Beast

by Thomas Castle

  Sir James balled his fist when a knock fell across the hall and the front door opened. Councilwoman Wilma stepped in with a black veil laced across her face. She lifted the shroud to a mane of wrinkles that hung around her lips and smiled. Wilma dropped the black purse knitted between her hands and laughed as she threw out her arms around Sir James.

  “He’s gone!” she cried with laughter. “The heavens be thanked. He has vanished.”

  “The boy?” Sir James asked as he pulled back and glared into her eyes.

  “Who’s gone?” Fierro asked. She looked to the captain with her pale eyes, then turned back to Sir James. She took his face in her hands and grinned.

  “The mayor. Elton La Noire has vanished” she said when Sir James slapped her hands away. She broke out in laughter and twirled with arms outstretched, dancing like a hyena in heat. “Once the news reached him he shut up in his home; no one was allowed to see him. Stagecoaches moved to and from his house all night long. We all thought it was relatives visiting, or material for the boy’s service. But, ah ha! Our mayor has fled his position and abandoned this town with his despair.

  “Now, James, his office is yours. Succeed him, and in turn for my support appoint me assistant mayor.”

  “Are you sure of this?” Sir James asked, studying her, searching for any glint of foolery. She pulled the veil all the way back to the gray roots leaching from her scalp, and once more took Sir James’ face in her hands, bringing his forehead to her lips.

  “He’s gone, James. His page confirmed it this morning. Looters took anything left behind. Children have stoned out the windows. Not even the deputies are investigating. It’s done.”

  “My word” Sir James gasped. He went to Fierro and shook his hand. “We are free men. Death, you mope, sting another day!” he shouted as he bucked across the room, spirited with freedom.

  “Let’s wait and see how the town responds to the matter first” Fierro said.

  “Wait?” Wilma replied. “No, no, dear man. Strike while the iron is hot. He will be mayor. Let the whole village hear him; as mayor he will be under the scrutiny of no man.”

  “What about Luis?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead” Sir James replied.

  “Yes” Fierro said.

  “Well then?” Wilma asked. “What’s this business to you?”

  “What about his funeral?”

  “The mayor took the remains with him” Sir James received with a gasp of joy. The captain wanted to clobber her, rip the veil from her face, the facade of mourning, and see the true serpent that hid below. He wanted to tear away the scales that hid the demon inside her heart, rip her skin to slivers until the devil emerged like a phoenix from the ashes, then turn on Sir James and serve him the same. Fierro looked to Sir James then to Wilma and felt as if he stood between the dog and its vomit. Not one of them was less sordid or abject. Their character from the devil was indistinguishable, in the same way it would be hard to demarcate the villainy between the executioner and the noose.

  “We’ll see about this” Fierro said when Philippe walked in. The councilmembers turned toward him like magnets to metal. Fierro felt the tension sleek off of him and form over Philippe.

  “Yes, we’ll see” Philippe said. “Luis bones are cold by now, but the mayor’s tracks are not. Hardly has he left and already you two connive. Remember, there are more councilman than you both. The matter is yet to be decided.”

  “We will win it” Wilma said, stepping forward as Sir James lifted his head and watched his her tear into Philippe like a dog into dead meat. “Don’t be clever, Philippe. Keep coasting, do as you’re told, and enjoy your dainties. We’ve looked the other way. Now it is time you’ve paid up.”

  “To the contrary, Wilma. This town longs for change. They need new, robust, youth. They won’t have another crone for office.”

  “And take a gallant like you? Remember your reputation.”

  “You’re quite right.” Philippe turned to Sir James. “But no one will take you past your prime. Your are the stillborn, and she is the afterbirth. The scales have already tipped against you. Withdraw before you make a travesty of all this. You and your lummox are a farce. My sins may be transparent, but your’s are the gateway to hell.”

  “I would-” Wilma screamed when Sir James stepped forward.

  “Well said” Sir James recanted. “You’ve made your peace, Philippe. Was there anything else you came to address?” Philippe opened his mouth and turned to Fierro as if he were party to this, then threw his hands into the air and left. “Let’s go. Opportunity burns with time.”

