Henri Ville

by M. Chris Benner

  The congregation was silent, bewildered. They looked to one another for a sign, some sort of plan, but none of them moved any part other than their eyes. And Henri Ville glared down at them all and bellowed:

  "I AM NO DEMON!"

  There was a gathering wind, one ominously cycling in the fields behind her and the gallows.

  "I am the Angel of MERCY and you have all forsaken me! All of you!" Hatred filled her voice. "Bring me my guns! NOW!" And someone in the back ran off. "You have shown me that you are not worthy of my LOVE and KINDESS. And so I release a storm like that which destroyed Seraphim Falls, and it will swallow this church for its BLASPHEMY!"

  The sky grew darker as she spoke, her loud voice and harsh words carrying over the mounting rush of the winds.

  "John 13 verse 34 - A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. John 8 verse 7 - Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to cast a stone. Matthew 7 verse 12 -Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

  No one spoke, even as the storm across the fields grew exponentially worse with each passing second. The winds were climbing, the sky near black.

  Henri walked down the stairs of the gallows and into the crowd, which backed away from her in a circle. As she moved, so did the crowd, keeping her in the center. Her belt and holsters were still on and, as the man returned with her guns (ducking into the circle only long enough to hand her the guns before quickly jumping back as if it burned), Henri slid her shining guns into their rightful place. The crowd and winds and panic caused a blanket over the sound she so dearly loved, gun metal sliding along leather.

  And the storm twisted, taking the form of an inverted mountain of dirt and wind.

  "Now run, you IDIOTS!" she yelled.

  Finally, the people scattered.

  XII

  The shack was small and poorly maintained. Anson could see inside it through massive gaps in the wood. It rested in the shadow of the church and, through the cracks, he could make out a thin woman with a long, slender nose and prominent cheek bones. She was struggling to hold up a naked child. The executioner stayed just outside, watching through the open door as the woman kept the child sitting up, even as the young boy continued to slump. She was trying to clothe the lower half of the child, dirty pants and underwear on the floor.

  The boy was responsive but barely.

  As Anson approached, the executioner turned and set his hand over his gun.

  "Who'er you?" the executioner asked with a slow drawl.

  Within a single look, Anson sized the man up and lied:

  "Whoa there, big man. I was sent to help. I'm a doctor."

  The big man relaxed.

  Anson moved in front of the executioner and remained just outside the shack, as it was too small for the boy, the woman, and himself. There were several white-with-gold-trim children's choir outfits strung up on the wall, and a small workbench on top of which sat Jonathon. His eyes were open, a faint glint of recognition as Anson neared.

  "Let me see him," Anson said quickly.

  "What in God's name are you doing?" the woman asked, her thin features twisted in horror by Anson's bare chest as he removed his shirt and cornered the boy. The woman released hold and jumped from the shack, her jaw agape, as Anson caught and lifted the boy under his armpits. He half-sat on the workbench, pulling the child over him - together, the skin of his chest on the bare skin of Jonathon's back, they breathed, shallow at first like uncontrollable sobs but loosening, deepening, slowing, and Anson whispered softly the only tune that came to mind:

  I'mmmmmm a

  Liiiiittle

  Nervousssss

  'Bout what you'll think

  When yoooou

  Seeeeee me

  In myyyyyyy

  Swimming trunks

  And laaaast night

  New Yooooork

  I got

  Raging drunk

  Remembeeeeer

  One time

  I gooooot

  Raging drunk with you

  The boy's body was limp.

  Anson felt for a pulse.

  "This boy?" Anson said, somberly, "?has passed on."

  Neither the executioner nor the woman moved, both awestruck.

  "He's passed on. Go tell the priest. Now," Anson demanded.

  The executioner's eyes snapped back from a hazy, fascinated stare. He turned and was off. Anson lifted the boy up and found the thin woman scrutinizing his every movement. As he began to carry the boy from the shack, the woman held up a hand in protest and attempted to say something but, ultimately, decided against speaking.

