Beast

by Thomas Castle

  “Heed my words. Go home to your families. Spend your leisure in your homes, renew your covenant with your wives, hold the tastes of their kiss, and take your children up in your arms once more and remember their faces. No man will frequent the tavern. Every business will be closed; if a man is in need of food or medicine, his neighbor will provide it. I am declaring martial law. I will have no patience for meandering. Any rebellion or insubordination will be reprimanded with death. Go to your families, reconcile with your accusers, because tomorrow we will be forced to bond in blood. Hold all that is precious tonight for tomorrow is a thief.

  “If we die tomorrow, God take our souls; the devil keep our bones.” The men hurrah’d and disbanded, finding their homes where wives lamented and children balked, where brothers mingled in arms and mothers drew charms and bound the families with words of blessing and love before releasing them to their eternal repose.

  Fierro took Willem under his arm and led him back to his home where he opened a bottle of bootleg, poured two glasses with a heavy hand, and slid the drink with a cigar to Willem.

  “What are you doing?” Willem asked. Fierro lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed hard, then poured another round.

  “Reconciling with fate.” He lit the cigar, hiked his boots on the seat cushion, and exhaled a long drag. “I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve denied myself kicking my feet up on this damn thing. Now I see I’ve should have done it all along. After tomorrow, this nice piece of furniture will mean nothing to me. Lend your ear. We misappropriate value over comfort. Who cares now how much this junk cost; I just care that I get to enjoy it the way I’ve always wanted to.”

  “Yes, captain” Willem replied. Fierro waved his hand, breaking the smoke into crochet, and spit the rest of the vapor from his nostrils.

  “Just Fierro, Willem.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Willem plugged the cigar into his lips and bit into the tobacco, tasting the oils when shouting filled the streets. Fierro packed the cigar into his mouth, grabbed his pistol, and ran out onto the porch. Three men stood in the street. One threw the other into the muck as the third came around and swung his fist, driving the victor level with the dud. The men on the ground clashed, tussling in horse mire and grunts, when one bit the others ear and reared back as the man sank his knee into his groin and gouged his eye. The third man dropped a broken bottle between the two and bid his friend the advantage. Fierro shot his pistol into the night as Willem emerged with his own.

  “What’s this?” Fierro asked as the two men stood, shoving each other till they stood outside range of one another.

  “These fellows decided to liquor up, sir” the vigilante said, looking at the other two and spat at their feet. “I caught them outside, all tipsy and wondering piss drunk. I tried getting them to reason, to turn back in but then, well, the altercation ensued. My sincere apologies, constable.”

  “Go home” Fierro told the vigilante. The man gave one last look to the two thugs and turned into the street. Fierro waited till his shadow dissolved in the moonlight. The captain sized each crook, one man after the other, then pulled his pistol and shot the first through the head as a vortex of gore opened out the back of his ear. The other man pleaded, raising his hands to the skies. Fierro motioned to Willem for his pistol and the second mutineer began to run down the street. The captain took aim and shot him through the back. The drunkard took a few steps and fell to bleed out under the moonlight, writhing until his life dropped like a miscarriage. Fierro removed his cigar and spit into the street, then went back indoors as Willem followed, glancing back at the body. Fierro sat in his chair, placed his feet on the furniture, and poured himself another round of brandy.

  “Tell me, captain, what was that about?” Willem asked. “You didn’t have an audience; you made a point with no one.” Fierro set his glass down, dipped the cigar in the drink, then leaned forward and clasped his hands together, eyeing Willem.

  “It wasn’t trying to make a point” Fierro said. “My word is my bond. If I die tomorrow and you assume this office, it’ll do you well to remember that; a man keeps his word even when no one will see or recognize it.” Willem took the soiled glass, paired it with his own, and set them on the floor. Fierro holstered his weapon then handed Willem back his.

  “Luzenac offered to build a catapult. Said it would be in the spirit of Hagar.” Fierro smiled and reached for another cigar, lit it, then reclined in his chair.

