Henri Ville

by M. Chris Benner

  By the end of it, Henri had shot most of the town's occupants.

  There was an adrenaline-fueled lapse in her memory. The third thud set off a staccato chain of events that moved in such fluid motion that Henri only had time to react. Afterward, alone in the forest at dawn, she had tried to discern what happened and how.

  A man had been beating a woman in the hallway?it was like a dream, vague wisps as the memory melted into another melted into another melted into another. Once there was a third rattle, Henri opened the door, gun drawn. There stood a man to greet her. It was the man she noticed first, the unconscious woman and blood on the floor second. The man stared down at Henri, taller by over a foot. His beard was wet, the skin of his face and bare chest and arms drenched in a drunk sweat. The rank vinegar scent of his body odor caused her a moment's pause.

  "Keep it down," scolded Henri, still dazed from the abrupt wake-up.

  A fiery resentment filled the stranger's eyes.

  "Whatch you say, whore!"

  Men?

  "I said, 'Keep it down,'" repeated Henri.

  The man, now whipped into a fury, stepped on the unconscious woman, lunging for Henri. She fired twice from her hip, aiming successfully at his beard, and the man's leap met such resistance that he stopped midair and landed beside the woman, their blood pooling together. Henri returned to her room. She didn't close the door but instead removed the rifle from under the bed. Pocketing two extra clips into her bag, she slipped it over her shoulder and closed the guitar case.

  A sensation on the back of her leg startled her.

  Gun drawn, she turned to find nothing behind her except a blood trail leading from the hallway, into her room, all the way to her feet-and then she saw the woman, lying flat against the floor beside her feet, having crawled the whole way. The best this woman could do was left a quivering, blood-soaked hand.

  Henri groaned.

  She struggled to lift the injured woman onto the bed. Her face was mashed, one eye half-swollen while the other was shut completely. Henri felt queasy at the sight of the woman's hanging, dislocated jaw. (Repulsion was something she hadn't felt in some time.) Flat on her back, the woman lifted her left arm and Henri mistook the gesture as a thank you; instead, the woman viciously scratched Henri near the throat.

  At this, Henri pulled back cursing.

  Can't anyone be appreciative when I save their life? thought Henri as the woman passed out.

  Henri had what she needed, the rifle belt wrapped around her forearm, one hand clenched tight in the thin space between the butt and slide.

  Out of the bedroom, down the stairs, rushing to the front door?

  VIII

  And Henri relayed the story as best she could remember:

  "The man came at me for interrupting his beating. Men in these parts don't like it when women have a voice let alone an opinion or command. Had he not come at me, I would have let it be. Even though the woman?" Henri sighed, "?the woman was nearly dead." Then, to herself, "Just like the boy Jonathon." Then loud again, "Not that there seems a way around it, either. Try an' help and it ruins everything. Save a boy that doesn't want to be saved, a woman that doesn't want to be saved. Rather be twisted in a tornado or beaten to death than lose the worst thing in their life?

  "In Saintstown, the sheriff and deputies met me outside the inn and?I almost went peacefully, too? I really did? but then it came down to it and I did what I had to to survive, same as anyone with an ounce of brains. Lost my favorite rifle, my horse?my supplies, most everything. But I made it out.

  "And-it's this world, this place here and now. You people. Farther south is the same if not worse-hell, anywhere besides the Yankee coast." The word hell makes some of the worshipers gasp. "Times will change, believe me. You people beat your women - and then you have the gall to say how much you love them? You drink until you do something stupid-and everyone has a gun. More of you are armed than can read. You folk don't think that's dangerous? And the men protecting you are no better than the people they're protecting you from."

  "This is off topic," Pastor Briarwood interjected, a fair statement from a man that didn't seem to know what else to say.

  He looked amused, though.

  "Look, I've killed people. Fine, I'm a sinner. I confess. In Saintstown, I shot my way out. All the dead in that town is dead 'cause of me."

  "Alright, demon. That's all I wanted to hear. Let's go, c'mon. Outside, enjoy the sunlight. You can have your five minutes of silence on the condition that you do it from atop the gallows, rope around your neck?"

  The Pastor had a long-barreled revolver pointed at Henri.

