Henri Ville

by M. Chris Benner

  I remembered what she said

  And then she fled in the path of a lightning bolt

  Over the several days of riding, a few issues arose.

  One night, while Drewbell was sleeping, Andrew and the boys sans Cant thought it would be funny to tease her, so they slowly and carefully draped the end of a rope along her body, gently zigging and zagging it like a snake. Drewbell woke with a startle and yelped and grabbed the rope and tossed it, only to find herself the laughing stock of the rest of the boys. (Cant was out walking, thinking, as he often did at night.)

  They had to take many bathroom breaks, forming a line to relieve themselves. Drewbell could be found behind a nearby tree.

  They would read stories at night, and ride full-gallop during the day, eager for a sign in the right direction.

  One night, after dinner, while Cant was out for his nightly walk and the rest of the boys were seated around the fire, provoking each other and laughing - Drewbell approached the group of young boys and tossed a live ground snake into Andrew's lap-(she had caught it earlier in the day and kept it in a sack for such an occasion)-all of the boys studied the object for a brief moment before realizing it was, in fact, alive, and it was, in fact, a snake, at which point there was an incredible panic and they all jumped up to run screaming into the darkness.

  Drewbell laughed until her sides hurt.

  And the days continued, riding east, north, south, west, the boys grew more agitated as they had little to show for it, and the money Marielle had given them was beginning to dwindle, and boredom was settling in.

  Every night the boys began to argue over what story to read.

  "Let's just take a vote," Cant suggested.

  "Why? When's the last time we heard about Frankenstein's monster?" Andrew called out. He was always asking for something scary and Cant was never sure if it was because he liked horror, or because it scared Walter and the youngest boys.

  Some of the kids booed, calling it, "Boring."

  Cant checked the other books he had. They had read the gunslinger tales over and again, so much that they could recite them by heart, and the only books left were the gothic paperbacks he had brought with him from Massachusetts.

  "What about Dracula?"

  "Nooo," moaned Walter, as it obviously bothered him most.

  "It's not like Dracula's out there waiting for us," Vernon called over to Walter.

  "What?" Cant asked, stopping to look over the fire at Vernon.

  Vernon was still, preparing himself to be reprimanded.

  "I said?Dracula's not?out there."

  Cant pulled out a copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula (Walter groaned) and looked at the cover a moment. It was a more recent copy and hadn't aged much since he had it, not like his other books, which were falling apart at the spines.

  "Does anyone know where Dracula lives?" Cant spoke with both eyes focused on the cover, as if he were asking himself and had forgotten about the others entirely.

  "Oh God! Is it around here?" cried Walter.

  "No," Cant answered, opening the book. "He lives in Transylvania."

  And then Cant was off to wander alone. Drewbell had been nearby, mainly ignoring the story-time argument that had become commonplace, but perked up at the zeal in Cant's voice. She walked after him, rushing until running to catch up. Cant was so lost in thought he didn't even realize he had been followed until she was right behind him, placing her hand on his shoulder. He jumped and turned around as if expecting a monster, then frowned when he saw it was Drewbell.

  "What?" she asked, worried.

  He threw the book down.

  "I keep having ideas but-but none of it matters. It's all wrong, like I'm trying to grab smoke. None of the riddle even exists. We're just running around. And I get an idea but it doesn't-I'm just, I still don't know where the gosh-darn heck Nevermore is or where we can find winter or its shadow but-"

  "Maybe we can see up from up on that mountain," she proposed, pointing to the silhouette of the mountain in the distance, lit up in the moonlight. She was trying to be helpful and he took a moment from his frustration to appreciate her.

  "Looks mighty cold up there," she added.

  Cant's eye narrowed, and then he looked at her with a clarity he hadn't shown in days. It was at that moment he realized three things:

  First, Cant realized that it was a beautiful night, with the snow-covered mountain luminescent in the northern horizon, rising like the ear of a wolf?

  He also realized that he was in love with the girl standing beside him.

  And, lastly, he knew the answer.

