Henri Ville

by M. Chris Benner

  Pastor Briarwood had turned long enough to watch the chaos in the distance but his attention returned to the crowd. He began to point at individual townspeople, and it was quickly apparent that he was handpicking the first group to be executed upon the gallows' completion.

  "How much longer, men?" he asks the burly few he had tasked with transporting the wood and resurrecting the gallows' pole.

  "Not long, sir," one of them grunted.

  More time passed, as Pastor Rigby Briarwood continued sermonizing to the townspeople and his New Parishioners.

  It hadn't been a full two hours before there was another ruckus, this time on the outskirts of town. No one could see what was happening, though it sounded as if there were a good deal of men. Hollering could be heard, the words indistinguishable, and then a long stream of gunfire.

  The group of New Parishioners stationed outside the town returned to the town center, passed through the group of silent townspeople, straight up to Pastor Briarwood, and informed him that the men had returned.

  "This time," they said, "nothing survived long enough to flee."

  Pastor Rigby Briarwood chuckled.

  "What about Henri Ville?" he asked.

  "She was not with the group."

  "Soon enough," he promised under his breath, loud only enough for Jonathon to hear. The two of them shared a smile together, both pleased at the idea of Henri Ville meeting a similar fate.

  The gallows were finished shortly thereafter.

  Pastor Briarwood ordered the three whores and two drunks he had handpicked for execution to step forward; when they refused, the New Parishioners pulled them from the crowd and stood them in front of the gallows. They fastened their hands together with rope and tied blindfolds over their eyes, and then marched them to each of the five ropes strung up through the gallows.

  "First we hang whores and drunks. Lust and Gluttony are sins," the Pastor called out, further condemning the five. To the Old Parishioners and the New alike, there was a lack of passion. Though he still spoke with fervor, there was a missing magnetism. He could draw listeners in with his words but now they were concise or sometimes bland or just facts. He was showing his boredom.

  The women were crying.

  The drunks were trying to reason to with their captors.

  Pastor Briarwood yawned.

  At gunpoint, the accused were helped onto the chairs beneath the gallows' ropes. When one of the men continued to refuse, the Pastor shot him in the belly and quickly picked another, seemingly at random, to take his place. The ropes were slipped down over their necks. And they were left to stand a brief moment. Five of the New Parishioners waited behind the chairs, each prepared to kick it out when given the signal.

  ***

  Jonathon William Beckett the third hadn't noticed until the Pastor handpicked her from the crowd. It was her red hair that had seemed familiar, a much darker shade than the Pastor's own vibrant red hair. Rebecca, one of the women from The Catlight Infinite. She had been handpicked as one of the whores to be executed first.

  Jonathon hadn't much enjoyed watching Marielle die.

  But the Pastor said it needed to be done, and he was always right.

  In the hours since her mother's death, young Rebecca could do nothing but weep; now, however, in those moments before her hands were bound behind her back and the blindfold was slipped across her eyes, she had finally stopped. Tears no longer fell. Hate filled her such as it never had before.

  Jonathon had been watching her when their eyes met in the moment before hers were covered. The look of heartbreak and anger in her glare sent a shiver through the young boy's body.

  ***

  "Would anybody like to say anything?" Pastor Briarwood called out to the townspeople.

  "What in the hell are you doin', boy?" called a distant voice.

  Others dissidence followed.

  Now that one had spoken up, and death was fast approaching, en mass, the townspeople began to voice their opposition. Their voices came louder. The people of Carpatheon were outnumbered and outgunned but the group began to throb, rejuvenated-and, as one, they all gasped!

  The signal was given.

  Each chair was kicked from beneath the supposed guilty.

  And the gallows came to life as three whores and two drunks began to hang. The wooden beam of the gallows pulled hard with the weight. The five hung by their necks, feet kicking, hands bound, struggling. The townspeople rushed in to help but shots were fired and weapons were lashed and they were helpless to watch.

  But then, as if by miracle, something splintered.

  The sides gave in with the pressure?

  And the gallows collapsed.

  Each of the five to be executed landed hard, some on their feet and some on their butts.