  The time nears.

  Henri turned and waited while Pastor Briarwood opened the latch to the boxed area. As she walked the aisle on her way outside - the Pastor kept his gun in her back, marching her forward - Henri continued talking, her voice distinct over the shuffling and movement of the congregation as they stood to follow behind:

  "Do you even have a court in this town? I'd ask if anyone's read the Constitution or Bill of Rights but it'd be a waste of breath. All men are created equal. Or even the sixth amendment - the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed..."

  Henri was talking to herself. No one listened; even if they had, none of them would have had any idea what she was talking about.

  They made it out into the blinding sunlight and Henri's head instantly fell back to let the warmth of the sun wash over her face. Even as this was just as much a death sentence as the approaching gallows, it was absolutely worth it?

  I miss you, dear friend, she wanted to tell the sun. I plan the day-travels but it's dangerous, the peril too great against the innocent. But the warmth and the light and the way I soak you in? Stay with me during this, what could very well be my last minutes? If they are to be my last, I need you to wash me in light, to gather me up and join me to you. Too long I've been in the vacuum of darkness.

  Those that had been peering in from the open gateway doors now lined the front of the gallows. They seemed to be the lower class of the town, dirtier and more crude. The Pastor probably forbid them from entering his church on account of their poor hygiene. This crowd was more vibrant, more lively - they may have only heard faint bits of the sermon and Henri's confession but they were excited nonetheless, most of them (including an adorable 7 year old girl in a white sundress) screaming "WHORE!" and "DEMONSPAWN!" as Henri approached.

  A rotten tomato hit her chest and exploded, as did the head of an old cabbage. Her face was still upward, her mind divided between the sun and the thin metal rod in her hand, one she had safely procured during her ride in the prisoner carriage. It had been up her sleeve the whole time, patiently waiting for the moment when no one would look at her hands. The end of the metal rod was already jammed into the front of the shackle's lock; the tip bent enough to hit the pin. Henri could feel a certain resistance and knew that one good push forward would unlock the binds around her wrists.

  Before they reached the gallows, Pastor Briarwood stopped her.

  "Where's Belinda and Reginald?" he asked the people nearest him.

  No one responded with an answer.

  "Someone go check please?" he sighed, pushing Henri forward once more, adding with annoyance, "I would like the executioner to be here to do the execution."

  And he pushed her forward until they reached the gallows.

  IX

  They pulled out of the forest and out into the open land of Warminster Farm. The dark brown soil was tilled on the right, the left full of little sprouts. There were two large barns in the distance, and in the far left, past the field and tiny sprouts, there was an octagonal structure, something between a barn and a wooden silo. The road on which they rode had turned from grass to solid, well-trodden dirt along the two fields and up to a fork. At the fork, the man yanked and the horses turned, heading toward the silo/barn in the far off.

 
; "'Ees been havin' hangin's here since some years back. Even as a young'un he was always tryin' to condemn folks. Kid's been seein' demons since 'is blessin', which I guess was at birth. His motha' was a whore done got rich on family oil but he uhlways swore 'is daddy was God?"

  Anson had been listening intently while the pop spoke and the young man between them eagerly agreed with a "Yup yup." Several times he had asked to speed up, each met with a quick, indifferent, "Can't. Horses'er tired. What's in yer case there, a guitar?" Anson was then quick to change the subject from his guitar case and back on their destination.

  "And the young'un's been buildin' up the farm since he was knee high, seems like. Built it up somethin' severe these past few yeahs. But he sees 'em, God help that boy-grown-into-a-man. He been seein' demons-can't imagine what that be like. Seein' 'em wherever they hid all his life, God taskin' you with sendin' 'em out. Brave, he is - sure as rain and shine that man is braver 'an me."

  Anson agreed, then caught himself and had to ask, "?wait, so he actually sees the demons?"

  "Yeah. He describes 'em to us. Sometimes?" the man got a bit quiet, as if excited and nervous simultaneously, "?sometimes he has to lay his hand upon their skin and he sees their home - he sees into the many pits of Hell and he gives us words like a poet. Them Godsents, they'er true miracles to behold."

