serrones?”

  “You’ll see them soon.”

  I tensed my body to keep from trembling. That was what Hugo DaVorre meant at the Serrones’ house. You’ll join them soon enough. The Lycanthru had this planned from the beginning. Every step perfectly calculated to capture me. And I walked right into it. I had no way of escape, and no one to help me. Before long, everyone in La Rue Sauvage – even my closest friends – would believe I had gone insane.

  “So,” DuChard said, folding his hands over his belly. “Any questions, Helena?”

  I hung my head.

  He stepped forward, squatting down before me. “Not even one? From such a curious girl?”

  “Only one thing,” I muttered toward the floor.

  “Of course, my child. What is that?”

  I rolled sideways, putting all my strength in a kick to his face.

  He grabbed my ankle before it connected with his jaw. “Nice try, Helena.” He twisted my foot, sending a shooting pain up my thigh and hip as he forced my body to roll the rest of the way. I landed hard on my hip, unable to get any leverage with my wrists and arms tied.

  He held my thigh down and twisted my foot further. Pain shot all the way up the back of my neck as I ground my teeth. He released me and pushed me against the wall. “Finished, Helena? Any more questions?”

  “No,” I said in a sulking tone.

  DuChard looked back at Simonet. “What do you think, Simonet? Is our little Helena done?”

&nbs
p; Simonet narrowed his eyes at me, studying me. Using his skill at reading facial expressions to figure out what I was thinking or planning.

  “No,” he said with a smile. “Not in the least.”

  “Well, then, we have some work to do.” DuChard slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “Enjoy the ride, my dear. You’ll have a busy schedule, once we reach the asylum.”

  He returned to the opposite side of the cabin and sat on the floor, glancing happily to one side as Simonet joined him.

  There was nothing more to say. No further threats or gloating needed. My fate was sealed, and we all knew it.

  So we sat in silence, rumbling along toward my final destination.

  Toward the prison where I would live out the rest of my life.

  MY PRISON

  36.

  Seated on the wooden floor, leaning against the cold wall, I stared through the bars of our wagon’s rear window. Watching the trees pass by in the darkening night.

  Watching my life fade away.

  Father Vestille. Pierre. Touraine. Madame Leóne. Everyone in La Rue Sauvage. Gone. Seated in the corner beside me, Simonet and Father DuChard – or rather, DuChard – remained silent throughout the journey. But I knew they still wore the same smug grins that had burned into me every time I stole a glance in their direction.

  And w hy shouldn’t they gloat? They had won. Thanks to Father DuChard’s clever charade, everyone I had protected, everyone I loved, would think I had gone mad. I almost believed it myself for a moment. My old legacy of heroism, of saving the province, even the nation, would soon be forgotten, and so would I. No one would ever know that I had not lost my mind, but had been discredited and captured by the Lycanthru, to live out my days in their asylum.

  I would be nothing.

  How long before I forgot my friends as well, in captivity? Months? Years? We had reached the gnarled trees of DeSarte a short while ago. I recognized the crumbling walls of a few shops and other landmarks as we passed through town. I considered crying out for help to alert someone. Yet when I sat up a little higher with that thought, and DuChard and Simonet remained seated and calm, I knew it would be a wasted effort. No one would believe I was a sane and innocent girl trapped in the back of a coach headed toward the asylum, even if they knew me. Besides, nearly everyone in DeSarte was a Lycanthru.

  It was over. I did all I could. More than anyone else had even attempted. I even managed to save our province, barely escaping with my life. But I had no strength to do it again, even if I could. The Lycanthru had proven too strong and too clever. I could never defeat them.

  No. I couldn’t let these thoughts seep into my spirit. I had defeated them. Beaten them back. Destroyed them all. I could do it again, somehow. There had to be some way to escape.

  I prayed to find it quickly. Before the Lycanthru returned to La Rue Sauvage.

  “Ah, here we are,” DuChard said, as if welcoming me to a banquet.

  The coach rolled to an abrupt stop, the horses whinnying in protest. I heard the driver’s footsteps as he strode to the back door and opened its padlock while DuChard and Simonet stood to their feet. I did the same. Whatever was about to happen, I wanted to be ready to face it, or run.

  They each grabbed my arms as the door opened, then hoisted me off my feet like I was a sack of sugar. I kicked at their chests at they stepped down from the coach, but they laughed off my blows. The coach driver grinned at me with wicked delight. I recognized him as the short man who steered Simonet’s carriage earlier. He folded up his whip with care as he studied me. “Hope you enjoyed your journey,” he said. “I’ll settle the horses and join you in a few moments, Lord DuChard.”

  “Do that, Garroche,” DuChard said as we moved forward.

  Something snapped in my memory. Garroche. He was the wolf who captured me at the cave, snaring my wrist with his whip. Over my shoulder, Garroche grinned as he looped his whip together, over and over.

  They tugged me to the double doors. DuChard seized one of its twin iron rings and knocked.

  A thin peephole slid open and a man’s cold eyes peered out.

  “We have a new resident,” DuChard said proudly.

  The man behind the door chuckled at me, then slid the peephole shut and the door creaked open.

