A novella
Written and illustrated
by Graham Bradley
Published 2017 by DreadPennies USA, via the CreateSpace platform.
Kill the Beast. Copyright 2017 © by Graham Bradley. All rights reserved.
In full candor, I tell you that this story was written with a purely tongue-in-cheek attitude based on a sarcastic idea I had about an alternate plot to a cartoon movie from the early 1990s. I’m 32 years old and I still don’t take things too seriously—except for book sales; I’m pretty serious about those. “But Graham! If you wanted to sell books, why did you write this?!” Because it’s funny and witty and entertaining, or at least I think so, and that’s why I self-published it. No part of this publication, be it the text or illustrations, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, ranging from carrier pigeon to telepathic emission, and maybe even more than that, like digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, tattooing, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a Web site, without my expressed permission, most likely in writing, unless you’re just quoting it for a review or an article or something, in which case by all means, spread the word. Basically all I ask is that you don’t steal this book, or distribute it for free or for profit for yourself or something, ’cause that’s not cool. Even if I were an eleventy-jillionaire, the principle stands. Yes, I copy-and-pasted this legalese from my Engines books. That’s because I wrote it myself and I wanted to be consistent. This is the part where I usually say “Go Colts,” but until Chuck Pagano and Ryan Grigson are fired, I just can’t bring myself to fake the enthusiasm. **Update: Grigson was sent packing while I edited draft 3!!!! Praise be!!!! **Update 2: Yay, Chris Ballard!!! **Update 3: NOOO! COME BACK, BOOMSTICK!
I’m on Twitter and Instagram @GrahamBeRad
Want to email me? [email protected]!
As of February 2017, this book is not registered with the Library of Congress. I reserve the right to change that as soon as I have the resources and/or feel like doing so.
Printed in the good old United States of America
Also Available:
The Engines of Liberty Trilogy
REBEL HEART
SUICIDE RUN
PATRIOT’S GAME
The Engines books: imagine the Brits won the American Revolution because they had magic. Completely changes history. Over two hundred years later (1984) the Americans have built an arsenal of machines and weapons. They just need soldiers.
Enter 15 year-old Calvin Adler. The American rebels brought him on board to fight the British…but he might be more rebel than they bargained for…
If you like this or any other of my books, please leave a review online! Reviews on Amazon and Goodreads really help me out as an independent artist. Thank you!
DreadPenniesUSA
For Tanya Peplowski, my third grade teacher.
You started all of this.
~1~
In the south of France, at the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains that form the border with Spain, there stands the remnant of a long-forgotten town. The descendants of those farmers and woodsmen tell a common tale of the most eventful night in its history.
It was a wintery night, in an age when the government of France was in no small state of upheaval, the royalty and nobility having been overthrown by the peasantry in order to establish a republic. These things were often fickle and short-lived, but the tumult and disorder had a rippling effect. Distant townships were ignored for a while. Strange things happened that never became a matter of official history.
Under these conditions, the most famous figure in this town—a hunter named Gautier Lesauvage—would face the greatest challenge of his life…though not in the form one might suspect.
The townsfolk had congregated at Le Chambellan, the local tavern, run by a woman that everyone called “Madame Ésprits,” though this was not her actual name. When travelers came through town, the name was given with a wink and a nod, as it had more to do with the fine intoxicating products she served.
Le Chambellan was a warm and homely place, all hardwood and plaster, decorated with the hunting trophies of the locals (mostly Gautier), and always warm with fire and candlelight. Delicious soups and breads teased the senses from the kitchen’s ovens, and succulent cuts of meat roasted on a spit in the fireplace. Adults sat at benches and tables, some children ran about, and a few men occupied high-backed armchairs in the corner, talking in muted tones about whatever was on their minds.
Gautier sat in one of these chairs, close to and facing the fireplace, keeping warm while he watched the meat roast slowly over the pulsating coals. A small doe rotated on the spit, its meat rubbed hard with spices and herbs to enrich the flavor. He let the smoky smell waft over him while his mind wandered. Next to him, his lifelong friend Leroux smacked his lips and took another long draught of ale, his greatest vice. Gautier usually found the sound unbearable, but it didn’t reach him tonight. He watched the fire with his eyes narrowed, his brow pinched to form a hard V like a raptor’s.
“Been a while since we had this much meat,” said Leroux. He was smaller than Gautier, but then, most men were. Leroux’s teeth were too large, his freckles too prominent, and his hair too sloppy, like the tangled bristles of a rust-colored broom.
Gautier, on the other hand, was a mountain of a man, his long black hair pushed back behind his head, his blue eyes sharp, and his square jawline dusted with the black scruff of a three-day beard. He was rugged and handsome in a way that made men evaluate themselves, and made women reevaluate their men.
“Hmm,” Gautier said, uncommitted to the idea of conversation. Leroux would keep talking regardless.
“I dare say we’re going to pull through this, mon ami,” Leroux went on. “Just one more pound of proof that that castle up the road never did a lick for us. Once the trade dried up and the marauders tried to steal our stores, who sent ’em packing? We did! Well, you did. But we all feel like we helped.” He hiccupped. “They oughta rename this place. Call it Ville de Gautier. Or Gautierville. Granted it doesn’t roll off the tongue, but we’ll make it work.”