  "Best parts of his sermons are the descriptions of the demons," added the middle son from beside Anson, his face flat and serious. "He makes 'em sound like mountains, like-like-like monsters brought to suffer the masses but they got stuft and binded into a human body."

  "Sounds like?quite a guy. What's his name?"

  "Pastor Briarwood-look, we ain't too late." He called back loud, "Hey, hon. Cloris, Drewbell, Marcy May, look. They done started the sermon, though. Don't forget to grab the cabbage and the basket of rotten tomatoes."

  The women popped their heads in every direction, only the mother showing anticipation as her hungry eyes looked toward the gallows. The youngest, Susan Marcy May, looked up into the sky at the gathering turkey hawks, only gazing forward with middling interest. The teenager, Drewbell, poked out her head to scan the large crowd gathered outside the wide-open gates. The sunlight was too bright to see inside but Anson wasn't much focused on the goings-on inside the "church" - first the appearance of a boy caught his attention, then a lurch turned in his stomach with the realization that it was a seemingly unconscious Jonathon William Beckett the third being carried out of the church by an oafish, ungainly man in a chinless, brown executioner's mask.

  "Wonder what that's about?" the pop asked, pulling the carriage to the outer rim of the open area outside the open church silo - it looked almost like a town square, the hub of a busy settlement.

  Parking the carriage took several minutes, and everyone waited patiently.

  Near the dilapidated gallows was a low-standing building made of clay mud and straw, maybe twenty-by-twenty-five feet, with a door to the far left and an elongated window and wood counter lining the front. (Adobe, the material of which the enclosure was built, did not come locally - it was a material used much farther south and impressed the locals, adding a strange affluence to the setting.) There could have been stores instead of fields, sidewalks and people and law instead of open country; instead, the land had an odd desolation, like life was important here and only here and everything else nearby didn't matter. The farmland heading out into the distance was nothingness, the two actual barns (and presumably a house) that Anson had seen in the distance were practically invisible. The only other building was hidden in the shadow in back of the church: it was a large wooden shack, and it was where the executioner was taking the boy, a thin woman following behind.

  The women poured out from inside the carriage, only the teenager languishing. The mother and youngest were already out and shuffling quickly to the gathering at the threshold of the church, the middle son close behind, and the father sauntering in the back, lugging the basket of rotten vegetables (that the women still forgot) as he hobbled from a bad knee.

  As Anson - guitar case and knapsack in tow - separated from the family and disappeared around the back of the church, heading toward Jonathon William Beckett the third, the gathering crowd backed away from the front doorways, split apart, and Henri emerged through the gateway on her walk toward the gallows.

  X

  With all the grandeur of the church, Henri expected more of the gallows.

  The wood structure holding up the platform was sturdy but peeling with rot and in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. There were stairs that led up from the side (the remains of a railing were on the ground, decayed to nothing). Henri took each step carefully, one-by-one-by-one, and over the step that was missing. At the top of the platform, the gallows themselves were tilted from stress after years of hangings and inclement weather; three metal hoops hung below the beam with two dirty, blood-stained ropes slung through, the nooses and excess rope coiled on the ground.

  "SILENCE!" Pastor Briarwood yelled from the stairs as he climbed up one-by-one-by-one (skipping the missing step with an agile leap) to join Henri on the platform. This had been a last second decision as it was apparent he hadn't wanted to join her atop the gallows; however, without an executioner present, the stage proved too enticing for him to ignore.

  The Pastor cautiously lifted the long, limp rope, careful to avoid the specks of blood and small hunks of rotted flesh still clinging to the coarse threads of the noose. With amateur hands, he loosened the knot to better slip it around Henri's head. The rope loosely hung over Henri's chest until the Pastor tightened it snuggly against her throat.

  Not once did his eyes wander to the shackles on her wrists.

  With his back to the crowd, he angrily declared, "I am unfinished!"

  The crowd fell silent as he turned to stand in front of Henri.

  "Would you like to know of this demon?" he inquired, the anger gone. Pastor Briarwood's voice had, once again, changed tones - this time it was informative, as if he were about to tell a bedtime story to a group of wide-eyed children. The question was to engage, to stoke their excitement, and it worked marvelously. Though the crowd remained silent - doing their best not to offend the speaker - they eagerly shook and excitedly whispered to one another. Their eagerness was again too much and he signaled for them to quiet further, which they did. Such a stillness and silence did follow that Pastor Briarwood could speak at a normal level and still be heard by everyone.