  ***

  Carpatheon was a ghost town.

  There were many wooden shops and houses, all of them relatively new, all of them completely void of furniture and residents. Each had the polished appearance of being fully functioning and patron-friendly. When Cant and his brood arrived, the kids kept asking how he had found it. He had kept his plans a secret, to avoid getting their hopes up in case he was wrong, but as soon as they rounded the entrance, he knew he had been right, he knew they had found it. His only answer, whenever they asked over the last day of travel, was that the town had always been there, just well-hidden. Now, as they opened doors in the eerie town to find everything vacant, Drewbell prodded further. They had left the boys out in the front enclave and the two of them were walking through an empty dress shop filled with creepy, lifelike, bared wooden mannequins.

  "The truth. You saw the mountain, knew 'winter's shadow' must'a meant the mountain top shadow at dawn. But you got somethin' else. Just before you figured it out, there was somethin' else."

  "There was a reference in a book I own."

  "Which book?" she asked.

  "Dracula."

  "Oh good," groaned Drewbell, all the more worried now.

  The other stable boys weren't nearby so he hadn't been afraid to answer honestly.

  "Guys, I hear music," called Nathan Jr. 2 from out in front.

  All nine of the group convened in front to find that music was, in fact, playing in one of the buildings near the end of the street. They approached and found it coming from the two-story shop labeled APOTHECARY. Like the rest of the stores and buildings in the town, this one appeared to be relatively new and completely vacant?

  Except, unlike the others, this one had all of its windows open.

  "Dracula, huh?" asked Drewbell.

  All of the kids slowly turned their heads, each pair of eyes glazed in a fresh coat of terror, all of them staring at Drewbell; then, slowly, they turned back toward the terrifying Apothecary blaring the muffled screeches of an Italian opera. Cant shook his head disapprovingly at her. She noticed the horror on the younger faces and mouthed the word "Sorry" to Cant.

  And then Cant alone entered the building.

  He found the first floor of the Apothecary to be empty of everything but wooden shelves, counters, and empty glass bottles of various sizes, with a back room void of furniture. There were stairs at the end of a hallway and, as Cant climbed them one by one, the music grew louder. The door at the top was cracked and Cant pushed it open further. The second floor was one large room stocked with round tables and wooden chairs. There was a bar counter with a mirror behind and shelves for liquor yet to be supplied. The other buildings had a small layer of dust but not this room. It was fresh, smelled of pine, and carried a polish. It was dark but for a single candle burning at an empty table on the opposite side of the room.

  The phonograph at the end of the bar turned off.

  "You know I killed a boy younger than you," spoke a man hidden near the back of the open room. Cant couldn't see the source of the voice, as the man was seated in a chair in the corner and the bar counter obscured everything but a bald cranium with a halo of gray hair.

  "I was in a town called Leonding. In Austria. Near the Alps," he continued, and a plum of white smoke lifted into the air overhead as the man must have puffed from a pipe.

  Cant approached with uncertainty, cautious wi
th a step, a pause, then another step. Every step gave him a further detail of the speaker. Judicious eyes. Distinguished nose. Gray stubble. Thin lips. He was older, a face of creases and wrinkles.

  Cant remained silent as the man went on.

  "There was this local couple. Alois and Klara. Sound people, had a bunch of kids. Good parents, hardworking." He cleared his throat. "One day I'm outside and I meet this young, dark-haired boy. Turns out he's one of their sons and he's out there playing in the snow one day, alone. At the edge of this small town. So I walk up to him, curious, and ask him some questions. The young boy, he was quite a bit obsessed with the Franco-Prussian War but otherwise indistinguishable from any other young child."

  The speaker's shoulders were wide. Burly. An older man but definitely one with a muscular upper body. He was wearing a white shirt with a cut down the middle, his gray chest hair jutting out. His skin was sun-tanned to a darker brown.