There was a loud clank, and Gautier vaguely registered that Leroux had knocked his flagon against the untouched ale in Gautier’s left hand, sloshing a little of it out. Grunting, Gautier put the flagon in his other hand. Leroux’s words steered Gautier’s thoughts back to the spring, when their mountain town had expected traders to come through after the winter, only to see the roads remain empty for weeks.
Those weeks stretched into months, and when they finally did see travelers, they were actually German marauders, come to raid what stores the town still had. Gautier had seen them while out hunting, and that early sighting had allowed him to warn his people, mount a defense, kill three encroachers and wound six more. The townsfolk had wanted the men executed. Gautier settled for relieving them of their goods, weapons, boots, and clothing, and marching them blindfolded into the forest at gunpoint.
He wasn’t cold-blooded, after all.
The marauders had been a frightening development, something no one in town had dealt with before. Saving everyone from them had made Gautier a bit of a hero, and he found he liked the perks that came with that. It kept him busy in the cold months, and his kills reaped better trades in town. He lived a very comfortable life. With the cold months starting in earnest, he was about to be busy again.
“Did you hear what Monsieur Beauregard said? He’s that historian from the university, or some such. He said, and I think this makes sense, that all of France is forming a Republic! I think that’s what it’s called when you have no king, and all the people make the rules. Sounds ruddy fantastic to me, if you ask,” Leroux said.
“I didn’t,�
�� Gautier said. He brought the mug to his lips, but only to wet them.
Leroux went on, heedless. “There still have to be people in charge, you know. And the people all pick them together. Some men will be in charge of the whole country and then others will be in charge of the counties and provinces, and others still will take care of each little village. For us, I know it’s going to be you, my friend. Do you know why? I’ll tell you why. There’s a contest, Gautier. A contest to see who wins and who gets to be in charge, and you always win contests, so you’ll win.”
That piqued his interest. He turned to look at Leroux. “What’s the contest? Shooting? Fighting?”
“No, I think they vote or something.”
“I’d rather shoot something.”
“I will tell Monsieur Beauregard that you’re interested. You’ll crush it, like that time you shot nine ducks in an afternoon, without missing. I remember like it was yesterday,” Leroux drawled.
“It was yesterday,” Gautier pointed out.
Leroux hiccupped again and tapped a finger to the side of his head, grinning like an idiot. “Sharp as a nail, this.”
“Then you might remember one contest in particular,” Gautier grunted and shifted in the chair, the first time he’d moved in an hour. “One that I didn’t win.”
“Oh, not again.” Leroux groaned, detecting that certain edge in Gautier’s voice when he mentioned her. “That tinkerer’s daughter. That was…” he counted it off on his fingers, but hit his pinky four times. “Eight months ago!”
“Five, you lout. Some wounds don’t heal so fast, least of all the ones you don’t deserve,” Gautier said.
“Well aren’t you just a natural poet?” Leroux drained his flagon. Gautier did likewise, and that last bit of amber liquid worked its peculiar magic to loosen his tongue.
“Poet indeed. I am a champion, Leroux. A master of all I see, a sturdy hand in every trade. I have dominated the woods and the wild, made my home in them, earned the fear of even the most savage beast.” A bearskin rug lay beneath their chairs, and he kicked at it for emphasis. “Yet I can’t slay my loneliness, that final, most hated beast of them all.”
“That’s just it, my friend!” Leroux almost sobered a little as he said it, like his inebriated mind had seized on something he’d been meaning to let out for some time. “That loneliness is as good as dead! You can stake your claim to any fair maiden in these hills! Do you hear yourself? I’d kill to be what you are! You win, you charm, you’re reliable with the…”
“The damoiselles? Come off it, Leroux. One’s thirst for real love cannot be quenched by mere affection. A glance here, a stolen kiss there, all the while knowing that the depths of my desire remain empty and unfulfilled. That’s like throwing morsels after a feast. I hunger, I ache, I starve, not just for any woman, but for her,” Gautier said, staring at the fireplace, through the flames and the crackling wood, as though a great secret lay inside it.
“No, s’il te plaît my friend, let us not do this…”
“Yes, Leroux.”
“We were past this! You haven’t spoken her name in months! You were doing so well!”
“I cannot simply put Robinette out of my mind, out of my heart,” Gautier breathed.
“Oh la vache. Here we go.” Leroux, dismayed at the lack of ale in his flagon, called for a refill. “At least the brew’s good.”
“She shouldn’t have rejected me. It makes no sense! I could have, would have, given her everything she wanted! A home, a kitchen, children, the works. What could she have desired beyond all that she would have had with me?” Gautier said. He’d meant it rhetorically. Leroux, as always, had an opinion.
“Two reasons she says no, friend.” Leroux held up three fingers.
“Let’s hear them,” Gautier grumbled.
“First,” said Leroux, adjusting his fingers to one, “she’s crazy.”
“Leroux!”
