Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.
The entire catastrophe had been Fabien’s fault. And so it was Fabien who had been the one to go, alone, to take care of it.
The trouble was, he mused to himself as he watched the dirt collect in a fine grit on his boots as he walked, that he hadn’t wanted to kill an old woman. He had chosen to hit the Willis farmstead Sunday morning when he had known old Henrietta Willis would walk the two miles to church and would not return until she had made that chapel shine and walked the two miles back buoyed on her own sense of godly cleanliness. He hadn’t known that the entire putain de raison they were there, the Burmese ruby necklace supposedly sent by her Jack from Siam, purportedly the size of an infant’s heart, would be going to church with her.
There hadn’t been any way for him to know that pious old Mrs. Willis was vain enough to wear so gaudy a jewel to the Lord’s house, was there?
And so now he was wearing his nicest shirt - which didn’t mean much, truthfully, his cuffs stained with caked red soil that looked uneasily like blood - to accompany her home and have a polite discussion. He could feel the weight of his Colt six-shooter on his hip as he nimbly jumped the fence outside the graveyard and squatted in the shade of a weeping marble angel.
They'd talk on the long walk back to the farm. She'd see reason in his silver tongue - or she wouldn't, and he'd take the necklace by force. It was embarrassing, he thought as he watched the door to the church, but he wasn’t above mugging an old woman if it meant getting Bouchard off his ass about fixing his mistake.
He waited through the muggy afternoon heat, his shirt sticking damp to his back, with grey eyes fixed on the dark shape of the church door. The rickety chapel was an afterthought, clearly built for the cemetery that dwarfed it. The thin steeple leaned drunkenly, whitewash peeling in strips from the greying wood, and it was too far from town to serve anyone but rattlesnakes and tumbleweeds reliably.
Mist began to creep around sagging tombstones as evening settled over the graveyard. Fabien stood, joints creaking, and uneasily kicked a clod of dirt from the side of his boot.
She should have emerged from the quiet church by now. At this rate, she’d be walking back in night as thick as pitch.
He put his hands on his hips to inspect the darkening sky. The moon was a curved horn on the horizon. With a soft curse under his breath, he headed for the yawning mouth of the chapel door. The rusted hinges opened with a pained creak beneath his palm and he winced. He counted silently to ten before creeping quietly into the cool interior.
The chapel was draped in dusty darkness, the shape of the pews in neat lines like slumbering cows in a field. The only light was a faint glow from a vestibule to the side.
He moved carefully down the center aisle, not sure if the uneasiness blooming in his chest was a result of the lack of light or the lingering unpleasantness of having to look an old lady in the eyes while robbing her.
A gentle voice drifted from the illuminated room. Fabien slunk with feline steps. He rested his spine against the wall and, taking a breath and holding it in his chest, slowly peeked one eye into the room.
The scene in the small room resolved itself in pieces like an oil painting being filled in by a master’s hand. A figure slumped in a chair he recognized immediately as his quarry and his pupils, dilated in the dark, narrowed to slits. Mrs. Willis’s silver hair was loose and fell over the back of the chair. Her papery hand was relaxed at her side.
Bent over her was a figure he did not recognize. They were tall and thin and severe in black robes. It was this voice that had lured him, and though he could not distinguish the murmured words there was no mistaking the delight warming the tone.
The figure lifted its head and Fabien thought he did not look like any man of God he had ever seen. His hair was long and white and unbound, spilling in an obscene gush over his robed chest, and his face was that of a sensualist, with heavy eyelids and a lush, cruel mouth.
His attention lingered on that mouth. The figure turned and Fabien’s heart caught in his throat at the sparkle of red - the ruby! - at his neck.
But that wasn’t right. Crimson glistened on the figure’s chin, his mouth stained wet and red. Mrs. Willis’s hand twitched and Fabien watched as a drop of scarlet slithered down her arm and beaded along her wrist.
When words returned to the icy black horror choking his head they were, absurdly, the Lord’s Prayer he had learned as a child. It ricocheted in his head like a litany against the terror that clutched at his throat as the drop of blood fell from the dying, dead woman’s hand and splattered wet and black on the floor.
Fabien’s hands were shaking as he slid his revolver from its holster. They were shaking as he cocked the hammer. They did not shake as he lined the muzzle up with the monster’s heart, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.
There was a blinding flash of light and a deafening crack. The acrid tang of gunpowder choked his lungs and he released his breath as a sob. Through a thin haze of smoke he saw the priest slumped against the wall. His throat spilled a fountain of trickling black blood down the front of his vestments.
And then he turned his head and looked straight at Fabien with eyes - Dieu sauve-moi - that were corpse-white and surely incapable of seeing.
He turned to run, limbs flailing desperately, but somehow the creature he had shot was faster and a hand caught the back of his shirt and heaved him bodily to the floor. He fell hard, air leaving his lungs in a whoosh.
Blood pattered like rain on the floor around him, spattering hot on his skin. The priest-creature cocked its head. Another spout of blood gushed from the jagged hole in its neck to darken its damp robes.
"This is a house of god you're defiling." The voice was gore-wet and sounded, largely, irritated at having just been shot at close range. He had never before heard someone pronounce the Lord’s name in lower case.
“Such a waste,” the creature coughed as another spurt of blood splattered the ground. It heaved a rattling sigh.
“However,” The creature smiled a vicious, mocking smile. Fabien felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. He caught a glimpse of bone-white teeth, far too long and sharp and sinister to belong to a man. “The lord giveth that which he has taken away.”
And as the monster descended on him, he understood. There was nothing sacred here. The Holy Spirit did not dwell here. There was only the den of this beast, and he would pay sacrament with his own ruby blood for attempting to steal his.
Amen.