  The stone walls of the foyer were dark and musty, leading to another set of closed oak doors. The men tugged me inside as the main door slammed shut behind them, so fast it threatened to snuff out the twin torches blazing overhead. The doorman hurried to open the next set of doors as Simonet reached out a hand to help him.

  “Welcome to your new home, Helena,” DuChard said.

  The doors parted, revealing a long dark corridor lined with sporadic torches. Some man was screaming in agony far beyond it. A tall Lycanthru wolf stood upright beneath one torch, looking bored, apparently a guard. He grinned at our approach. “Well, well. Congratulations, Lord DuChard,” he said.

  “Thank you,” DuChard answered with a nod. They moved me past the guard to the end of the corridor, where DuChard took out keys to several locks the covered another set of doors. Those doors led to another corridor, as decayed and crumbling as the first, as though untended for years. Except that this one contained several doors along each wall, and the screaming grew louder. I could smell sulfur and heard something hissing as we passed by the doors. Brilliant torchlight emitted from within one of them.

  That was where the screaming came from.

  We passed by it as the cries became too loud and highpitched to bear. Inside, a bearded man stood with his hands stretched and tied above his head, his legs spread apart and bound. Behind him stood Monsieur Strineau, the man who claimed Claudette was his missing daughter. He held a searing iron poker that smoked from its bright orange end, as he circled his victim. Glistening red welts stood out among the scars that crisscrossed the man’s bare chest.

  “Marceau,” DuChard said with a hint of pride. “One of our more difficult inmates. I’m sure you’ll both get along well.”

  Another familiar name. Marceau.

  I gasped. He was the young man the Serrones mentioned. Who came to their home to hide, just as I had. But then the DeSarte police trumped up false charges and had him committed to the asylum, from which he never returned. When he was only sixteen years old.

  About thirty years ago.

  They tugged me to the end of the hall, through another door that had to be unlocked. We entered another long hall, with a balcony bridge that overlooked an enormous hall on our right. Its floor was empty, but it had thick oak doors beneath archways that looked large enough to drive animals through. The far end of the stately room contained a series of tiered steps, leading to a white marble throne, with smaller throne-like chairs flanking it, like an arena from the ancient Roman Empire.

  “Impressed, Helena?” DuChard asked as I stared at the angled rows of seats facing the empty area below. “I’m sure you’ll be even more impressed by it tomorrow night.”

  We reached the end of the passage and unlocked yet another door. The wider corridor beyond it seemed darker and mustier than the previous ones. Halfway down it, Madame Strineau stood with her hands on her hips, pacing. Turning as we entered, she stopped and smiled at me, clasping her hands together. “Well, well, well, Lord DuChard. What have you brought me to play with?”

  I backed away from her wild eyes and flash of teeth. Something about the sheer thrill she took in that moment terrified me. She didn’t just want me for the Lycanthru. She wanted me for herself.

  DuChard and Simonet pulled me forward, my slippered feet scraping along the stone floor.

  DuChard drew close to my ear. “She has a certain way about her, doesn’t she, Helena? You’ll soon learn all about her ways.” He lifted his head. “Yes, Liana. I told you we’d come tonight. I assume you’re all ready for her?”

  She folded her hands and almost hopped in place as I was tugged past her. “Ready and eager, my Lord, for the last hour.”

  “Then let’s not keep
our curious visitor waiting,” he said.

  They opened five locks on a door and creaked it open, then forced me inside. The room was large, cold and damp. It looked like a dark version of Pierre’s blacksmith shop, with walls of stone instead of wood, and strange metal tools with clamps and hooks on a nearby table. A plate of cooked lamb sat among the sharp instruments, its inviting smell providing a stark contrast to its ugly surroundings. A larger table sat in the center of the room, with four leather cuffs at either end of it.

  Where they would fit a person’s wrists and ankles.

  “Do you like your new bed, Helena?” Madame Strineau said behind me.

  I backed against DuChard and Simonet in a desperate effort. They seized my arms and hoisted me onto the table. Madame Strineau stood close to my ribs with a straight razor. I struggled to edge away from her, but DuChard was too strong.

  “Try not to be difficult, Helena,” he said with less amusement. “You’ve been difficult enough. Time to pay the price for your arrogance.” He held me down as Madame Strineau cut the ropes off my arms and Simonet secured my hands and feet.

  I tugged against the leather straps but they had no give. I strained a few more times, until Madame Strineau appeared above me, enjoying my struggles.

  “Oh, Helena, dear,” she purred. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to have you here. Normally, I only discipline men, which has its own unique appeal. I’ve never had a young girl to train.” She stroked my cheek. I pulled away, but she seized my face, squeezing my jaws and forcing me to face her. “Yes, girls have different weaknesses, different fears, different pain. I’m going to break your spirit, my little dolly. In ways that only another woman can.”

  I clenched my teeth against her painful grip. “You’re no woman. You’re a monster like the rest of them!”

  DuChard stomped forth with a grimace and slapped me. The room spun before my eyes as I tried to focus, to shut out the pain. “Watch your tongue, child,” he warned.

  “Now, now, my Lord,” Madame Strineau was saying softly to him. “I can handle our obnoxious little Helena.”