  Fierro left Sir James’ home and saw Gabrielle seated on a bench outside the library. All the choleric feelings of anxiety drained from his body. He walked across the street as she lifted her arm over her head and shaded her eyes.

  “Good morning” Fierro said. She set the book on her lap and scooted over. Fierro sat beside her, looked at the book on her lap, then back over to the councilman’s home. Nothing would have been grander than in that instant for lightning to strike the house, scorching the earth as black as their souls, to annul his bloodline and quash any hope for a successor. Fierro wanted the home to go ablaze, to shame Nero with dancing, to watch the smoke swell like a rap sheet into the sky, as long and as dark as their sins, then rake their ashes from the fester and spit in their charred deposits.

  “Why are you smiling?” Gabrielle asked. “Dreaming of love?”

  “Only the things I would love to see happen in this town.” He turned to her. “Have you ever thought about leaving here? I don’t mean with me. But I mean starting a new life elsewhere?”

  “I don’t know if I could.” Gabrielle looked at Fierro with the eyes of a child covert in a woman’s shell.

  “Are you still going to search for your father?” She dipped her head, taking Fierro’s hand in her own, and let a solitary tear unfurl down her cheek. Fierro wiped away the drop and flicked it into the dust, like rotted fruit pruned off the stem, then curled his finger under her chin to raise her head. Poor thing. All she wants is a father. “I’ll go with you once the dust settles. It’s too dangerous to venture on your own. And I can’t get away until I’m no longer needed, which I’m certain won’t come soon enough. Just a little more patience, Belle, and I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Sailor’s word.”

  “You haven’t called me that since we were children” she said, leaning her head on his chest. Fierro raised his head as a bandwagon rolled down the street, escorted by a school of surgeons. Hagar rested beneath a white cloth, groaning as the wheels tilted in the ruts.

  “Watch out!” someone yelled as a dog ripped through the street and tangled between the legs of one of the bearers. The cart jarred and broke the wheel from the axle, slamming the wagon into the ground and flinging the party into the mud. The surgeons dove around the body, checking the sutures, while the dog scampered off.

  Fierro ran to their side, helping to lift the giant back into the bed of the cart. He dug out the soil with his hands, finding the lip of the wagon, and snaked his fingers beneath it. He lifted the cart with a half a dozen men as another placed the wheel and pinning it back on the axis.

  Hagar’s eyes rolled around till they met Fierro’s. Sweat broke out as a crown on his brow, and his breath hastened when the captain looked away. Fierro turned toward Gabrielle and found her missing, as fleeting as a buoy at sea. The men pulled the wagon out of the rut, fixed themselves to the carrying poles, and left Fierro to wonder whether finding her father was viable.

  ~ 42

  Sir James tightened his bowtie as his wife flattened out his tailcoat and clipped the loose threads from the seams. She brought Sir James his pocket watch, which hung from his vest by a chain and snaked into his pocket. While combing his hair he saw Gabrielle pass his window through the reflection in the mirror. He dropped the comb, tugged the tie center, squirt a splash of cologne across his face, and ran outside after her.

  “Gabri
elle!” Sir James said. The young maiden turned with a smile foreign to him. Oh, if only the angels had bodies they would taste envy.

  “Bonjour, Messieurs Walden. Congratulations on your bid for mayor.”

  “Thank you.” He saw her backpack and returned a weary smile. “Will I see you at the officiating?”

  “Of course. Neither would I nor your wife miss it for anything.” He swallowed these words like stones, wanting to murder her, to love her, to condemn her, to have her.

  “You’re in a hurry.”

  “I wanted to pick flowers.”

  “With a basket” he said, pointing at the sack. “Are you going into the forest? Why so large a pack? What’s in it?”

  “No, sir. Such a grand occasion calls for a larger gift of flowers. I wouldn’t offend you with a simple corsage if I could give you a bouquet. I thought I would bring the biggest gift, and needed a container suitable to carry all that I wanted to pick.” His breast warmed at the thought of the floor around his bed littered in flowers, the sheets composed of petals, the scent of pollen looming in the air, with her in his arms.