“Listen! Just look at her old man. Shifty geezer couldn’t put two planks of wood together without setting something on fire. I was up by their farm last week. It’s littered with half-built nothings that don’t make any sense at all. The only thing he’s ever invented is The Thing That Will Never Work. Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, looking at Gautier out of the corner of one bleary red eye.
“Mais oui, in this you are right.” Gautier could not argue that Marcel was a sane man. He had disappeared almost a year ago, and only Robinette had mourned his absence. Knowing Marcel, he had most likely drawn himself a treasure map, believed it to be real, and walked across the mountains into Spain where he yet remained, shouting things in French at Spanish goats.
Wagging his second finger, Leroux continued: “Second, and…second, work with me here.” He swayed a little in his chair as the ale took its full effect on his slight frame, and he tried to keep his thoughts in the right order. “Yes, second, I think a damoiselle wants more than just what you look at what you see at her.”
“What?”
Leroux hiccupped. “No, let me try that again. You just look at her, but she wants more. Yes. That is what I meant.”
“She wants me to look at her more? That can’t be it,” Gautier snorted. “I always looked at her, and she’d say ‘stop.’ Dunno why.”
A muffled belch escaped Leroux’s lips. “No. No, not just that. You have to look at what’s inside.” He jammed his thumb into his sternum repeatedly for emphasis. “In here. Under here.”
Gautier looks down as his own robes. “But I can’t see that if she doesn’t say yes.”
“Blah!” Leroux slapped his own cheeks, as if doing so would will the proper words from his mouth. “Listen, will you? Some things only show on the outside. But she has things inside her that she wants a man to see. Right? So you…you look at her insides. I think. Bon sang, this is some rich swill.” He shook his flagon, which was empty again—Gautier hadn’t seen him pound it down—then he sighed. “Think about this, okay? I promise it makes sense. Somewhere.”
With one long draught of his own, Gautier killed his ale, which wasn’t laying him out like it was doing to Leroux. “You can’t hold your brew, you little weasel. This stuff is all spice and hops, I’m going to see if Madame Ésprits has something stronger.”
“I only look like a weasel because you look like a bear,” Leroux said drunkenly.
Gautier was glad the ale hadn’t been strong enough to put him under; getting up for stronger booze was a convenient excuse to extract himself from Leroux’s lectures.
Oh, Robinette. The quiet daughter of a mad inventor who was so much more beautiful than could be described. Of all the eligible women in town (granted, the number wasn’t big), she was the only one who didn’t want him. What a cruel web the fates did weave!
But no, that wasn’t it. Fate was what you blamed when you didn’t want to blame guilty people. If people didn’t choose their actions, they could never answer for them, and if nobody could answer for what they did, the hero never deserved his credit and the villain never deserved his punishment. They simply existed, slaves to fate, their course preset by unseen hands.
Fate didn’t spurn Gautier’s affections. Robinette did.
He just couldn’t figure out why. Or maybe he could and didn’t want to face the answer: she could only say “no” to Gautier if there was a better man in her life.
“Pah,” Gautier muttered as he took a seat at the counter, beside two old men conversing about the good old days. How was Gautier not a better man than any other? Rich, skilled, handsome, well-liked…the only other kind of man who fit that description was the king.
Or a prince.
“Aubrey,” Gautier said under his breath, as though it were a curse word. The one everybody in town referred to as “that fop up the road.” Speaking ill of royalty was a punishable crime, even out here, so the epithet was a popular way to air one’s opinion.
Prince Aubrey was the only explanation Gautier could think of for Robinette not to love him. That stupid, spoiled, soft little peacock o
f a prince had only ever achieved one thing, and that was to be born of royal blood. Gautier knew how to rip a living out of nature with his bare hands, and had made his first kill before he was even old enough to be called a man. He knew the woods, knew the animals that dwelt there, and had grown strong on their meat, stayed warm with their furs. Prince Aubrey couldn’t even put his pants on without an entourage telling him how special he was.
These things were apparent to everyone except Robinette, who had met Prince Aubrey two years back. The King had sent Aubrey to the castle in the woods, just to keep the place occupied. One of Aubrey’s first wishes was to meet his subjects, to mingle with the common folk, and see which of their daughters he could conquer with a lingering glance and a half-cocked smile.
As if his half-cocked smile were even half as piercingly charming as Gautier’s. Bah.
It hadn’t taken Prince Aubrey long to wear out his welcome among the villagers. Despite the penalties for verbal jabs at royalty, angry fathers still congregated at Le Chambellan to whisper their grievances with each other. Gautier was no father, but the men in town confided many things in him, and it was in this way that he came to know the extent of Aubrey’s abuses.
That was earlier in the year, when the weather was still too cold for comfort. Interaction between the village and the castle was almost nonexistent during this time, until one day a messenger came with a missive for none other than Robinette, who was jubilant at the notion of going to a castle and meeting a prince.
That hadn’t sat well with Gautier. For all of her remarkable personal qualities, such as her hair, her eyes, her figure, Robinette could be quite daft. He blamed it on those fantastic books she was always reading. They warped her understanding of things, leaving her with that head-in-the-clouds mentality. She was never really in the room where she was standing, because her mind was off chasing ridiculous storybook adventures about magic fairies and talking frogs and whatever.
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