Brimstone

by Daniel Foster

  She screamed. It wasn’t an attempt to communicate this time, just a woman’s bloody scream of terror and anger. It demanded to be heard. It worked. The men hesitated and looked around. Garret’s limited strength was gone. He let go of Molly so he didn’t fall on her. Orem’s blows to the head were hurting a lot worse than they should have. Garret couldn’t sit upright. Found he couldn’t sit up at all.

  Molly was still screaming at them, and they were listening this time. After a rush of dizziness, Garret wound up with his head propped on Molly’s knees. “Garret?” she sounded anxious, afraid. “Garret can you hear me?” Then she barked at the sheriff, “Send someone to fetch the doctor!”

  “Doctor Bentley is dead, Ms. Malvern,” the sheriff replied. “Young Mr. Vilner killed him.”

  * * *

  Garret awoke to the sound of dripping water. Then the touch of something cool and wet on his forehead, and an unladylike roar, but definitely in Molly’s voice. “More water, Sheriff!”

  Garret opened his eyes, again, and tried to remember what had happened. He got a flood of images laced with blood and adrenaline.

  “Lay still, Garret.” It was Molly again, her voice quiet this time, but carried on the same steel. Her small hand lighted on his shoulder, pressing him into whatever he was lying on.

  “Ms. Malvern.” It was the sheriff, his voice cold. “Young Mr. Vilner is going back in that cell right now.”

  Garret felt the cool, damp cloth on his forehead and face, gently wiping away the blood. It seemed Molly was ignoring the sheriff. Garret blinked, and the room swam into focus. He was lying near where he’d fallen in the middle of the floor on an improvised cot of sorts, a pile of folded blankets and a pillow. When he opened his eyes, his vision was grey, but color was creeping back into it.

  Sheriff Halstead towered over Molly, glaring down on her and Garret. He was also sporting a fresh black eye, as were several of the town’s men, who circled closely behind him like angry vultures, but not too close to the large, angry Mr. Fix, who was sitting in a chair with his hands cuffed.

  Molly was kneeling by Garret’s side, and she continued to clean his face, as concerned about the sheriff and his angry pack of hyenas as she would be about a few sickly weeds grown through the floorboards.

  “Ms. Malvern,” the sheriff threatened, but Molly cut him off, quietly. Almost conversationally.

  “What do you think he’s going to do, Sheriff? Run away?” Molly’s anger was rare, but Garret had earned it on several occasions. He also knew what her sadness sounded like. But when she said the next sentence to the sheriff, she said it in a way that made Garret’s skin crawl.

  “Sheriff, you’ve hurt Garret so badly he can’t even stand.” There was a long pause before she said, even more quietly, “I will never forgive you for this. Any of you.”

  She turned and rose. Her diminutive form was less than half the size of any of the men in the room, but she faced them all down as if they were roaches she intended to crush. Garret expected her to break. She sometimes did when she was angry. Or at least for some tears to roll down her cheeks while she yelled. But she didn’t. There were no tears. No yelling either, just deathly calm.

  “Sheriff Halstead, you have known Garret since he was a boy. He did not kill Dr. Bentley. I will not tell you how ashamed you should be. All of you. Because if you do not already know, then you are not the men I believed you to be. You are not men at all. You are frightened toddlers, spooked by the shadow of death, and willing to vent your anger on someone like Garret, who can’t defend himself.”

  Her lips curled as she stared down each of the men in turn. “And there is nothing, children, nothing, I hate more than a cowardly bully.” She took a step into Halstead’s face. “This is how cowardly you are, Sheriff. This is how much you don’t deserve your station. Prove me wrong. Stop me if you dare.”

  Molly reached up, in plain sight of God and everybody, and took hold of the gold star on Halstead’s chest. Then, slowly, slowly, giving him plenty of time to stop her if he would, she ripped the star off of his green vest.

  She held the star up in front of the other men, dismissing Halstead. His mouth was open, his face ashen and blotchy. Molly held the star up and turned slowly about the stunned circle of the town’s men as she spoke with low measure.

  “As you know, my father owns this town, bought and paid for. He has no sons. My older sister is dead.” Her veneer cracked when she said it, her lip crumpled, but her recovery was almost instantaneous. “Who do you think will inherit his empire when he dies? Who do you think will own this town?”

