The Shadow of Rutland

A priest makes his way to Rutland, Vermont, investigating rumors of the occult.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SHADOW OF RUTLAND

 

 

 

 

 

The American civil war had just ended and the northern states were in a most joyous mood, but gloomily so. Following the war's end, I encountered and subsequently followed a series of rumors and whispers about inexplicable disappearances and strange happenings in the woods surrounding an obscure provincial city in Vermont. Upon my arrival in Rutland, the city of inquiry, being plainly dressed, though visibly as a clergyman due to my Roman collar, I was approached by a local priest, one Reverend Louis Gauthier. He told me that he needed the services of another brother of the cloth but, as the matter was sensitive in a way that it made for poor politics, he needed the help of an outsider to the community. To my surprise, the rumors in the actual city were of oculist activities in the Rutland forest and had circulated amongst the population, casting a palpable gloom over its citizens. Seeing this as divine providence and the ultimate reason behind my long pilgrimage from East Texas, I took this personal crusade with an emphatic "Deus Vault!".

 

My cover was simple enough and a story that many shared. I would be a former Union soldier who, at war's end, was out of work and, having lost my family and livelihood during the war, decided to move far and away from the battle-scarred lands further south as best as I could manage and now found myself in Rutland to start a new life. Next to the local tavern in town was the two-story that I would take up residence. In was a small room with modest amenities but with a nice fireplace. It was at the tavern, however, that I would spend much of my time and "followed in the Lord's footsteps and consorted with drunkards."

 

It did not take me long to hear these rumors for myself but there was a concentrated lack of concrete details to go on. One man, however, known only to me as Tarl, became my main source of information and camaraderie. Tarl, a local of Rutland and a veteran of the war, was occupied with hunting and trapping game in the nearby Rutland forest. Tarl would go out for several days at a time, hunting and trapping, as many in his family had done for generations and was now the last in a thinly populated family tree to have taken up the occupation.

 

Tarl knew the forests around Rutland very well, having been raised in them by his father while learning the family trade. On one of his many excursions into an area of wood not particularly well known to him, Tarl hoped to find that the game population would be richer in an area that few visited. He had made camp next to a creek that acted as a tributary to a larger stream that he knew fairly well and could use to navigate his way back to the city with. Tarl lay in wait one night, in the proximity of his camp, examining an area for many hours, waiting for signs of animal activity, but something about the area didn't sit well with him.

 

In his time waiting in the silence of the wood he scarcely saw or heard signs of birds or insects, typical of the region in late spring. In fact, even near the creek where he had made his camp, the slow and sometimes stagnant water attracted no mosquitoes. He had not been particularly perturbed by this in the first forty-eight hours of his stay in that location, but as his mind settled down after the preparations he had been making in the first two days, he finally had time to notice the nothingness in the air.

 

In the evening, on the third day towards dusk, he laid there in the forest and could hear no signs of life. Even the wind seemed to be uncharacteristically still so that even the trees did not ruffle and swish in the evening air. Besides the sounds made by his own body, the forest was totally silent. Then, staring into the thicket and in the silence of the wood, his ears began to buzz with false sounds searching for something, anything to hear,  but there, in his sensory overload, Tarl slipped into a hypnotic state where the tree line and the remaining light in the sky created a contrast. Then, there, past the trees within view, the darkness grew.

 

As it began to shroud what remained of Tarl's wits, he sprang to his feet in a primordial panic. Backing away from the darkness birthing tree line, his eyes still transfixed on the approaching void, he began to run steadily backward in the guessed direction of his camp by the creek.

 

It was after the sun had set that Tarl heard his first sound in three days and it was precisely the long duration of silence that set Tarl into a fully evolved paranoia. A madness of panic enveloped Tarl's mind as he lay there, frozen, in an odd paralysis, at the slightest sound of an audible twig cracking ‘underfoot'. He stayed locked into this position for some time, now thinking that he should not have built his fire so large for fear of the dark but rather in the dark his fire gave away his position to any who might be stalking him at a distance.

 

His mind was swirling, on full alert with the twitch of his eyes and ears darting in the darkness. It took only a second creaking and then snap of a stick coming from the void of the tree line to send Tarl into fully blossomed mania. He jumped instinctively to his feet with two revolvers in his hands and blasted away at the darkness in a homicidal panic, screaming he emptied every cartridge into the abyss. As he was yelling at the top of his lungs, shot after shot ringing out into the void, his mind was projecting images of movement in every direction and then he heard it.