  Pastor Briarwood chuckled. He was mildly amused but still somewhat bored. To him, this was just the aperitif to the main course, which was soon to arrive.

  The gallows' collapse caused such a commotion, and the townspeople's disapproval was so loud, that no one had heard the noises steadily growing behind the town. As the ropes were removed from the necks of the whores and drunks, and the dust settled, and the people quieted a bit, there drifted a faint chug-chug-chug sound on the wind. Faint, then louder, then more faint-and then suddenly roaring loud enough that the whole town could hear - CHUG-CHUG-CHUG and faster and angrier, like a train headed right into town.

  Pastor Briarwood's attention squared on the direction of the sound. He made a quick motion and several New Parishioners disappeared down the alleyway beside the saloon, headed back toward the noise.

  Amidst the CHUG-CHUG-CHUG came three quick gunshots.

  Pastor Briarwood continued smiling.

  He motioned once again.

  More of the men headed back.

  CHUG-CHUG-CHUG.

  And one of the New Parishioners returned.

  "Someone started an old steam generator," he called out.

  Passion - loud, undying thirst - again filled Pastor Rigby Briarwood's eyes, and he hollered out in a booming voice:

  "She's here."

  VII

  Henri and Novak watched from the crowd as the gallows collapsed. Once it was determined that no one had been hurt, Henri relaxed her grip on Novak's arm. Then came the CHUG-CHUG-CHUGGING of the steam generator.

  ("That old bastard," Novak whispered under his breath.)

  Passion - loud, undying thirst - again filled Pastor Rigby Briarwood's eyes, and he hollered out in a booming voice:

  "She's here."

  A static excitement filled the air.

  Some were nervous.

  Others felt saved.

  Henri was moving through the crowd, closer to the gallows, closer to Pastor Rigby Briarwood. None of them had recognized her, not with her hair dyed black and cut shorter, not with her face uncovered. She had her hand behind her back. The collapsed gallows were to the right, with the Pastor in front. Novak was circling around the opposite way. Henri made it through the townspeople and emerged in a spot were two of the armed individuals had left to investigate the sound - they were still behind the buildings, searching. Henri could see Briarwood clearly. There were no more people between them. He was on a horse, shouting directions to the people nearest him. More were to go check out the noise. Some were to remain and hold the townspeople in place.

  The time was right.

  From behind her back-

  A FLASH of LIGHT.

  A dream-drowning, sand filling her nose and lungs, crunching in her mouth, rough against her skin-and Henri Ville woke gasping. Less than a minute had passed. She tried to sit up and found herself in the arms of the townspeople. They had caught her after the blow to her head. Jonathon William Beckett the third had been the only one to recognize her, and he pointed her out in the crowd to a New Parishioner standing nearby. The man casually approached from the side, lifted his gun handle in the air, and swung it down hard enough to knock Henri Ville unconscious. That same man was now
standing in front of her. As she came to and moved, he leaned in, grabbed her hair, and pulled her further into the street. Everyone - townspeople, Old and New Parishioners, men, women, and children - backed away at the sight of Henri Ville, all of them scurrying to the sidelines once again. Those with weapons stayed in front and those in back could have run, but every eye was on Henri.

  The Pastor stepped off his horse to congratulate Jonathon William Beckett the third by giving the young boy a brief hug and pat on the top of his head. He called over to the man that had hit Henri. "Good work, Michael. Now run and fetch the ax," he added. His eyes never left Henri's face. He licked his lips, handing the reins of his horse to Jonathon William Beckett the third. "Keep it close, in case we need to ride out quick."

  The first light of dawn grew on the horizon.

  Michael ran off to get the ax.

  Pastor Rigby Briarwood and Henri Ville stood face-to-face in the street.

  VIII

  EARLIER THAT DAY

  Henri, Novak, and Chaim snuck into town quite easily, as a large portion of the back area was unguarded. From the Apothecary's second floor, they could clearly see the gathered, helpless townspeople below, the guns and the mob, the Pastor and the gallows.

