Henri Ville

by M. Chris Benner

  Her gait was steady, stern once more.

  Chaim had been the only one to light his torch, and he was surprised when she took it from him, growing even more so as he watched Henri approach each man. She was lighting the torches in their hands. They were all now turned toward the gathering winds, the darkness sky, the swirling atmosphere. Some men didn't notice until the fire licked up and burned their hand.

  The center of the sky was spinning with such voracity that there were no edges, no boundaries, no distinguishable end. A sharp point broke out from the sky and fell to the earth like water spinning down a drain, whirling with tremendous speed and a dizzying grace, lowering further, wider, reaching, stretching. Novak watched it tenderly kiss the ground and lift back up as a foot might carefully test water. Then it struck the earth again, hard, and remained as if it had just found its footing. It may have initially pecked like an old, meager lover but now it was attacking the ground with the zeal of an overeager teenager, foregoing refinement and measure and patience to grab and claw and suck every inch. From deep within came a sideways flash of blinding light, one that whipped out and struck the heart of a distant pine-the echoing blast of thunder and crunching wood startled everyone, especially the horses. Novak was having a hard time with both his and Henry's horse but he managed to control their nervous fidgets enough to keep them together.

  The tornado had formed.

  Now it approached.

  There was an explosion as Chaim fired his cannon.

  This the men noticed and everyone followed suit, each igniting the fuse of any nearby cannon (there were more cannons then men, and some fired two) for a choir of explosions. Smoke obscured the storm for a moment but the men didn't notice. They were pairing up: stuffing gun power and new balls down the gullet of their cannons, adding fuses, readying their aim for a shot toward the middle of the top of the storm, where the wind tunnel had originated, where the clouds were darkest and Novak had seen a black rectangle.

  The next round of explosions weren't in unison, more staccato.

  The stench of smoked sulfur filled the air and burned their nostrils. The view was blocked by plum upon plum of black cannon smoke and, when it cleared, Henri saw that the struck pine was on fire. It bent where it had been struck and the nearest trees were beginning to smoke as the fire spread. Then, in an instant, the tornado was closer and the trees were pulled from the earth, roots and all, and tossed upward and around like they were nothing more than matchsticks.

  Henri had a feeling and looked back to find Novak minus two horses.

  He was on the ground and in immense pain.

  Henri blinked, and then she turned toward the other horses.

  Another cannon fired.

  And then another and another.

  The wind was pulling with such force?

  The other horses were split between two posts. One of the posts splintered from the repeated jerking and thrashing of the strong, panicked animals. Horses escaped. Some remained tied to hunks of wood. Henri happened to be watching when the top of the second post disconnected from the ground and more horses escaped.

  She blinked and then turned to face forward.

  Chaim fired a third cannon shot. He signaled the nearest men - the men nearest signaled others, who signaled others, who signaled others, until the message to abandon post had passed down the line to the final man - and Chaim turned, shuffling in an attempt to run toward the horses?

  The same sad expression crossed each man's face.

  Some of the men made it to the few horses left but they untied them and rode off alone, leaving a majority of the men abandoned. For a moment, they mulled about in a disillusioned stupor.

  One man took off running.

  Another followed.

  Then the rest, everyone running full sprint except Chaim - his old hips prevented any form of fast movement, his body too old.

  Henri didn't notice any of this.

  The tornado had grown larger, closer. It pulled with such force that she had steadied her weight to avoid being drawn forward.

  It was stronger, faster.

  Someone approached to her right?

  Chaim was doing his best to prevent himself from being pulled forward.

  Henri smiled at him.

  He gave her a short nod of acknowledgement.

  Someone approached to her left?

  Henri looked to the other side and found Novak, his face wincing in pain, a hand on his back.

  She smiled at him and he nodded back.

  She reached out and took the hands of both men.

  They would die together.

  The strength of holding one another's hand made it easier to steady against the pull of the wind, and all three fought against the pull a little bit less. Henri had never been this close before. It was deafening, the wind, and blinding, as well. Here hair, debris, loose clothes, the cannons, everything was being pulled up and out toward the eye of the tornado. They were being enveloped and it felt less like wind and more like water, like swimming.

  They were right at the edge-

  A loud CRACK of thunder came from somewhere unseen?

  And then the wind slowed?

  And the pull vanished?

  And the pin-point tip of the tornado vanished straight back up into the atmosphere as if the invisible drain had instantly reversed direction, an hourglass up-turned, the wind tunnel sucked directly up with enough speed and force that the eye of the storm took a chunk of the central clouds with it. Blue was partially visible through the massive, perfectly round hole it left in the center, and a thick ray of sunshine found its way through.

  Henri noticed the countryside was silent for the moment? then came the pings and thuds as clumps of soil rained from the overcast sky. The land was now shredded, grated, and ripped apart. There was little definition and not much to appreciate aside from a few gaping holes and fresh dirt.

  Chaim, Henri, and Novak continued holding hands.

  They didn't move and they didn't speak.

  Each of them was content.