  She let the question hang. Garret stared at Molly as if seeing her for the first time.

  Molly stepped slightly to the side, still keeping herself between the men and Garret, but letting them see the pathetic, bloody little blacksmith on the floor. “And,” she said, “who do you think I have chosen to stand at my side?”

  Molly’s strength began to give way as she finished. “I’ll never forgive any of you for what you’ve done to him. Never. Don’t ask. Don’t try.”

  Molly turned and sank back down in front of Garret.

  “All of you,” she said. “Get out of my sight.”

  After a breathless heartbeat, they went, shuffling quickly out the door, everyone but the stripped sheriff and Mr. Fix, who had a thoughtful expression on his face. The badge slipped from Molly’s fingers, thunking against the wood as heavy and solid as a piece of gold.

  Fix turned his thoughtful gaze from Garret and Molly to Halstead. Fix stood, towering over the sheriff, and wordlessly extended his cuffed hands. The sheriff’s face went from ashen to red, but he angrily fished the keys off the broken desk and unlocked the cuffs. Then he yelled out of frustration, “Somebody killed Jerry Bentley!”

  Fix looked at Halstead for a second, then, still thoughtful, left without a word.

  “Yes,” replied a weary voice, coming in through the door. “But I’m afraid the girl is right, Sheriff.” It was Dr. Grey, the young handsome veterinarian, wearing his perfect grey vest and trousers. “Mr. Vilner didn’t kill Doctor Bentley. I did.”

  * * *

  It took Halstead several seconds to find his tongue. Grey was tired, and appeared annoyed by the wait. Finally Halstead bent, snatched his star up off the floor and said, “You’re going to have to explain that statement, Dr. Grey.”

  Grey took a breath as if steadying himself, not for a brush with death, but for a conversation which was both beneath his intellect and a waste of his time. “I killed him, Sheriff. I shot him in the head.”

  “What… You shot Doctor Bentley in the head? Are you telling me you committed murder, Dr. Grey?”

  Grey frowned. “You have blood on your clothing, so I assume you saw at no great distance what the bear did to Dr. Bentley?”

  Halstead pinned the badge back on his ripped vest, stabbing himself once in his frustration. Grey took Halstead’s lack of denial as an affirmative. “I arrived moments after Mr. Vilner did. He entered the house to check for the doctor, so I went round the back to do the same. The bear was devouring the poor doctor alive, so yes, after running off the bear with the first three shots, I shot Dr. Bentley in the head.”

  Halstead put his hands on his hips, his chest slowly rising back to normal size. “So you are admitting to having committed murder?”

  “Have you listened to a word I’ve said, Sheriff? By the time I arrived, the bear had ripped away the ventral portion of Dr. Bentley’s rib cage and had eaten most of his intestines. There was nothing left to save. Dr. Bentley was dead even while he lived. There wasn’t enough of his body left to put him back together. He was screaming in agony, begging for mercy. The only thing left to do was a bullet…”

  The weight of the whole horrid circumstance seemed to pile on Grey all at once. He tried to bear up under it with his normal graceful detachment, but his voice broke.

  “A bullet… was all I could do for my friend.”

  Molly and Garret were still huddled on th
e floor, and suddenly Garret started crying. Crying in both sickness at what Grey had said, and relief that he had said it. Garret didn’t know much about laws or trials or juries, but he knew Grey had admitted to killing Bentley. So Garret wasn’t going to hang for it. No jail. No hanging.

  In all Garret’s dealings with Dr. Grey, he had never seen him lose his composure, but it shattered now. His reserve was replaced by guilt. His aloofness replaced by revulsion. Regret. Garret and Molly helped each other stand, and together, they left the two men alone.

  * * *

  Outside, the night was cruelly cold, and the movement flared Garret’s various injuries into vengeful throbbing. He could feel them all now, the aching in his joints where he’d tripped and fallen and been knocked from the wagon, though he still couldn’t recall how it had all happened. Garret and Molly leaned on each other as they stepped through the door, but it became obvious that Molly was supporting Garret more than vice versa. Garret wanted to say something, but “I love you Molly” was all he could get out. It kept coming out, over and over.

  She tried to acknowledge him, then shush him after the first few times, then she just let him talk.