  "Ma'am, could you please go get Joshua? Tell him to meet me by the horses."

  Anson's voice was calm, sincere. He gave her an earnest look.

  "I don't know who Joshua-" she started.

  "Just go get him! He's out there. Hurry!" Anson's reprimand was so strict and loud that the thin woman startled, then scurried off to find the fictional Joshua without any further questioning.

  And just as Anson was set to leave with the boy's body, the executioner returned. "Come on," Anson said, sounding as if he had expected him and that this was the most obvious solution. "Let's get the body to my carriage before anyone sees a dead child. I'll take him where he needs to go."

  The executioner didn't have time to react as Anson had dressed the boy in choir clothes and now had him across his arms. (He would have to come back for his guitar case and knapsack.) Together, they hurried over to the horses. There was a crowd at the gallows. Anson's primary goal was to get the child to safety before the hell-storm arrived?then he would save Henri. They reached the carriage on which Anson had first arrived and Anson turned back to search the gallows. There, plain as day, was Henri Ville with a noose around her neck and no bandana across her face. The Pastor was in front of her, orating. The crowd had their heads tilted up like baby birds waiting for dinner.

  When he turned back, the executioner opened the carriage door.

  The teenage girl known as Drewbell was inside, her body intertwined in a heated embrace with a man. The two parted abruptly as the door opened. Drewbell crossed her legs and jerked her dress to cover the bare skin of her thighs. The man (who was much older) twirled his body around expecting the fists of an angry parent. They were still dressed, merely at the stage of frantic groping and dishevelment. Anson assumed they hadn't gotten very far before the interruption.

  "Who-what are you doing?" Drewbell asked irritably - she wasn't embarrassed in the least, only annoyed.

  The man finished straightening himself out. He had fine white hair and a great big, white mustache. His clothes were a lavish tan, unstained, and there was an air of importance to him. Shuffling, he crossed Drewbell - whose eyes were daggers, not just at Anson but everyone - and the man hopped down, his leather boats kicking up a small cloud of dirt as they landed.

  "I will um?and?" said the man before running off.

  The child coughed in Anson's arms.

  The executioner's eyes dropped as though weighed.

  "He's just lettin' out air. Death rattle. Happens. I'm sure you've seen it before. You ever hang a kid here before?" Anson asked quickly, trying to steal the executioner's attention.

  "I hanged a few," the executioner nodded.

  "Yeah? I thought so?" responded Anson, morose.

  The gunshot caught the executioner entirely off-guard.

  The gun had been in Anson's hand since the shack (the thin woman held up a hand to protest when he drew it but said nothing) and it remained hidden under the billowy choir pants that Jonathon was now wearing. A quick burst and the hulking executioner took three leaps back and landed on the ground, unmoving.

  Drewbell yelped from the shock of the gun blast.

  Anson had the gun on her next, still pointed from under the body of the child.

  "Be quiet," he warned, shoving the child's body into the carriage.

  Drewbell listened.

 
Anson sighed to himself, double-checking the child to make sure he was moderately comfortable on the floor. Drewbell had her knees and feet up but lowered them into the back corner once Anson finished checking the boy. He was preparing himself to run back, back to the church, back to the crowd and gallows, back to save Henri. There was little time left: the skies were turning black and he felt the familiar chill of death.

  "You can run now," Anson told Drewbell.

  She looked deep into his eyes, causing him to feel awkward?

  Then he was off, back behind the church and grabbing his knapsack and guitar case. An ear-piercing, bloodcurdling scream caused him a moment's pause-the blur of a man rushed past, his face covered with hands drenched and seeping blood.

  Guess Henri's doing alright?

  Before removing the weapon from its case, Anson circled around to find the mob scattering in every direction except the one toward the oncoming storm twirling past the gallows. For a brief second, he thought he saw Henri mingled with the crowd - specifically, he saw that look of fervent determination she always wore when saving her own life. But then he lost sight of her, lost her in a crowd of people, and the storm was growing in the distance behind the gallows.