  V

  The walk home started quite happy. Novak and Chaim spoke of Henri's beautiful face and how she'd never have to wear another bandana; then, they began long, elaborate descriptions of all the booze they'd drink. Henri remained silent. Hours passed and, little by little, the trek became more arduous until they walked wordlessly.

  Novak broke the silence after an hour when he said, in all sincerity:

  "Let's not do that again. Ever."

  Henri and Chaim grunted in agreement.

  "I may resign to a life of milking cows and picking carrots," he continued.

  There were no grunts this time and a new silence followed.

  The journey back was spectacularly uneventful, considering. It was a cloudless evening but the open hills and a star-filled panorama no longer supplied interest or calm. Novak's back still hurt from being thrown by the horses but the pain had downgraded from a sharp, incapacitating sting to a throbbing ache. Henri and Chaim, on the other hand, were exhausted and their entire bodies hurt. They had to take a fifteen minute break every fifteen minutes. It was many hours after dark before they saw the lights of Carpatheon.

  "Finally!" Novak exclaimed.

  A pause.

  "I'm sorry it didn't crash," Chaim told Henri in an apologetic tone.

  For the first time during the long walk, Henri spoke.

  "It's okay," she answered.

  "Where did it go?" Novak asked.

  "The Droit? Auto-destruct function prolly send it out of the atmosphere. This one, though?" He glanced over at Henri but spoke no further.

  "What about this one?" Novak asked, intrigued.

  Sighing, Chaim answered.

  "Those things usually just emit a distinct electro-magnetic wave to gather atmospheric data. And that's it, really. They're not designed to influence the atmosphere or track people. They're just number crunchers, out there collecting data to send back home. Like mechanical accountants, not r
eally capable of? much? else?"

  Chaim stopped talking.

  Something was approaching.

  The faint clop?clop?clop of mulling hooves could be heard.

  Henri looked up in the hopes that Dire had found her way home but, as it approached, she recognized the horse as a different breed entirely. And there was a drunkard slung over the saddle, wobbling with each step.

  Novak approached, making loud noises in an attempt to wake the unconscious man. He grabbed his arm to shake him but, at the slightest pull, the man slid from the horse and fell atop Novak, and then to the ground.

  There was a smear across Novak's face.

  "You got blood on your face," observed Chaim.

  "He cut me?" Novak asked, further smearing the blood across his forehead while checking for a wound.

  Chaim bent down.

  "This man's been shot." Chaim rolled the man onto his back. "A bunch of times, it would seem. And in the back, no less. Must have been trying to ride out when someone lit him up."

  He wiped his hand on the man's pants before standing.

  All three looked from the corpse to the town.

  "I got a bad feeling about this," Novak whispered.

  Chaim and Henri grunted in agreement.

  VI

  EARLIER THAT DAY

  Cant was walking along the row of stores, having just visited Marielle in Chaim's Saloon. They had a brief but positive conversation. He found it easier to stare into her eyes now when they talked.

  "Everything alright with you and that girl?"

  It sounded hard but Marielle was concerned.

  "Yes."

  "Always so few words," she said, polishing a glass with a clean rag. She set it down and used the tip of her thumb to wipe a dirt smudge off of Cant's cheek.

  And Marielle went back to polishing glasses.

  The day was especially dry and humid, the sweat causing his hat to stick to his forehead. Cant could see Drewbell in front of the boarding house, where she was standing with her brother, but she wasn't looking toward him.

  Their attention was together, down the road.

  Cant turned to follow their gaze.

  A large group of people were riding into town - so many it wasn't a group or gang but a parade - and they were all led by a man in a black hat. He kept the rim low and tilted so that only the left side of his face visible. There was a pink scar from eyebrow to chin. His lips carried a mischievous smirk. His attire was all black, a black overcoat and button-up vest with a white long-sleeved shirt underneath, and black pants recently pressed. He leisurely rode ahead of the others, of which there came more and more, twenty, thirty, forty - men, women, children - some walking, some trotting on horseback, and most of them with weapons drawn.

  The stores emptied out into the street to witness the procession of people.

  The man in the black hat rode toward the saloon. He was sitting upright, lazily bumping right and left with the horse. His right arm hung over his lap, a gun clutched in his hand.

  Drewbell and Cant couldn't see clearly.

  These intruders stopped in front of each building - outside the barbershop (which had no customers), the pool hall, the general store, the blacksmith, the hotel, the boarding house, the sheriff's office (where there was no sheriff), the dentist (where there was no dentist), the dressmakers, all of them - and they trained the sights of their weapons on the townspeople. The hostages were made up mainly of women and children, as the most virile men had headed out with Henri Ville, and they were helpless to the well-armed newcomers.

  In front of the pool hall, a scuffle broke out, followed by a gunshot that signaled the end to the Saga of the pool shark Roger Avery Daniels (one of the few men that remained behind). He died as liter in the street. A few of the assailants discarded his body in a blind corner behind the dentistry.

  The man in the black hat rode through town.

  A single rider followed close behind him.

  They both stopped at the end, in front of the Chaim's Saloon.

  Cant was on his toes, looking over the crowd.

  Marielle exited saloon and stood at the edge of the front porch. People came out behind her, patrons and barmaids. The man in the black hat stayed on his horse, facing the saloon and Marielle.