 

A blood-curdling screech emanated from the woods and filled the silence, deafening even the shots ringing out from Tarl's weapons. It was at that precise moment that the wind began to blow as though a storm had manifested directly above him. He swirled around and the world began to blur. All at once the lights of his eyes went out. Tarl awoke the next morning with dew on his face, fifteen feet away from the barrier he had constructed south of his camp. He wasted no time gathering all of his supplies and running out of that wood, back to Rutland.

When I found Tarl, he was a broken, shaking man who had spent the past three months consuming superhuman amounts of whiskey, dragging his feet every which way he walked, and that was never a great distance. His apartment was located close to the sawmill but was no more than a five-minute walk from the tavern and my hotel.

It was when Tarl was on one of his inebriated walks that I discovered him laying, collapsed, in a puddle in the middle of the road. Tarl had collapsed near the marble works where the workmen simply laughed and jeered at Tarl in his antics as the town drunkard. It was I who seized the moment, in the spirit of a good Samaritan, to come to Tarl’s aid before he met with an untimely demise in the middle of the road surrounded by contemptuous laughter.

Over the next month that I was conducting my investigation, I would prod, gently, Tarl's addled mind for information. It was about two weeks into our friendship that Tarl dropped his guard and told his story. Afterward, I insisted that Tarl guide me to the location but by no power on Earth or in Heaven could I get Tarl to budge on the issue. It was around this time that, after making certain that confidentiality could be maintained, I enlisted the services of a junior anthropologist by the name of James Lynch.

We made our acquaintance at the tavern when Mr. Lynch had stumbled through the doorway and, with his collapse on the floor, let loose a flood of papers that consisted of odd scratchings and notes pertaining to his studies. On reflex, I jumped from my chair, which was positioned just in front of the scene, and assisted Mr. Lynch in collecting his papers. Upon picking up a sheet and glancing at its contents I was startled to see the sketches of a skull with a type of obscure language etched into its surface. Rattled, the young Mr. Lynch snatched the paper from my hand and with a fist full of papers, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the knuckle of his thumb.  

"Thank you, sir, for your assistance," said Mr. Lynch with a murmured breath that was lost in the cacophony of the tavern.

 

I invited the young anthropologist to sit at the table shared by Tarl and myself and we became acquainted.

 

Over the following weeks, we three would form a fast friendship and began discussing the details of Mr. Lynch's research at great length. Prominent in his notes were the religious aspects of tribes native to the state of Vermont. As a theologian, I could hardly refuse the temptation of such entertaining scholastically minded conversation. Tarl, generally, sat there in his chair and became increasingly inebriated, but we would discuss all matters religious and cultural in nature, dealing with Mr. Lynch's research.

“You see, in the Eastern Algonquin religious tradition, that is, the tribes that historically inhabited Vermont and Eastern New York state, there is a great all spirit of life called “Kitche Manitou” or “the Great Spirit”, that inhabits the world and all things, living and non-living, minerals included, and is the force that compels life into existence.” Mr. Lynch often went on like this for hours, lecturing to us about his research.

 

“But surely, like our Lucifer, there must be a great evil,” I posited.

 

“It is not as simplistic as that, though there is an evil spirit in their tradition that has the capability of corrupting man and making him into a cannibal. This spirit is known as the ‘Windigo’. It is said that a man who has resorted to cannibalism, while trying to survive in the wilderness, would return home as a man possessed by evil. He would be profoundly changed and would do harm to others.”

 

Mr. Lynch continued, “The Algonquin peoples were forcibly removed from these lands some forty or fifty years ago, so there is not much hope of interviewing one, they have all been moved to Wisconsin by now. I thought it would be a novel idea, despite their removal, to finish my dissertation here near their ancestral homelands and with the added bonus that my uncle resides here, it all just fell into place.”

 

“Have you ever come across anything in your studies that would lead you to believe that there are people who would imitate, in any way, the more barbaric of these native rites?” I asked, nursing my cup of red wine as I often did not take more than one glass in an evening.

 

Tarl, however, had a bottle of scotch on reserve at the bar that now sat comfortable half full on the table.

 

Mr. Lynch, drinking a glass of milk, replied:

 

“Perhaps you are referring to the rumors that are floating around town about these supposed cult activities? No, I can’t see a clear link connecting the two, though, the spaces between the various faiths of the world often have more overlap than one might think. What is your interest in it anyhow?”