  Chaos, everywhere chaos?

  In that second, Anson decided to continue without her.

  THE CATLIGHT INFINITE

  I

  The Catlight Infinite was hidden in a vast desert. Potential clientele were unable to find the castle-like structure without explicit directions from the one man granted permission to provide it - a quiet, watchful store owner in Brighton.

  His name was Pellsley Grant.

  During work hours, Pellsley was often subdued. He would silently pace his store stocking shelves and tightening up the many items filling the many rows. His customers would greet him as they entered and he would nod in response, as if saving his words to spend them wisely. There were only two times he became passionate, outspoken: questions about the fine whiskey he manufactured in his "backyard distillery" could elicit a long-winded, knowledgeable response (the liquor was equally as expensive and more sought after than the directions to The Catlight Infinite - though everyone in a 100 mile radius knew of the whiskey and only a bare few knew of them beauties out in the desert); the only other time he spoke up was when he had been paid and gave the directions:

  "It's gotta be 'xactly when the sun's half-set in the west. Them beauties don't like no one wanderin' up there during daylight hours so be absolutely sure it's dark as a nigger's hide when you get there." He always referred to the women as them beauties out of a romantic, sorrowing love; in addition, he had a tendency to use the term dark as a nigger's hide out of resentment toward the black doorman, who usurped a better job. "But don' you wait too long an' it gets too dark 'cause yer gonna get yerself lost. Use tha' settin' sun; head directly east maybe fi'teen of them dry, flat miles. Eventu'lly there's gonna be a three-tier wood fence in the middle'a nowhere. Thing's been outstanding the weather for? well, forever. It's gon' be in the middle of nowhere and it's gonna seem to be there for no goddamn reason, holdin' back nothin'. And there ain't nothing in any direction 'cept Brighton the way you come. Follow that fence south 'till the gate. If'n the gate's open, they're acceptin' business. Don't be surprised if it's closed, though - them beauties shut it for days sometimes. I dunno why and they ain't never tell me nothin'. Anyway, go through the gate to nowhere-" and he would laugh hard, as Pellsley Grant always did when describing the absurdity of an impotent fence with an inane gate to nowhere, "-and go straight near a mile. You'll know it's been a mile 'cause there's a great big hole like'a sandtrap'a some sort or anuther. On the south rim of that big ole' hole, there's gonna be a trail that'll lead you right to it."

  Then Pellsley Grant gave the rules:

  "You can bring three witcha but no more. No tellin' anyone else how to get there. No stayin' past dawn 'less them beauties say so. Money up front. And no mistreatin' them beauties." He chuckled at the thought. "Actu'lly I dare you to mess with 'em. They all pretty scary-well, all of 'em 'cept them French girls. But Marielle'll cut yer man parts off 'fore you can beg to apologize."

  The store owner absently gazed off at the young boy and teenage girl accompanying the newest potential client. They had been wandering the aisles but were now stopped at a countertop display of variously-sized hunting knives. When Pellsley turned his gaze back to the gentleman, the quiet, subdued store-owner had returned. There was a subtle glance suggesting that they're too young to go up to them beauties, lest the boy's gonna be a stable hand and the girl's gonna be sold to the house? but Pellsley spoke no words.

  Instead, there was a hint of guile as the gentleman client told the store owner:

  "You may wanna hold off giving them directions to anyone else for the next while - that gate's gonna be closed for a good deal of time."