  "This asshole again?" Henri said, watching Pastor Briarwood circling on his horse. Novak and Chaim asked and she quickly summarized her previous encounter with the Pastor Rigby Briarwood of Warminster Parish.

  Chaim disappeared behind the bar counter and began lifting up several loose floorboards. There was a safe embedded between the second and first floor and, next to it, a large sack holding all the metals gathered from Carpatheon. He rooted through the bag and came back with several firearms. Henri got back her .38 Smith & Wesson, a gun that had grown to be her favorite, and Novak got a newer model Colt that had been one of the townspeople's.

  "I just need to get close to him," Henri said. "If he's gone, the rest won't have a leader. They won't know what to do."

  "Can we make a decoy? Some kind of distraction?" Novak asked.

  Chaim thought a moment; he again went to the floorboards and returned with a soot-covered metal chute.

  "How about we get that generator working?"

  There was a long, exasperated sigh from Novak.

  Chaim looked guilty.

  "I wanted to keep you busy," Chaim explained, patting Novak on his back. "I didn't want you stewing in your own funk."

  "So you disabled the generator?" asked Novak, both confused and angry.

  "Yup," Chaim agreed, nodding.

  There was a moment of silence while Novak grew angrier at the fool's errand that had been driving him crazy for weeks, and he awaited an apology, while Chaim stared peacefully back, hoping for some appreciation.

  Neither men got what they wanted.

  Both momentarily griped like children.

  "Why didn't you have me do something useful-"

  "You'd have just sat around whining like a petulant-"

  "-Hey!"

  Henri interrupted both men.

  "There's literally a town full of people in danger down there," she reminded them. "Stop acting like children and go!"

  Henri showed the two men out a back window of the apothecary, for them to climb down the side, unseen, and into the unlit back area. With Novak's help, Chaim quietly installed the missing piece to a section of the flume in the steam generator. He patted Novak's back afterward, once more, and reminded him it had all been an exercise to keep Novak busy, not to piss him off. The generator would work now. They lit the wood at the bottom of the chute and quickly ran off.

  When they returned to the second floor of the apothecary, Henri had finished polishing her gun. She was sitting quietly at the window, watching the town's people while rolling a cigarette. Chaim gave her a disapproving shake at the sight of the cigarette. "If this is the end, I'm going to at least enjoy it," she said of the rolled cigarette, which she tucked away. There was patience to her gaze as she greeted the men, informing them that she was ready. She admitted to having been exhausted - from the days before, from the fight with the Droit, from the long walk back - but she no longer appeared exhausted. Tired, yes, but there was measure, and willingness, and an odd acceptance in her eyes. This would be death or this would be life. She was ready, just as she had been earlier holding Chaim and Novak's hands. This was to happen, and it wouldn't have been brought on without her, just as it wouldn't end without her. Running wasn't any more an option than returning home, it would seem. This Pastor had followed her here and had followed her who knows where else and he would continue to follow her until she stopped him - one way or another, this would stop him.

  She stood up.

  "Okay, I'm ready to end this," she told the men.

  No one spoke, only weary nods.

  Her and Novak silently snuck out the front door and smuggled themselves into the crowd unnoticed while all attention was on the gallows. Chaim stayed back, aiming a rifle out the back window to shoot anyone investigating the sound of the generator. It took only a few minutes before men emerged through the back alleyway in search of the sound. He fired down on them in three quick shots and they fell where they stood; then, he returned inside to watch, in horror, as Henri was pulled out into the middle of the street.

  The Pastor was talking, approaching in front of her.

  Dawn was spreading - the sky was no longer black but a dark shade of blue.

  Chaim took aim but had neither the weapon nor the ability to hit the menacing figure in front of Henri. Scanning the crowd, he found Novak nearby, walking the line of townspeople to get closer.

  "Turn around slowly, old man," said a voice from behind.

  Chaim turned to find a man pointing a rifle at his midsection.

  "Okay?" Chaim said, showing the weapon and setting it on a nearby empty table.

  The New Parishioner cocked his weapon-PANG!-and out of the darkness came an iron skillet to hit the man square in the back of his head. As he dropped, the silhouette of a person took shape behind him; then, the silhouette of a second.