  “He’s not the craftsman his brother was.” Fierro blew smoke in the air like a broken vent, then leaned toward Willem and took back his glass with the stub sizzling in the cognac. He upturned the cup and spelt the reject on the floor, then poured his fill till it overflowed. “Even if by some feat he does build us one, how would we get it to its lair? Clear the forest as we go?” Fierro laughed and bit into his cigar as the embers sucked in oxygen and returned ash. “Baking is his forte. If he asks again, decline the offer, but give him my sentiment.” Willem shrugged his shoulders and flicked the end of the cigar till the blackened powder fell off in a cake of residue.

  “We’re losing morale.” Willem set his pistol into his pant band and tucked his shirt around the piece. “People are terrified of this thing. As they say, the good wives of Windsor are supplanting your law. I fear that there will be mutiny.” Fierro raised his glass to cheers Willem, and the coxswain raised his with an inquisitive hesitance and clinked over the hassock. Each laid back while a moment of silence puttered like a wasp waiting to sting.

  “What’s extraordinary about annihilation is that at the end of the day, nothing before it really mattered. If we don’t return, well, they’re forgiven. But, if by grace we make it back, we have enough trees to make the gibbets. The noose will stretch to the ends of the earth for any deserter.” Willem sighed something of resignation and relit his cigar.

  “If ever there was a god Ares, we’d shame him. Especially if we can turn the tide of this battle to our favor.” Willem raised his glass and Fierro saluted him once more. Then he sat back in his chair, pulling the glass back to his gut and stared at the floor. Fierro drained his cup and poured another, then set the bottle down with a heavy hand.

  “What?” Fierro asked. Willem waved him off, taking a sip, and reach for a cob pipe. Fierro packed the bowl with tobacco then handed it to Willem. The coxswain took a deep breath then looked at the captain.

  “Do you think we’ll find Gabrielle there?” Willem asked. Fierro stood from his seat and stumbled outside. He plopped on the front steps, carving the dirt road with the heel of his boots, and brought the bottle of alcohol to his lips till the shimmer of the stars grew fuzzy, bleeding one another into a single luminescent arbor. Willem knocked the door open and sat beside his old sea mate with cigars tucked into his vest pocket. He struck a match with his thumbnail, filling the air with a phosphorus cloud. Willem bit the end off a cigar and offered it to Fierro who took it, but declined the light, sucking on the tobacco oil as he chewed the nub.

  “I don’t know what we’ll find.” Fierro spit a sling of brown goop that turned the dirt into clay, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “She’s somewhere. Or at least her body is.” He turned the tobacco leaves over his gums, like a mare racing the circuit, and thought of nothing else but Gabrielle. Leaving home left nothing to desire. While he traveled the seas and fought on foreign lines, nothing repressed the love for that most beautiful girl in his hometown, and so he sojourned with a soldier’s heart forsworn of any accommodation; friendship, trust, love. Nothing riled him, collected his excitement, or stirred him with anticipation. Fierro left on the triumph of the people’s hoorays, applauding a boy that would become a man. But his soul harbored a boy who shied away from love and hid it in manhood. Fierro stood up and grabbed the rail. Whiskey hyped his senses then remitted, leaving his legs thick and ponderous. He steadied his feet and patted Willem on the back.

  “Turn in and get some rest” Fierro said. “Make your peace, for tomorrow it takes flight.�
� Fierro raised his eyes to the mountains where the moon sat on the crest like a headstone stapling the grave, and waited for Willem to turn in. The captain kindled his porchlight and left the door ajar. He tucked the pistol into his lap band and set out toward the forest. Wildlife rustled in the canopies and bats hung about the branches with yellow eyes swiveling like a hundred dying suns.

  Fierro hiccupped and belched, wiping the spit from his lips as he raised his pistol and shot a passing bat. Lead clipped its wing and the creature cried spinning down into the thicket. Fierro searched the brush for his trophy then returned to the trail, packing another round in his pistol and setting it in his belt. What a lovely night to be the devil.

  Then something caught his eye. Fierro turned and found one of the villagers hung like an inverted crucifixion. His face sagged with blood and dried spit hung around his mouth the color soda ash. Fierro placed his hand on the stiff body, bled dry and cold, and opened his vest, ripping the stitching from the navel to his shoulders, tearing the sleeves off his arms. Bite marks shrouded his body like a stigmata of a cannibalized saint. Fierro took the pistol out of his belt and shot the branch tangled around his ankle. The body fell to the ground and Fierro turned it over with his boot, kneeling beside it.