  “Very well.” Sir James stepped closer and placed his hands on her arms, massaging the tender girl with his thumbs. She bit into her smile, as true as a corpse’s grin, as his eyes rolled over her flesh. She curtsied, once more commending Sir James for his achievement, and set out into the woods, kicking the dust from her heels as she stepped over the first root into the forest.

  Sir James watched Gabrielle disappear into the wild. His concentration broke when Mrs. Walden slapped the cauldron with a spatula and called him in for lunch. He scoffed at her, walking through her words like a shadow passing through glass. Sir James wanted to divorce her, to strike a mortal wound and bury the body beneath the floorboards.

  Sir James Walden took his coat and held the doorknob, rethinking his marriage, then slammed the door shut as if closing a coffin. The people stood along the road waving fliers tied to sticks. Sir James held his head high and chest proud, waving at the people, searching among the faces for one in particular, when a woman emerged from the crowd. Her hair hung in dirty coils. Makeup drained from her eyes in a wash of dried tears. She approached Walden with her fist cocked and belted him across the face.

  “How dare you” she screamed, raising her hand again when Sir James caught her at the wrist and leveled it against her chest. Her nostrils flared like the mouths of serpents, and her lips curled back into flattened rings, exposing a brood of teeth foaming with spit.

  “Calm yourself” Sir James whispered, tightening his grip.

  “It’s not your’s yet” she cried. “Elton will hear of this. When he gets back. You’ll all suffer for this.”

  “Quiet!” he shouted as he threw her into the dust. Mrs. La Noire slapped the floor and hung her head, weeping. He watched her, wanting to kick dirt into her mouth to dry up all those snivels, to cast sand into her eyes and order her to shut up. She shriveled as two men came from the crowd and dragged the late Elton La Noire’s wife out of sight.

  Sir James searched the crowd, resuming his march down the street toward his new office, when he saw Fierro on the precipice. A young brunette stood beside him. Sir James bolstered out in a fit of rage until the dame revealed herself to be another besides Gabrielle. The fires in his gut subsided to their dormant sizzle and returned to suckling praise from the crowd off the tit of fear.

  Where is that stupid girl, Sir James wondered. He turned back toward Fierro with a grimace and found him absent.

  ~ 43

  The beast vanished inside the gate and soared up the steps into the hall. A pallet of blood ruled his tongue as his teeth slid into the flesh, dividing the victuals into hash.

  Adam! The whisper sailed the corridors on an echo. The young king thrashed around, bitten by hunger, and fled the passage to the upper chambers. He ran through the kingdom and sprung past a grandfather clock, then turned back toward the mechanism.

  “No!” the beast shouted. The grandfather clock counted with ticks and tocks, meticulous, pilfering time. The pendulum swung inside the glass casing, a tongue on wooden jowls, fervent, licking seconds as they passed. He drew back, squatting low to the earth, and watched father time embezzle seconds from minutes out of existence. It mocked him in perfect silence. He landed at the base of the instrument and growled, raking his nails against the stonework.

  “It's a stupid form” Adam snarled. “It doesn't know. It's doesn't know.”

  Know what? the clock asked. Adam swelled from his ankles to his shoulders, standing the height of the masterpiece, and shook it.

  “They aren't here” Adam growled. “They come. They aren't here.”

  You have dinner guests it chimed. One. Three. Two. Don't spoil your appetite, young Adam. Two. One. Three. King.

  “Gone!” Panic set his eyes spindling free as he hunched down and circled rounds in front of the clock.

  Eat the guest it said. Spoil the spoon. Young Adam. Dam yum. Serve to the left. Bow and the napkin and say.”

  “Say?” He rubbed his mouth as the hunger set in. He ran into the dining chamber. A cottonwood table set with a gold trimmed cloth, candles spun in web, and tarnished plates stole the center of the room. “Ask the dish” he growled. He crept up to the table, stretching his hand over the plates and sniffed the cloth. Then he ran to the end of the room where lay a footstool. He wove his hands into fists and cocked them over his head, then slammed the footrest. The furniture spit a billow of dust into his face and glossed the ornament of human remains matted in his fur. He slammed the cushion again and shoved it down, burying it under his weight.