The entire catastrophe had been Fabien’s fault. And so it was Fabien who had been the one to go, alone, to take care of it.
The trouble was, he mused to himself as he watched the dirt collect in a fine grit on his boots as he walked, that he hadn’t wanted to kill an old woman. He had chosen to hit the Willis farmstead Sunday morning when he had known old Henrietta Willis would walk the two miles to church and would not return until she had made that chapel shine and walked the two miles back buoyed on her own sense of godly cleanliness. He hadn’t known that the entire putain de raison they were there, the Burmese ruby necklace supposedly sent by her Jack from Siam, purportedly the size of an infant’s heart, would be going to church with her.
There hadn’t been any way for him to know that pious old Mrs. Willis was vain enough to wear so gaudy a jewel to the Lord’s house, was there?
And so now he was wearing his nicest shirt - which didn’t mean much, truthfully, his cuffs stained with caked red soil that looked uneasily like blood - to accompany her home and have a polite discussion. He could feel the weight of his Colt six-shooter on his hip as he nimbly jumped the fence outside the graveyard and squatted in the shade of a weeping marble angel.
They'd talk on the long walk back to the farm. She'd see reason in his silver tongue - or she wouldn't, and he'd take the necklace by force. It was embarrassing, he thought as he watched the door to the church, but he wasn’t above mugging an old woman if it meant getting Bouchard off his ass about fixing his mistake.
He waited through the muggy afternoon heat, his shirt sticking damp to his back, with grey eyes fixed on the dark shape of the church door. The rickety chapel was an afterthought, clearly built for the cemetery that dwarfed it. The thin steeple leaned drunkenly, whitewash peeling in strips from the greying wood, and it was too far from town to serve anyone but rattlesnakes and tumbleweeds reliably.
Mist began to creep around sagging tombstones as evening settled over the graveyard. Fabien stood, joints creaking, and uneasily kicked a clod of dirt from the side of his boot.
She should have emerged from the quiet church by now. At this rate, she’d be walking back in night as thick as pitch.
He put his hands on his hips to inspect the darkening sky. The moon was a curved horn on the horizon. With a soft curse under his breath, he headed for the yawning mouth of the chapel door. The rusted hinges opened with a pained creak beneath his palm and he winced. He counted silently to ten before creeping quietly into the cool interior.
The chapel was draped in dusty darkness, the shape of the pews in neat lines like slumbering cows in a field. The only light was a faint glow from a vestibule to the side.
He moved carefully down the center aisle, not sure if the uneasiness blooming in his chest was a result of the lack of light or the lingering unpleasantness of having to look an old lady in the eyes while robbing her.
A gentle voice drifted from the illuminated room. Fabien slunk with feline steps. He rested his spine against the wall and, taking a breath and holding it in his chest, slowly peeked one eye into the room.
The scene in the small room resolved itself in pieces like an oil painting being filled in by a master’s hand. A figure slumped in a chair he recognized immediately as his quarry and his pupils, dilated in the dark, narrowed to slits. Mrs. Willis’s silver hair was loose and fell over the back of the chair. Her papery hand was relaxed at her side.
Bent over her was a figure he did not recognize. They were tall and thin and severe in black robes. It was this voice that had lured him, and though he could not distinguish the murmured words there was no mistaking the delight warming the tone.
The figure lifted its head and Fabien thought he did not look like any man of God he had ever seen. His hair was long and white and unbound, spilling in an obscene gush over his robed chest, and his face was that of a sensualist, with heavy eyelids and a lush, cruel mouth.
His attention lingered on that mouth. The figure turned and Fabien’s heart caught in his throat at the sparkle of red - the ruby! - at his neck.
But that wasn’t right. Crimson glistened on the figure’s chin, his mouth stained wet and red. Mrs. Willis’s hand twitched and Fabien watched as a drop of scarlet slithered down her arm and beaded along her wrist.
When words returned to the icy black horror choking his head they were, absurdly, the Lord’s Prayer he had learned as a child. It ricocheted in his head like a litany against the terror that clutched at his throat as the drop of blood fell from the dying, dead woman’s hand and splattered wet and black on the floor.
Fabien’s hands were shaking as he slid his revolver from its holster. They were shaking as he cocked the hammer. They did not shake as he lined the muzzle up with the monster’s heart, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.
There was a blinding flash of light and a deafening crack. The acrid tang of gunpowder choked his lungs and he released his breath as a sob. Through a thin haze of smoke he saw the priest slumped against the wall. His throat spilled a fountain of trickling black blood down the front of his vestments.
And then he turned his head and looked straight at Fabien with eyes - Dieu sauve-moi - that were corpse-white and surely incapable of seeing.
He turned to run, limbs flailing desperately, but somehow the creature he had shot was faster and a hand caught the back of his shirt and heaved him bodily to the floor. He fell hard, air leaving his lungs in a whoosh.
Blood pattered like rain on the floor around him, spattering hot on his skin. The priest-creature cocked its head. Another spout of blood gushed from the jagged hole in its neck to darken its damp robes.
"This is a house of god you're defiling." The voice was gore-wet and sounded, largely, irritated at having just been shot at close range. He had never before heard someone pronounce the Lord’s name in lower case.
“Such a waste,” the creature coughed as another spurt of blood splattered the ground. It heaved a rattling sigh.
“However,” The creature smiled a vicious, mocking smile. Fabien felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. He caught a glimpse of bone-white teeth, far too long and sharp and sinister to belong to a man. “The lord giveth that which he has taken away.”
And as the monster descended on him, he understood. There was nothing sacred here. The Holy Spirit did not dwell here. There was only the den of this beast, and he would pay sacrament with his own ruby blood for attempting to steal his.
Amen.