  II

  The land had been forgotten, the ole' Butchers Farm erased off the map decades prior. It had been prosperous a few generations back but the climate shifted, the desert inched north, and an unending draught turned the area to sand damn near overnight. It hadn't rained there in years, so long in fact that many of the younger stable boys hadn't ever seen rainfall - it was a figment, a dream buried in the penny books Cant had brought with him from Massachusetts. He had some fiction, mostly gothic (Bram Stoker's Dracula, the works of Edgar Allen Poe, etc.) but mainly his collection consisted of true life tales from the Wild West. He was the only one able to read and the other stable boys pleaded nightly for him to do so. Hay was delivered weekly and, on those nights, they would band a patch large enough for the half-dozen of them and use it as a makeshift bed at the mouth of the open barn; that way the group could stay alert to the needs of the house while listening slack-jawed to the legends of gunfighters past and present. They called it hay day, the best day of the week. Their favorite stories had been those of Jesse Woodson James, mostly because there were more books about him than any other criminal. (Cant once met someone that had personally seen Jesse James' dead body as it rested on ice; more than rain or snow or mountains or other states or anything else, that short, uneventful story was the most requested of all his stories - the time he met the man who met the dead body of Jesse James.) Robert LeRoy Parker and his Wild Bunch had been growing in popularity until Pellsley Grant gave them a free pamphlet detailing the exploits of female bank robber and gunfighter Henri Ville. Pellsley's intention had been to warn them beauties at The Catlight Infinite, as word had spread that Ville was in the area, but the pamphlet never made it to the adults. When they weren't reading and re-reading it (even Cant found himself regaled), the boys hung it on a support beam near the top of the latter to their loft so they could all see her face on the wanted poster as they climbed up or down.

  Shortly before the gentleman client and his brood arrived, Cant gave the group their morning chores.

  "Andrew, Lewis - I want you pulling the mattress so we can replace the hay."

  Disappointment filled the boys' faces, followed quickly by the group's realization that hay was to be delivered later in the day. A few whispered excitedly and Cant hushed it. Even as he continued, there was the tense buzz of anticipation for story-time.

  The back door to the house opened and Marielle stepped out.

  "Uhhh?" Cant watched her, distracted. She was approaching. Out of everyone from The Catlight Infinite, Marielle was the one least likely to approach the stables.

  Two of the boys snickered at Cant's disorientation.

  "Walter, Thomas - clean the outhouses."

  Their faces dropped but they were still obviously excited for the night.

  "The rest of you-" there were only three "-can start preparing for a trip to the parameter. It's been a while since we walked the fence. Vernon, you'll be in charge." At 13, Vernon was the oldest of the three; he was also the widest. "Scatter, get your supplies. Join up with Andrew and Lewis if you have time before Learnin'. I'll have Cheff set you up with an early dinner."

  "We're
gonna miss tonight?" Nathan Jr. 2 whined, sounding every bit the child he was at 10 years old.

  "Shoot, I forgot-"

  Nathan Jr. 1 gasped.

  (Nathan Jr. 1 and 2 were twin brothers. Their mother died giving birth to the second child, leaving the patriarch to name them. Since they hadn't expected twins, there was only one name picked for a boy - Nathan Jr. - but even naming just one of them proved to be perplexing. They were identical - how could he keep track? To prevent this from becoming a life-long issue, their father severed a chunk of cartilage from the top of the second child's ear. This helped differentiate them as well as mark the son that had killed their mother. They'll both be Nathan Jr., their father finally decided? then, on their second birthday, he abandoned them at The Catlight Infinite.)

  "Just get the supplies, we'll talk about it later. Scat! Shoe!"

  Vernon and the Nathans ran back into the barn. Cant turned, feigning interest in the three boys as they climbed the ladder to the loft, each pausing near the top to gawk at the wanted poster of the beautiful Henri Ville stuck to the support beam.

  Marielle tapped on Cant's shoulder and asked to speak privately.

  He nodded; they didn't move from the front of the barn.

  "Would you be willing to serve as the new Stable Master? Keep the boys in line, maybe help us teach them some reading? They listen to you and your horrid stories. I-I swear they don't hear a word Rebecca says when she tries. And-I know you already do this stuff, you're already doing it," and she put her hand on his shoulder, her stunning gaze obliterating the rest of the world - he loved her so much it hurt, "but I still wanted to ask you. I want you to have the choice. And I want you to know that I see you. I appreciate you and what you've been doing here the past few years."