  "I knew you were up here."

  Drewbell was holding the pan while Cant was the one to speak.

  "Do you have a plan?" Cant asked. "Like Anson. Do you know what's going to happen next?"

  "Like Anson?" Chaim asked, unsure.

  "Yeah, Anson always knew what was going to happen next."

  "Kid, I don't know what you're talking about. Anson always thought he was gonna die, not that he ever had a plan to avoid it. Our plan is to stay alive. And to help Henri, if I can. My instincts say to run away-Actually, my instincts say to put these guns down and go stand behind Henri because?" Chaim stopped a moment, as if he said something he had thought but not realized.

  "What?" Drewbell questioned Chaim and his 1,000 yard stare.

  "Something's about to happen?" he answered.

  For the first time, Chaim understood how Anson felt all those times he was certain of things yet to happen. There were images? light, FLASHING? death? hazy but certain, foggy but approaching, clearing. His chin turned and his eyes looked upon the east, toward the dawn.

  Cant saw fear in the old man's weathered eyes.

  IX

  Henri was on the ground. Blood had filled her mouth from the blow. She hocked and spat out a glistening red that stained her lower lip. Like a boxer, she shook her head, gaining composure, and stood up. Pastor Rigby Briarwood flinched, reaching for his gun, as she removed something from her breast pocket - an undamaged, hand-rolled cigarette. With it came a match, which she struck against the bottom of her snake-skin boot. The tobacco lit up and Henri drew in the smoke, exhaling it through her mouth and nose. Smoke covered her face and, for a moment, she took on the features of something primordial.

  Rigby approached casually but had yet to draw his gun.

  "So we meet again, Miss Ville," he said, politely. He removed his hat and tossed it to the floor. The vertical scar on the left side of his face glistened pink. "I've been waiting t
o speak with you once more." He removed his black vest and tossed it to the floor, then unbuttoned his collar and sleeves. "I felt we left things on a sour note last time." He removed the eye patch over his right eye. His eyelids were open and the right eyeball was visibly rotted. As his left eye moved, so did the right - like a rolling marble of cloudy black. "Oh, this?" he pointed to his disgusting right eye. "Doctor said it would do more damage to take it out. Said I had to let it rot and fall out all its own. Worst part about it isn't the-the feeling of something rotting away inside your skull. It's that I can still see colors out of it. Fading. Mist. Purple. Blue. It fades more every day it rots inside my head."

  Rigby Briarwood was in front of her.

  Dawn was coming up behind her.

  "You ready to end this?" she asked him.

  "Absolutely," he smiled, adding, "and I like what you did with your hair." The man named Michael returned with an ax and handed it over. A quick, dismissive "thanks" and Michael returned to the crowd. Rigby held the handle and gently dangled the ax, swinging the heavy metal head to and fro at his side. "In case you decide to bring a storm down on everyone," Rigby said of the ax. "In case I need to destroy you lickety split. No ropes, not this time. No back. This time, you get to stare into my dying eye when I send you back to hell." He began to slowly circle Henri in the open street. The crowd surrounded them in wide circle, giving them plenty of space. His black eye darted up and down Henri's body. His mouth was twisted in a crazed sneer, his red hair matted with curled streaks pointing up like fire. His brow furrowed and then rose in excitement, as if he realized something no one else had. "Are you-" he started, flabbergasted, stopping, staring at her belly, "-are you pregnant? Do you-" he kept stopping in disbelief, "-d'you have an ugly little bastard inside you? A bastard hell-spawn?" He smirked, chiding her.

  Henri smoked her cigarette, waiting, watching him.

  Something about her relaxed posture concerned Rigby.

  "Don't you want to attack me?" he asked, agitated.

  "No," she answered.

  "Why?"

  She took a drag off her cigarette.

  "My name is Henri Ville," she said, her voice solemn, composed, "and you cannot kill me."

  "Well best I try anyway-ARRRGH!"

  The Pastor charged at Henri. His movement was fluid, heaving the ax up, back, and downward at an angle, a swing for the neck.