  “Antonia?” The voice came from down the boardwalk. It broke Garret out of his feedback loop.

  “Antonia! Where have you been? Your mother and I have been worried sick!”

  “Daddy, Garret was in jail! Halstead threw him in there. He had no right!”

  Molly helped Garret sit down on the edge of the boardwalk. Garret dully noted one of the Malvern’s carriages, gleaming in the low light, tethered to a nearby hitching post.

  “I don’t care what happened to the blacksmith’s son, Antonia! I care about you!” Round, red-faced Mr. Malvern jostled to a stop beside them. He started shucking his wool suit coat. “You’re going to catch your death of cold, Antonia! Into the carriage at once.” He draped the jacket over her thin shoulders.

  “Daddy, Garret needs a doctor!”

  “As will you, young lady, if you chill any further. Your skin feels like ice. Into the carriage. Now! Mrs. Calvert’s inn is close and she always keeps a pot of cider on the stove. I will get you some, you will drink it, and we will head directly for the house.”

  “I’m fine. We have to get Garret to a doctor. For God’s sake, he doesn’t even have a shirt on!”

  They were standing over him, arguing. Garret felt Molly’s hands place the rich wool jacket over his shoulders. It was deliciously warm.

  She needs it back, Garret thought sluggishly. Her father was right. She was going to freeze. He stood and clumsily removed the jacket and held it out. Her father was bustling her down the boardwalk towards the carriage, leading her by her arm. Garret followed dumbly, shivering, holding out the jacket. “Molly…”

  “Molly?” Came Mr. Malvern’s dumbfounded voice. “Is that what he calls you?”

  Molly planted her feet, bringing herself and her father to a halt. “Daddy! He’s hurt badly. He needs a doctor now!”

  Mr. Malvern tugged on her arm, firmly. “The blacksmith’s family can send for Dr. Bentley. Now we’re going.”

  Molly stamped a foot. “Dr. Bentley’s dead!”

  There was a pause.

  “Jerry Bentley?” Mr. Malvern asked.

  “Well how many ‘Dr. Bentleys’ do you know?!”

  Garret caught up to them and tried to climb clumsily back onto the boardwalk. Mr. Malvern’s carriage horses were stamping. Unsettled by the humans’ rising tempers.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Daddy! There’s no one around here. You have to send for Dr. Sommerville from Branton. He’s the closest physician now. In the meantime, I’m going back in there,” she pointed at the sheriff’s station. “To get Dr. Grey.”

  Mr. Malvern angled his head in consternation as if Molly had begun speaking Greek. “The cow doctor?”

  “Better than nothing,” Molly said. “Sommerville will take hours to get here.”

  Mr. Malvern was hardening. It was an ugly thing to see, because it didn’t fall over him, it welled up from deep inside him. “Which is why we are doing no such thing. We are going—”

  She cut him off. “Which is why we have to stop wasting time!”

  Garret tried with wooden fingers to drape the jacket around Molly. He dropped it.

  “Garret, put that back on,” she barked, before rounding on her father again. “Daddy, I have to go get Dr. Grey. Let me go!”

  Mr. Malvern dragged her towards the carriage without another word.

  And then, with one small noise, Garret and Molly’s world changed forever. Garret would eventually realize that her father never meant to hurt her, but in his businessman’s determination, he forced her off the boardwalk and towards the carriage, wrenching her arm.

  She yelped in pain.

  Garret had Mr. Malvern by the wrist, crushing the pudgy appendage with a rage-fueled blacksmith’s grip, forcing him to release his hold on Molly. To gain distance between them, Garret flung Malvern’s wrist away from Molly. Malvern stumbled up against his carriage.

  “Don’t touch her,” Garret seethed. As he advanced on Mr. Malvern, the strange change began come over him again, but stronger than before. Not only did his vision lose its color, but his mind began to dismiss human reason. His sense of smell sharpened to an eye watering intensity. Strength flooded his wrecked body.

  But hands were on him. Soft hands. Molly was touching his shoulders, his neck, trying to hold him back. She wrapped her arms around his chest, and to keep from hurting her, he stopped. She turned him around, and her wide-eyed face filled his colorless vision. Her tears shone like blade edges as she talked him down.