  “Awful” Fierro mumbled. He grabbed the jaw and wiggled it open, looking into the throat, then turned the head and searched the neck. Blood clots hung at the roots of his hair in thick auburn bedding.

  “Fool.” Fierro pulled the body to its belly and searched the back. Nothing. Damn my eyes! He set his hands on the bare flesh and stroked it, feeling smooth skin glide beneath his fingers. So the creature didn’t ambush him. Did he come upon it? Why are all the wounds on the front? I told everyone to keep indoors, he wanted to yell. You deserve all this and more, you dissident. Fierro spit on the corpse and wiped his mouth, then threw that spit off over the body with the flick of his wrist. There’s no place for cowards to be buried. He looked at the body again like some stupid animal, feeling the tip of pity beginning to spear through the alcohol, and kicked a few leaves over the remains; even priests bury the damned.

  Then he heard a groan. He turned toward the sound and waited for a second wave. Fierro anchored his weapon, consecrating his pistol with a sailor’s blessing, and stepped around the trees till he found another retreater. Smears of blood hung on the tree above his body, a headstone carved from his waste, as he held his bowels like a botched caesarean.

  “Help” the man whispered. His eyes rolled likes heads of past kings, then dropped. He grunted, trying to backfill the organs spilling from his gut. It was a heinous way to go. The man raised his head again and reached with a quivering hand for the pistol. Fierro withdrew it and placed it against his head.

  “Not for bastards like you” Fierro replied, lowering the pistol toward his gut with the intestines brimming through his fingers like wicker from a broken basket. “But neither do I let renegades live.”

  He raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger.

  ~ 68

  The kill party gathered around Fierro, their oracle of death, soughing vespers, and hounds floundered about their legs batting the air with frenzy. Stable doors yawned from the onset of the village, while a small militia of horse rode up the weed licked path, branching neighs with fogged breath. A clatter of muskets fouled the peace as boots charged the ground, following their captain until the path terminated in snow beneath the forests shadow. Dry cracks of lightning linked the sky in sulphur chains. Bats turned the air devilish. As critters poured about the thicket, like maggots in a carcass, men swiveled with pistols spitting from their holsters, cursing and drawing upon phantoms.

  Ice dripped from the branches in shimmers of moonlight, closing the forest with black frost. Banks of dead brush slept like molting beasts; hunters prodded the sheaf with bayonets, while archers trailed the bodies of darkness with arrows drawn. A forge of wind buckled down the path, as thick as molasses, and hunters cocked the hammer to their guns before their thumbs were too numb to operate. Hounds strained on the end of their leashes as their masters lead them over tawny patches of moss that appeared blood from a distance.

  Fierro lead, sawing the air with baited breath, watching the trees camber and moan beneath the snow, closing paths and opening intermittent roads to the demon’s lair. A scream sounded from the back of the train as gunfire slapped the tree into shavings. The men spun and slid in the snow, gnashing the grounds with their bellies, raising the sultan of hades with their cuss. Fierro switched back toward the path bleated in gale, and tallied his men like spattered rain into the gutter. Growls pitched through the forest as lightning scampered across the meridian.

  A wolf dashed out of the woods, swallowing a bullet that sank it dead, as another grew from its hulk and razed the hunter to the same mortal fate. Fierro's men turned, loosened on the oil of dread, and perforated the second beast then spread the ridge with scatter shot. Snow the color fuchsia pollinated the air as men fired round upon round, dancing the souls of wolves out into the moonlight. Thunder grew in throngs up the sky showing a treeline porous with beasts. The wolves came down like a haven of demons and hunters leaped about their comrades’ remains, sticking hot lead into any crazed, bloodlusting bitch, blighting the earth with thieving blood.

  While the men paraded under a yoke of cries and gunfire, Chien opened the hold. The line broke and wolves dragged their booty into the underbrush where hunters packed their shots and atrophied their glory with misfire.