  "The boy was polite, actually. Introduced himself. Told me about his family. He had a game he liked to play when he was alone: he'd close his eyes and take a bunch of steps in one direction and he'd count them, and he'd keep his eyes shut and he'd walk in another, count the steps - and it was always a random amount, never the same. And another and another. And he'd see how far he could walk before losing count of the steps in each direction he took. And I asked him to show me. So he started 'Ein, zwei, drei?'

  The story seemed to mimic Cant's own movements, as he was counting as Cant took step after step toward him.

  "And he'd go farther out. 'Vier, funf, sechs.'"

  Cant reached the 6 ft. round table where the man sat. Strewn across the top of the table was a towel, and on top of the towel were a dozen or so guns: tiny ones, large ones, all disassembled with their parts beside them. A chair kicked out from under the table, one a few down from the speaker. Panic had already caused Cant's breath to grow short. He felt warm. There was a pounding in his body from the beating of his heart, a thump-thump-thump he could feel most prominently at the back of his skull, behind his ears. He glanced out the nearest window, one overlooking the street, and could see the stable boys. Andrew, Lewis, Thomas, the Nathans, Vernon, and Walter were in a line outside the Apothecary's, facing the door, ready to race in at the first sound of danger. Drewbell stood in front of them, resolute eyes staring up at the window, her double-barreled shotgun across her arms.

  At this, Cant was relieved.

  He took the seat offered him.

  "'Seiben, acht, neun.' Kid went farther, farther. Far enough away? The blow probably killed him - swift swipe to the back of his skull - but I smothered him in the snow," and a long drag of the pipe, "just to be certain."

  The hairy, burly old man stared through the newest plum of white smoke.

  Cant finally spoke.

  "Are you Chaim Bialik?"

  The man only stared.

  "How'd you find me?" he finally spat, as if hearing his own name had upset him.

  "Henri told me an outdated riddle so, uh, luck. Winter's shadow? It's the western shadow of the mountain at dawn, right? And Carpatheon because it's around the mountain like the town below Dracula's castle, in the Bram Stoker book. You even purchased the land under the name Jonathon Hark-"

  "Henri?" inquired the old man.

  It had been all he had just heard the boy say.

  "Henri Ville wanted me to tell you that she's on her way."

  The old man gave an emphatic laugh.

  "She thinks she's coming here, does she?" He laughed again, then rose and looked out the window.

  "Girl looks tough," he said of Drewbell, checking the reaction of Cant. Cant made no gesture, no expression other than the stern plaster his face had been molded in. The older man tucked in his lower lip and nodded, appreciatively. "Like her, huh?" And he glanced down once more, this time finding the aim of the shotgun pointed up toward the window. "Doesn't seem too bright though." Then, calling down, "That's short range, sweetie. Would barely reach-"

  And Drewbell shifted her aim, firing the shotgun into the wall at the far side of the windows, maybe fifteen feet over and above the old man and Cant. There was a wide impact and a large chunk of wood from the building's face blew out. In the gun powder smoke, Drewbell reloaded, but her eyes never left the distant silhouette of the man in the window.

  "Goddamn," he chuckled. "I think I like her, too."

  The burly old man walked behind the counter of the bar, bent down, picked up glasses and a bottle, and returned to his seat. He set the two glasses next to one another and poured a clear liquid into both. He took one and motioned for Cant to take the other, which he did. Both drank the liquor and neither enjoyed it.

  "This-man, if ever there was a reason to keep that weasel Anson around, it was his ability to make a good Goddamn cocktail."

  They stared at one another a moment.

  The burly old man knocked his fisted knuckles together, thinking. He brushed a hand over the bald top of his head and leaned back.

  "So Henrietta's coming here?" he said to himself, "?and she's going to want to be getting home now, won't she?and she's gonna bring that Goddamn storm magnet?" He licked loudly at his teeth behind closed lips, his eyes wandering off.

  "She said you'd have answers for me."

  The old man harrumphed.

  "You were misinformed, kid. I ain't got no answers here. And I think you and your army of bed-wetters best be moving on."

  "Can we have a room at the inn?" Cant asked in all seriousness.