  There was a pause between the question and the sermon?

  The gallows faced the people and the church and, from behind the church, the executioner poked his head around the side to signal the Pastor. The motion was one of choking, with the executioner miming strangulation using his hands; also, as the mask was chinless, it was easy to see his extended tongue. There was an immense distance between the signaling executioner and the gallows, and Reginald was only partially visible, but the signal was obvious:

  The boy was dead.

  Henri cried out-then hushed herself. The tears had stopped in the church but they returned. The Pastor made a motion for the executioner to stay put. Shortly after, the thin woman materialized and joined the group. Someone carrying the boy's limp body came around from behind the church, the executioner close behind, and they disappeared amongst the carriages and tethered horses.

  You will be mourned, Henri silently grieved, Jonathon William Beckett the third.

  And as he opened his mouth to begin the final portion of his sermon, Pastor Rigby Briarwood shot one last smirk at Henri Ville. So that only she could hear, he scoffed, "One less bastard demon."

  And you will be avenged.

  So help me God, you will be avenged.

  XI

  "This is no woman," began the Pastor. "Before you stands a cavern. There is no soul. Bandied between flesh and earth-even on this sacred ground-is not a spirit of warmth and civility. No, before us stands the gunslinger known as?" he turned to her as if double-checking himself, making sure he's co
rrect, though his expression was condescending, rhetorical, "?Henri Ville. Right? Am I correct? Henri Ville," then back to the crowd, booming louder than ever, "the notorious gunslinger from the east! Robbed four of the banks in Philadelphia and-"

  "Eight," Henri spit, correcting him with tears on her lips.

  She was snarling.

  "Excuse me," he gave a mock, ridiculing pardon, "EIGHT establishments. Any you'all got family around them parts?" No one answered. "Consider yourselves lucky 'cause that money comes from the people. She's stealing money from the pockets of families that just want food, good people feeding children and paying room and board.

  "Surest sign of a demon is the desire to inflect as much pain as they can, taking and taking and taking - it ain't always death, as it takes everything then and there. No, demons don't like the fish-demons want the ROD to grab up all your fish and all the other fish so it leaves your RIVERS and your LAKES empty! Nothing."

  Henri's head tilted back to the sun once more. She was going to enjoy these, what were sure to be her last minutes spent calmly standing in open sunlight. Though her demise felt less and less likely with every passing minute, that familiar shiver ran down Henri's back? it was the chill of death approaching.

  "Don't get me wrong, this demon isn't above murdering - she's just confessed to murdering most of the people in Saintstown. And Seraphim Falls - the town split apart without reason. There's nothing but rubbage strewn for miles, as if God himself were reaching down to pluck her up. This God-damned angel is black as the deepest hole and inside are maggots and vomit and hellfire waiting to rot the flesh of poor, unlucky souls-"

  There were two sounds?

  A gunshot, presumably from the gun of an over-eager member of the crowd.

  And the sound of the shackles hitting the wood floor.

  When the Pastor turned, Henri was glaring back. She had already removed the noose from around her neck. The crowd was tense, crying and shouting out warnings (though none were running the rickety stairs to save the savior). Terror filled Pastor Briarwood's face and before he could react, Henri raised the thin and narrow and sharp shard of metal she used to pick the lock and she stabbed it deep into Rigby's shoulder. He howled a high-pitched scream of agony but Henri hadn't finished. She pulled out the tiny metal dagger and slashed at his face in one motion too quick to block, the tip slicing the right side of his face all the way from his chin, over his eye, and up through the middle of his eyebrow. The gash split open to show the sub-dermal layers of his cheek, so quick and deep that the blood didn't start for an extra couple seconds. There was a laceration on the retina where scraped his left eye and it was the first to bleed, the blood swelling like tears. With a forceful shove, the Pastor screamed bloody murder and jumped from the platform of the gallows, landing on his constituents before jumped back to his feet and running full sprint into the distance.