  Fierro saw a fiend mounting Willem, and raising his weapon slammed a round into its eye, laying it out as a pall over his remains. He reloaded his pistol and fired a languishing death that ripped the skull at the base of the ear and feathered the soil with bloody clay. Willem was gone, and for the moment Fierro couldn’t recall any memory of seeing his late friend alive.

  Then the killing field opened and Fierro saw Chien, the beast’s token of fury, and brought his pistol to port. He squeezed the trigger when lightning chained the sky to the trees, ripping the mesa into char, and shrouded the air with ember like Gaea whipped. The mountainside split, purging a sheet of rocks that damned the bodies of the dead to desecration, leaving their kin trapped beneath the slide crying likes penitents in purgation while the wolves hied into the forest.

  Men raised their rifles in salutation with bullets raining into the clouds, as others went out to drag their companions to a more dignified place to rot. Hunters loosened their hounds to chase down the last vestiges of wolves and slay the impaired.

  Fierro ordered his men to rally, taking a headcount that turned up a humbling deficit. They scouted among their fallen, scavenging pigs of lead from blood soaked scabbards, and sanctified their dead with tears and unfathomable covenants, then left them a burial by an open night sky.

  ~ 69

  The men made camp at the base of the mountain where snow fell like leper flake, ashing the ground. They erected hutches made of buckskin and rawhide, listening to the woods creek like coffin nails. Fierro segmented the party into units and posted them on the bluff. Red and yellow eyes trailed them from the woodlands, vaporizing as the men returned shouts, popping off rounds followed by yips, releasing the pressure twitching in their nerves. They huddled in their outlooks as the winds drilled into their bones, weighing them in chains of frost. Hearts grew heavy as men nodded off and stirred from sleep, finding their brothers’ ghosts painted in the slurry, evaporating back into death as howls raged from the dark.

  Fierro stopped to catch his breath, staring into the forest as the beast stared back with Chien at his side. Their breath hung in the air, masked in fog, swirling like rotten cream. Chien called the pack and lead the surfeit of wolves back to the castle. The beast waited.

  Gunfire deafened the beast’s ear as woodchips flung off the tree and pitted in its face. The young hunter shouted at the top of his lungs, like a siren calling its sailors to the cliffs, and hastened to pack another round. The beast leapt on all fours, leaving pockets of upturned soil in its wak
e, and pitched the man to the ground. The hunter jarred a hand in its face, shoving it back, when the beast bit into his fingers and tore them to the nub. Musket shots filled the air, like a cacophony in hell, and the beast fled. Fierro came to the young hunter’s side, finding the digits chewed to the bone, swinging on threads of flesh, and capped the stubs in snow.

  “Which way?” Fierro asked. The young man raised his head and nodded toward the mountainside. The captain sent the injured kip back with an escort, and then led the remaining souls to the mountain where they found a cave moored into the side. Moss draped the opening, veiling the cold and hollow moan echoing in its throat. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like teeth of a sleeping demon, and moonlight tapered off the walls so that all sin and blood would be leveled blind.

  Some hunter brought forth their rifles and split the stocks, wiring rags rubbed in gunpowder through the crevices, and ignited their torches with flint. The beast lurked in that hollow death. The scent of death betrayed it and their hearts betrayed them, beating louder than a comanche. They came to a fork in the cavern where the main tunnel webbed into several.

  The team split again. Hunters drew lots with their eyes, searching one another for mettle, when one stepped into the shaft. The ground gave way, opening like the eye of the dead, falling into a blackened pit. He groped at the receding ground, feeling the dirt crumbled over his shoulders into the void. The team scrambled away as the hunter clawed, pulling with the tide and fell back, swallowed in the abyss. Echoes of his scream waned with the loose soot shuffling over the brim. They brought a torch to the edge of chasm and found a pair of fingernails caked in blood resting on the rim. One hunter came forward and kicked them over the edge while another held out the torch to drop it down before a friend stayed his hand.

  Gunfire ruptured from the mouth of the cave, resounding down the channel like thunder living in the walls. Fierro drove his men to the opening half closed in fallen rock. The tavern quaked and boulders slid over the hole, as large as heavenly spheres, and rolled into the forest leaving lanes of flattened woodland.