 

It was at this point that I revealed at length my purposes for being in Rutland at all. Surprising even the ears of Tarl, who had been floating on the edge of consciousness for the past fifteen minutes, the story conjured him from his self-induced oblivion.

 

"So you are planning an expedition then? I say even I would be willing to accompany you, given the off chance of finding some sort of odd relic." Said Mr. Lynch, toasting his milk and finishing it in a mighty gulp.

“Well, that all depends on Tarl now, it seems, he is the only one with any knowledge of those woods, even most of the loggers haven’t penetrated that far.” I held my glass up in a toast, eyes fixated on Tarl.

 

Tarl grimaced in a wry and most unholy way, but seeing the earnest intrigue and willingness on the faces of the others, he bubbled through his liquor-soaked lips and said,

 

“In three days time”, he said, rising to his feet with great effort, clenching the bottle and using it as an impromptu crutch on the table. He steadied himself and stumbled out of the tavern.

 

A rainstorm persisted for the next 48 hours in Rutland, filling the streets with water and making the passage to and fro more difficult for the day-to-day activities of the townsfolk. Save for one short run to the local market, I did not leave the warmth of my room. I preoccupied myself with a book loaned to me by Mr. Lynch about occultism in the 17th century, as it had existed in Europe. Page by page I digested it, with some force of will, the practices and ancient rites conducted by numerous factions of occultists.

To my sensibilities, it, at first, appeared to be the preclusion of devil worshippers and those who had lost themselves to the great deceiver as I delved deeper into the book, called ‘the Magus’. I thought it odd at the time when Mr. Lynch produced the book but he had informed me that such books were actually once commonplace and in regular print. These were especially easily come by in the oddities sections of bookstores. Mr. Lynch told me that he had purchased this particular copy for 50 cents.  

It was my first tangible look into the world he had taken upon himself to investigate and thought it such a sophomoric oversight in his investigation not to consult the grimoires of the occult.

As I leafed through the text I could find nothing of interest that wasn't a type of harkening back to the worship of nature, animism perhaps, and the healing properties of bay leaves and lion skins and all together the lack of anything that would overtly be considered sinister by those modern types who had long accepted the medicinal properties of minerals or herbs. Such as the use of charcoal for an ache in the stomach or hot tea in soup in a fever chills were commonplace. 

However, there were other passages that would be considered sinister by any Christian, such as the use of frog tongues to leach the truth out of a woman by placing it on her chest, or the swallowing of animal hearts to beckon forth unnatural intelligence. Such things as I read sickened me in my soul and thought that should I continue reading I might have to pray twice as long as I had ingested the dribble as was printed on the pages of the old book.

Then it was in the ninth chapter of this black text that I lost all will to continue my studies. That chapter included the recipes and rituals for conducting what I thought truly the Devil's work. The conjuring of monstrous beasts by the use of commonplace, or otherwise cruel forms of procurement, ingredients for the summoning of creatures that might do the bidding of the Conjurer. The use of celestial forces and the benevolence of nature's gifts upon the living and dead creatures of the world sent my mind into a spiral and committed myself to the burning of the text in my fireplace.

Then, as though I had hastened the wrath of the serpent Lucifer, the fire died and the wind howled outside of my window. Lightning, with a flash, drew down from the sky and the dim light of my candle was all that separated myself from the shadowed tendrils of those wretches that serve the darkness. More than once the crack and groan of the walls and the floor of the place filled my senses with the visceral realization that I was not alone in this place. That the reading and burning of the black text awoke in the ether some hated spirit that would be unkind to my corporeal form. However, it was for my soul that I feared the most, for more than once I considered that in even an academic reading of that book, the spirit of poison might have corroded the periphery of my soul enough to allow the demon access to it. That surely I had proven myself susceptible to the lies and whispers of the agent of darkness and it at once had allowed my, unto now unshaken, faith in the protection of the Lord God to be shaken. 

Was this enough?  Was this all the transgression required to lose the favor of the Lord as a servant of the light and to be admitted to the waking hell that was the storming shadow that fell across my mind that night?  I stoked the fire now fuelled by the text, an action both temporal and spiritual as I hoped it would bring the Lord God pleasure to symbolically burn the taint of my mind and soul. A gesture that would signal my true faith in the one God Almighty. However, I was abandoned. The words of the Magus, both physically burning in the fire and now upon my mind, and to my horror, the vile text emerged from the flames of fire directly into my mind. Whole passages and recipes now lingered in deep mental recesses and manifested more clearly than any song of Solomon or Proverbs.