  She said something, her face strict but not yet angry.

  One word.

  A question:

  "Jonathon?"

  Behind Pastor Briarwood rode the young Jonathon William Beckett the third. He was dressed in the same attire as the Pastor, black vest with white undershirt, except no hat. He had followed behind, his eyes glaring at the town's occupants.

  The man in the black hat stared down at Marielle. His head lifted, the black eye-patch over his right eye becoming visible.

  The shot rang out seemingly before the gun had even been lifted.

  Marielle fell to the ground.

  Cant sprinted through the people and along the front of the stores to the place where Marielle had fallen. Women were kneeling beside her. Her daughter Rebecca was holding her up in her lap, hugging her from behind. Blood soaked the floorboards.

  Cant knelt close beside Marielle.

  "No, mama," Rebecca sobbed over and over, brushing the hair from her mother's face and caressing her cheek.

  Marielle's eyes were still open but it was clear she had fled.

  The man in the black hat watched everything as he shelled a hardboiled egg and began to suck on it; then, he turned and rode back through the town, which was now segregated on either side of the street, its residents secured behind a row of armed individuals - most with guns but others holding pitchforks and cavalry swords.

  The man continued at a leisured pace.

  "Well, I'll be darned?" and he checked each side with his left eye, "?if I don't see a lot of members of my old congregation." Calling, louder, "What we have here?is much worse than I thought. What we have here is a town full of the possessed, the possessed of the demoness!?"

  The man in the black hat stopped in the center of town.

  "And you call this place civilized?"

  He laughed heartily.

  "How can you call this a civilized town when you don't even have a gallows?"

  ***

  The unfinished barn was stripped of wood and a new gallows was built in the center of town, right in the street. It was built to execute five people at once, five wooden chairs underneath five nooses strung through five hooks. The ropes had little slack and the post was only a few feet taller than an average man but Pastor Rigby Briarwood admired the craftsmanship all the same.

  He remained on his horse, Jonathon William Beckett the third to his side.

  The townspeople had been gathered into one large, wide circle around the construction site. The New Parishioners surrounding them on all sides, forcing them to watch the building of the gallows even as their legs grew weak and tired, and the children became cranky or fell asleep in their mother's arms. Well-armed men were stationed around the parameter outside the town, as well, in anticipation of the return of Henri Ville and the men she had taken with her.

  Pastor Rigby Briarwood helped pass the time by reminding everyone just who he was. He spoke from his seat on a horse, trotting a constant circle, and refused to step off lest a Godforsaken storm smack down right in the center of town. He asked why his Old Parishioners had chosen to follow Henri. Why they had abandoned him in such a time of need. Why?

  ***

  The night Warminster Parish was destroyed, Henri stumbled blindly through the forest until she found a camp. She approached it with caution and emerged from the darkness at the edge of the camp to a greeting of gasps and one high-pitched scream. A dead silence washed over the people. Henri was stopped for the moment as she checked for weapons but everyone had frozen in place. She continued forward until she was in the middle of the large camp. "I am uh?" and she cleared her throat, shaking herself of insincerity, "I am here to offer redemption." Then she spoke louder, more genuine an
d less like a salesperson. "I come to offer?you, uh?wisdom." All attention was on her but she hadn't formulated an idea besides entering camp, no plan, no words. Henri Ville was winging it. "First - no man should cast stones. Any person whose speech leads to the murder or sacrifice of others is automatically wrong," and she stressed the last two words as if it was an obvious fact. "Have you never heard of the Crusades? The?other religious wars. Even the witch trials of Salem. Also-" and she lifted a hand, covering herself while pretending to cough (giving herself an extra moment of thought), then returned, "-also, any man claiming to hear God - that person is uh is speaking to you as a false prophet. It's breaking a commandment. And, just as a general rule, any church with its own gallows is automatically evil. Obviously, emphatically evil. Now?" and she lost her confidence a little, the lies on her breath a bit more apparent?except the camp is too enrapt to notice. "I destroyed that-the church. Using my uh?my heavenly powers. My-my special powers. But I do not speak to you as a representative of God. I speak to you as a?" and the words eluded her a moment, "?as a?as a representative of Good. That psycho back there hanging people - bad. I'm your beacon of good. And you don't have to follow me - it's easy. All you have to do is treat people well. Do things that you know are decent. You know? Help others. That's it. If you find yourself hanging someone at mass, you. are. doing. it. wrong. There is a reason law exists and there is a reason people are hired to uphold it. Stop. Persecuting. People."

  ***

  None of the Old Parishioners were given a chance to answer the Pastor's many questions (not that they would have) because his attention turned elsewhere.

  Four men were riding into town.

  The four rode the street a short distance before stopping.

  A blockade of armed strangers formed in the street and prevented further passage. The townspeople and Pastor Briarwood and the gallows were some distance away from the four riders, secluded and unable to make out much in the darkness. But they could all hear the unmistakable sound of a shotgun blast, and the silhouette of a rider fell from his house.

  A flurry of lead hit the air after, and the riders spun.

  Only one of the horses lived to flee.