  “Chien!” He slapped the stool again and threw it across the room. “Obey!” The wolf walked in and set up in its bed in the corner of the room. The beast kicked the stool across the floor, followed it, and slammed it with his body, barking orders. Chien rested his head on its paws and watched while the beast climb the dinner table, picking up goblets to sniff them, slinging old plates over the floor, foiling the centerpiece across the buffet of dirt clout and mold.

  Then he hopped to the floor as Chien raised his ears and followed his master. Days passed since they fed on something fresh; the cruel winter hid all the fruit under its frost. It stowed its baby rabbits like dumplings in a breadbasket of snow, shielding the doe in caves marked by trails of icicles and thorns, tempting the strong to seek for food just to starve the mighty in its fury.

  The beasts left the castle with stomachs thundering for flesh, seeking their fill of meat, to eat until the blood rose from their guts and watered the back of their tongues. Chien tore off into the forest as the beast followed at its heels, daring it to be the first to make a kill, to spill human blood.

  ~ 44

  “Fool!” Philippe yelled as Cyril pried the crate with a crowbar and popped the lid with a huff of straw vomiting into the air. Philippe paced back and forth, throwing his hands, beating the winds with wasted breath.

  “I don’t see the problem” Cyril replied as he pulled each bottle out, giving them a solid inspection. “I mean, tragedy is tragedy.”

  “It’s too late now! We needed to release Hagar while Elton La Noire was in. But the powers have shifted. Letting the brute go now will accomplish nothing. This is a disaster.” Philippe walked up to Cyril and jerked the bottle from his hands.

  “Give that here!” Cyril tried to swipe the bottle back.

  “This?” Philippe held out the bottle, then chucked it across the road where it shattered in the gutter and fizzled. Then he jammed his finger in Cyril’s face. “This is because of you.”

  “Me?” Cyril set his hand on the crate and swiveled his eyes to a jar half buried in the straw. Philippe rammed the crate with his shoulder as his heels dug into the soil, trying to tilt the box onto its side. He slid to the ground as the mud shifted and feet spun out from beneath him. Cyril watched him, like a dog giving birth, yelping, cornered, angry and confused, then reached into the crate and withdrew another bottle when Philippe kicked his
leg. “Hey! Watch it!” Philippe kicked again and Cyril dropped the bottle leaving a welt of upturned dirt. Cyril bent down for it and Philippe kicked the bottle away from his hand. It slid into roll until it hit a rock and popped into the air, fumbling with clanks and swishes.

  “You fool! Ass!”

  “You bastard!” Philippe stared. The yellow belly isn’t so yellow after all.

  “You bastard” Philippe mumbled back. “Do you think that this will all go away? I swear to you, upon my head, that what you did this day will return to you sevenfold, tenfold, a hundredfold. Remember, you turncoat, there is no sacred ground for a traitor.” Philippe grabbed a few bottles as Cyril slapped at his hands and was shoved back, then walked into the street and shattered them across the road.

  Cyril watched Philippe leave the dock and turned back toward the tavern. I know where you’re going he thought, pulling a bottle from the carton and uncorked the flute with his teeth. Fortune is no man’s bride. You’ll soon get yours for all your whoring. Cyril leaned against the crate when the splints buckled and walls fell flat. Packing spewed out with jars of booze bubbling through the fodder. The councilman grasped through the straws, plucking air and golden thistles as the jars rolled and clanked in sharp cries. They scattered across the deck and fell off into the bay.

  “No!” Cyril dove and caught a bottle, shattering another beneath his gut. The glass stitched into his clothing and pricked his belly. He walloped in a growl of pain fused with rage. “Curses! Curse the gods. Curse the people. Curse, damn it, curses.” He rolled to his back as the packing lifted in the winds and strewn the sky with golden locus. The smell of smoke rose like a thread sewing the sky and his breast began to ache. Cyril rolled to his side and saw Willem kicking up dust at the end of the road. He reached out then dropped his hand in the soil as his eyes rolled back into his sockets and body kicked. Foam spit out his mouth as his tongue tucked back into his throat, gagging him till liquor and egg spewed out under the bed of froth.