As the fire of the Magus grew brighter so did the storm pick up in its veracity. Shadows in the room, once wholly dark and invisible, grew in length up to the ceiling and begin dancing chaotically as the fire licked the cover and pages of the Magus from this world. Then, with a flash, the crack and role of lightning and thunder shook the foundations and the structure of the building as a bolt cracked upon the very roof that hovered, now ominously, overhead.

The wind howled and whistled through the cracks in the windowsill and all at once, with a great force, threw open the framed glass, exposing me to the full force of wind and rain. What I examined out of the porthole from this vantage at advanced height was a vast field of darkness broken, briefly, by red bolts summoned from the sky to Earth. Bewildered, and pelted with wind and rain, I emitted a blood-curdling howl of a screech and collapsed on my chamber floor.

Sitting up violently with a gasp, I was bewildered by my present state, being completely drenched from head to toe in rainwater. The chamber window was still open but, instead of a storm, my eyes were greeted with low hanging rolling clouds and fog. Visibility was less than 100 feet before my eyes and I could not readily tell what time of day it was. Shutting the window I examined the room that was the previous night's stage of my personal horror. The room was completely drenched in stormwater, though, there were embers enough in the fireplace to reignite it without much trouble. I was shivering and needed to warm up quickly.

Once the fire was stoked and quite huge, bordering on being unsafe for the size of the fireplace, I took all of the linens off the bed and had a change of clothes. Running a line across the room, the linens and clothes were left to dry out next to the fire and, using rags, cleaning the diluvian amount of water became my next priority. On hands and knees, I mopped up the floor using the chamber pot to ring out my only thick towel. When I came to the lacuna under my bed my eyes noticed something bizarre.

“A clump of wood and string,” I thought, at first sight, but as I held it in my hand it became clear that it was some purpose-made decoration of a sinister sort.

Sticks tied together in the shape of a tripod and totally wrapped in string so that it imitated the shape of a bell. Holding it in my hand I turned it over to behold the sun-bleached skull of a rat suspended by a single thread. Instinctively I threw the object in the direction of the fireplace, just as I had done with the Magus. With dread-filled eyes, however, the wooden bell missed its mark and crashed against the linens and fell to the floor, sounding audibly the way a wooden wind chime might. I walked over toward the object and fixated upon it. What has it been doing in my room and who had left it there? Questions flew through my psyche faster than I can articulate.

Was this the object that had cursed my night prior?  What person could have known that I had been investigating these rumors and then gained access to my room to place this object under my bed?

“Surely,” I thought, “someone does indeed know.” That much was certain but only a handful of people in town knew my true intentions. Though none of these people seemed to be likely suspects and none of them seemed to have the demeanor or apparent energy to commit such a trespass.

Bewildered, I took a moment to clear my mind and quietly made myself ready for the day. Something worked behind my superficial demeanor, however, and from time to time I would glance sideways at the malicious-looking artifact on my chamber floor. Taking my leather bag in hand, I wrapped the object in a handkerchief I had carried since my days at the seminary and placed it inside. Perhaps, I hoped, Mr. Lynch might be able to identify the object or shed light on its possible meanings and purpose. Any clue would help make my questioning mind still. Slowly though, anxiety was boiling over the stoic mask I wore on my face that day.

I quieted the fire and gave the room a last look before departing. Heading down the stairs I was conscious of the wooden bone bell clinking about in my satchel with each step and it only grew in intensity with each motion of descent. Entering the foyer I turned towards the front desk. There stood a raven-haired woman, about 24 years old, with pale skin and bright green eyes. She was The innkeeper’s daughter.

“Excuse me miss, but you know if anyone Has been into my room besides myself?” I asked, more sternly than he ought to have in retrospect.

“No sir, just yourself as far as I am aware. Was there something missing?” she replied kindly in a hospitality tone of voice.

 

“No nothing missing. However, my window blew open in the storm last night you see and the room was largely drenched in a diluvian manner and quite a mess was made. I've taken certain measures to correct this but perhaps you should like to inspect the room yourself to make sure nothing is damaged.” I said all of this as diplomatically as I could to make up for the initial hostility, the result of my nerves giving way. I extended the key to my room in hand.

“Absolutely not a problem! We have a key to the room in the cupboard so keep yours handy and I'll look to your room shortly.” She smiled and her outward charm and femininity had a calming effect on my anxious mind.

 

“Right then I'll be out on a short jaunt to the woods with some friends for a few days to try my hand at woodcraft, take care won't you?” I tipped my wide-brimmed hat towards her and turned to leave with each step causing the bone bell to chime.