  “Stay with me, Garret. Stay here. Come back, okay? It’s alright. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

  Her hands were on his face, then smoothing his hair. On his neck, on his chest, back on his face again.

  “Listen to me, Garret. Stay with me. It’s going to be okay.”

  Maybe she was right. She was so soothing. He believed her. Slowly, his breathing, which had risen to a pant, fell back to normal. His hyper-senses fled him, and color returned to Molly’s face. His weakness and pain returned to him as well. She hugged him tight. She was shaking. Mr. Malvern stood to the side. He was holding a sawed-off shotgun, which he had pulled from under the carriage seat.

  On his wrist, which barely had the strength left to support the truncated weapon, Garret saw the red marks rising from Garret’s grip. They would be black and blue and spreading up Mr. Malvern’s arm by the morning.

  Horror flooded Garret. Molly had single handedly beaten the town’s men because they all knew she was right. Her father owned the town. He owned them all. This was Appalachia, where the timber and coal barons controlled the towns in ways European monarchs could only dream of. There was nothing Mr. Malvern couldn’t do, inside the law or out. Everyone who lived in the town did so because Malvern allowed it. Everyone who made a living in the town did so because Malvern profited by it.

  Garret had just assaulted him, injured him, and come between him and his daughter. Garret became so frightened of what he’d done that the shotgun seemed like small issue. The gun could only kill him. Malvern’s money and influence could destroy his brother’s life and his parents’ lives in ways limited only by his imagination.

  Garret held his hands out. “Mr. Malvern I’m… I’m so sorry. You were… I didn’t want you to hurt her. I was just trying to…”

  “Antonia!” Malvern barked through gritted teeth. “In the carriage. Now.”

  “Go,” Garret said to her. After looking between Garret and her father, she did.

  Mr. Malvern mounted the carriage behind her. He didn’t bother keeping the gun aimed at Garret. Malvern grabbed the reins, but Molly was climbing down off of the carriage.

  “Antonia!”

  She ran to Garret, unfolding the heavy horse blanket as she came. She threw it around his shoulders, and with tears in her eyes, she laid a hand on his cheek. “It’ll b
e okay,” she whispered.

  “Antonia!!!”

  She was back on the carriage and gone. Garret stood in the dark, in the rutted mud of Main Street as the Malvern’s carriage rattled away as fast as Malvern dared to push the horses.

  Garret should have known better than to do what he did next. He should have known Molly would only be scolded and that would be the end of it, but she and Sarn were all Garret had in the world. He was too afraid something might happen to her. He just needed to know she was safe. At least, that was what he told himself.

  As soon as the Malvern’s carriage was out of sight, Garret pushed his aching body forward. He had to go slowly because the cold was settling into his bones, but one step at a time, he followed the Malverns towards their mansion.

  Chapter 11

  Germany, 1589

  Nose to the ground, Youngblood prowled through the brush around the edge of the clearing. His stomach churned with hunger. He hadn’t eaten in three days, and the fur on his back was matted with burs. He kept sniffing along, hoping for something—anything warm and tasty—that wouldn’t take him too far away from the tree den in which Gerda lived.

  The tree den sat quietly under a high sun, which was harshly bright but not warm enough to knock the chill from the air. Time of White Ground would be soon coming, bringing its cold with it, but Youngblood wouldn’t survive half so long without food.

  Beneath a patch of low-growing herbs, he caught a whiff of rabbit. He salivated and his stomach growled, ordering him to follow the scent into the forest. He obeyed but only for a few yards. He glanced over his shoulder. Gerda’s tree den was shrinking, disappearing among the trunks. Youngblood sat and whined, panted with hunger. Drooled on the dirt.

  Frustrated, he dug hard after an insect crawling through his matted fur, and ate it. Some parts of his body he could groom, but he’d always had his sister to do most of it for him, and he for her. Now she was gone. His whole pack was gone. He whimpered, stifled a despairing howl. He mustn’t make noise.

  But he had to eat. His back legs were already getting the quivers. Maybe if he went quickly; ran, ate, and returned as fast as possible, perhaps nothing would happen. Youngblood broke into a sprint fueled by the ravenous need to eat, as only a predator can truly know it, but no sooner had he taken ten strides away than he heard a short cry from the clearing.