  "Kid, I ain't sure if you noticed but ain't much else in this town 'sides some wood and a ton'a Goddamn nothing. You're about eight months early."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Son, you got a blockage in your ear canal? I said it's best you all be movin' on. I meant it and I meant now." And there was a click-click from the hammer of a gun under the table.

  Cant nodded.

  "And you see Henrietta, you tell her she's gonna need a Goddamn army to get into my town."

  XII

  Later that night, Henri Ville arrived in Carpatheon accompanied by an army.

  AN ARMY FOR THE END OF THE WORLD

  I

  Jonathon William Beckett the third watched from the back. The crowd had grown considerably since the day before. The front had already filled. More people were entering. It was going to be a packed house. There was sunlight in through the windows - vibrant rays of red and blue and green and yellow through the stained glass - but there was still a murkiness to the church, a low-lying darkness mixed with the air of solidarity. There was the scent of mildew from the wood and body odor from the mass. Chattering. Clanging. People taking their seats. A few people were still entering but the crowd was mostly gathered, and ready. A stillness started in the front of the crowd and quickly spread all the way to the near-full back rows. A man was taking the stage.

  "I see a lot of new faces and I do not pretend that it is for my sermon you have come. I do appreciate your attendance and will try my best not to hinder your time but I feel the need - real quick - to tell you a story. About a little boy I found dying on the doorstep of my church?"

  ***

  Rigby Briarwood had the nickname Nosoul until he was twelve. The other kids teased him, as he wasn't just tiny for his age but also the only freckled redhead in the entire Warminster area. The torment had been going on as long as Rigby could remember but the nickname Nosoul didn't start until he was 8. They used to sing:

  Rig-by

  Rig-by

  Red hair

  No soul

  Ugly face

  Wormy toes

  Rigby quickly became self-conscious about his toes, something he had never noticed as wormy or embarrassing until he heard the song. Boys would sing it and nearby girls would laugh. This led Rigby to spend many days alone, often hiding in the labyrinthine cockspur hawthorn forest near his family's farm to write in his notebook. The worst offender was a tall boy named David Browser. As Rigby was tiny, David Browser was big. And this toweri
ng figure led the brigade against redheaded Rigby. One day David Browser held him to the ground until Rigby voluntarily ate a grasshopper. A few days later, they made him eat worms until he threw up; then, Rigby cried so hard he wet his pants. It was a story that quickly spread. At times, he felt even the grown-ups were snickering when he passed them.

  There has to be a fighter in me somewhere, Rigby used to tell himself.

  In their correspondence letters, he would often ask his mother questions about his family, grandparents, details about his father, anything. There would be a gap of one month, sometimes two, and then he'd receive a response. His mother's words were always terse, no matter the subject:

  Father be an angel. He never been on Earth long.

  Rigby had been alone most of his life. The farm on which he lived was old, the soil useless to an 8 year old. Sometimes a man claiming to be Rigby's uncle on his father's side would come to the house. He would eat the food and sleep on the only mattress. Rigby accepted that this man was family, welcoming him each time the man would show up. Months would pass between visits, and the man stayed on long enough to rest and eat well, and sometimes he took the money Rigby's mom would wire for food. The young boy respectfully did as the man would ask, even if it meant going a few days without food or a bed. After all, the man was family, even if he never could answer the questions Rigby would ask from the doorway of the kitchen. The only time he could talk to the man was while he ate; the rest of the time, the man would be in town or sleeping.

  "Your father, huh," the man once answered, finishing the last of the pork.

  "Mama says he was an angel an' he ain't been on earth too long cause he's always up in heaven looking down on me and helping me-" Rigby was interrupted at a point when he was starting to feel better. His mama had never said anything about being in heaven and looking down but Rigby felt it was true. It wasn't a story; it was a truth he felt in his bones. It was real, a certainty, and that's the way it was.

  "Nah, yer daddy wasn't no angel. And I heard you done pissed your pants the other day," the man laughed, chomping on the last of the vegetables. Rigby had used the small amount of money left and braved the snickers at the general store in order to buy the small amount of veggies and pork.