 

By the time I was on approach to the residence of Mr. Lynch at his uncle's home, I had stuffed my ears with bits of cotton to drown out the clinking coming from my satchel but, by some trick of memory, I could hear the chime of the bell with each step I took, each time forcing a grimace to break through the fortis of my face. At the doorstep, I knocked with some force with a large brass knocker in the shape of a crucifix centered on the whitewashed door.

 

Promptly, a middle-aged man with a Roman collar answered the door. His eyebrows and the front section of his black hair had streaks of white and both eyes, starting to cloud with age, were an olive green

 

“May I help you son?” asked the man at the door.

 

“Yes father,” I said, “I am looking for your nephew Mr. Lynch, I am a friend of his.”

 

“Oh yes, him, please come in won't you?” The aging priest beckoned me into the foyer and showed me in the direction of the drawing room.

 

“Please make yourself at home. Do you require anything? I've just made some tea,” asked the priest.

 

“Please, father, that is most kind of you," I said, sitting down on an incredibly fine leather sofa that faced a stone hearth.

 

“And do you have something wrong with your ears?” asked the priest, pointing to his own ears.

 

I looked at him quixotically and touched my own ears with some surprise and, with a little look of foolish shame, I removed the cotton bits that had been protruding.

 

“Forgive me, I just had a bit of water in my ears this morning and needed to dry them out”, I said, some levity escaping through my anxiety.

 

“Not a problem, not a problem, now let me fetch my nephew for you.”

 

The priest took his leave of the drawing room and left me to my devices. Feeling the leather beneath me, I felt a bit of shame. I had hoped that I was not soiling the fine sofa and thought immediately to stand. As I did this and turned my eyes were greeted by the presence of the young Mr. Lynch.

 

“My friend, I hope you found some respite last night from your activities, surely the rain aided you in your sleep?” asked Mr. Lynch.

 

He was positively beaming and basically skipped in my direction and hand extended to greet me. I grew pale. I had been successful in blocking out the previous night events but now had only willpower enough to accept Mr. Lynch’s hand.

 

“I say man you look absolutely gloomy, what is the matter?” asked Mr. Lynch.

 

My mind was paralyzed as I sat back down on the leather sofa. My hand withdrew into the leather bag and produced the wrapped bell. Clearing my throat I spoke, recounting the narrative of events that led to the present moment, including the maddening clink of the bell that kept time with each of my footsteps

 

“My God man that sounds absolutely terrible”, said Mr. Lynch, expressionless.

 

Mr. Lynch took the bell in his hand and finding a thread that was secured to the top of the bell and gave it a ring that surely had a noticeable effect on my body, my nails digging into my thighs. A distressed whimper, to my knowing shame, erupted from my mouth. Noticing this insecure behavior, I took a relaxing breath and tempered my nerves.

 

“So, have you seen anything like this before in your research?” I asked, straining to regain my sensibilities.

 

“Well on the surface it looks like any type of wicker decoration or trinket that a child might make with his grandmother but the addition of the skull does make it appear sinister. Most curious. It is a shame that the grimoire was burnt so hastily last night, we might have consulted it for answers.” Mr. Lynch said in an almost lecturing tone as though instructing and underclassmen at university.

 

“Though,” he said, putting the bell down, “I do think it is possible that another tenant of your room may have left this thing in your room at an earlier date and it has simply gone unnoticed until your cleaning activities today.”

 

This possibility was enough comfort to my mind to cause an actual respite and a wash of calm came over me. Then, in a single motion, Mr.Lynch picked up the bell and tossed it into the flames of the hearth. It chimed once more as it landed and the flames consumed it efficiently. The therapeutic gesture was welcomed and I reflexively smiled as brightly as Mr. Lynch. Just then Rev. Lynch entered the drawing room with tea.

 

“So my nephew tells me that yourself and your trapper friend Tarl will head into the Rutland Forest to look for some savage artifacts, isn't that right?” asked the priest, pouring tea and handing me a cup.

 

“Yes, Reverend Lynch, that is the case. When we were discussing your nephew’s line of study our friend Tarl made mention that he might have seen something of the sort in The Rutland Forest some months ago and plans were drawn up for a short excursion immediately,” I said on reflex, regurgitating a rehearsed half-truth.

 

“Well I am pleased that you will have an expert tracker with you for this short trip but, what is your particular interest?” asked Rev. Lynch, posting in his seat.

 

I mused at the question for an amount of time that, to the eyes of a casual observer, would have been abnormal. With a small sip of hot tea, I said, “purely academic reasons. A chance to learn a bit of wilderness trade and perhaps a bit of junior archaeology. I have heard of some finds in Egypt in the past and it does stir the imagination.”

 

“I see, well, I'm sure you will find what you are looking for in those woods one way or the other” the Reverend said with a smile revealing tea stained and crooked teeth.

 

The thoughts that the Reverend’s statement conjured in my mind drew me to uneasiness as the momentarily quieted anxiety had decided to make a resurgence. Standing to my feet abruptly, nearly toppling my seated teacup with my knee against the lip of the table I exclaimed:

 

“Excuse me, well, I must go with the bit of haste to Tarl’s apartment to check on our preparations. Thank you very much for the tea and Mr. Lynch, we will return in a little while to head out.” All rose to bid me farewell. I shook hands with both men and made my way out.

 

The sky began to darken and I realized that the hour was later than I had thought. How long had I slept? Little good it had done me. As I tried to hasten my pace towards Tarl’s home I realized my exhaustion manifesting and my anxiety creeping, causing my stomach to sour, refluxing a vomitous taste into the back of my mouth, like one experiences in anticipation of poorly timed news.

I made my way across town to Tarl’s apartment and heaved myself up the stairs. When at Tarl’s door I readied my hand to thrash at its exterior but noticed it was ajar.

 

“Tarl?!” I exclaimed as I slowly pushed the door fully open. While staying at the exterior, so that I might examine the room in its entirety, but cautiously so. The door crept open. What I saw caused my anxiety-ridden body to double over and I fell to my knees and vomited the contents of my empty stomach. Doubled over, dry heaving for some time, I recovered momentarily. Braving a second look upwards, I saw the yellowing corpse of my good friend Tarl, lying on the floor covered in blood and vomit, missing a section of his skull, exposing cranial grey matter. The remaining light of the day was not enough to illuminate the rest of the room and I was grateful for this. My eyes grew more comfortable with the scene and I noticed Tarl was armed with a pistol, in his right hand, and in his left, he was clutching something odd but oh too familiar to my eyes.

Crawling forward on the floor, unknowingly attracting the gore on the floor to my jacket sleeves and pant legs, I was careful to avoid Tarl’s deformed head for a physical encounter with it might induce another fit of sickness instantly. Taking Tarl’s cold hand in mine, I began weeping as my suspicions were confirmed. There, in Tarl’s hand, was an exact duplicate of the bell that had haunted my mind all the day long and true horror struck me as the bell chimed in Tarl’s lifeless hand. I let it loose and the hand and arm fell with the thud to the floor.

I sat upright and scooted myself back, away from the body, and was stopped by a desk and a chair behind me. Grasping both temples of my head with one hand, I began to sob in a revolting manner, with mucus running and painting my face.

 

Attempting to stop the sobbing numerous times with heavy quivering breaths , I knocked my head back to the arm of the chair for support, my eyes firmly fixed on Tarl’s lifeless form. As I did, however, I noticed something cold and metallic pressed against the back of my neck. Turing my head with a jerk, I examined the object. It was Tarl’s second pistol, holstered in his gun belt as it was draped over the arm of the chair.

Taking to my feet with resolve and placing the belt into my hands, I stared at the weapon. My head turned as I noticed the last of the sky had become the extreme end of daylight, casting a deep blue light upon the world. I fastened the belt to my waist and used a rag to wipe my face next to the water basin. With a final look at Tarl, I exited the house that reeked of death and made my way towards my own home.

Darkness had fully settled upon Rutland but something odd came to my notice. The candles that usually gave the windows of the inn a faint but warm glow at this hour, tended to by the innkeeper’s daughter in a regular manner, were non-existent, giving the inn an eerie tarnish. Now comforted and, at the same time, made anxious by the iron at my hip, I kept one hand on its wood inlaid handle and braved a discreet entrance into the foyer. A gas lamp near the entrance glew faintly with its pilot and I glided my hand up to the lever to increase its glow.

As the room was illuminated, two figures were made clear to my eyes. One of the figures was the lumping and bloody body of the innkeeper and behind the counter was the shape of two persons drawn closely together. To my horror, it was the faces of Mr. Lynch and the innkeeper’s daughter. Pressed against her neck and in his hand was a huge and bloody bowie knife that had belonged to Tarl.

 

“What are you doing Mr. Lynch?!” I exclaimed, mortified.

 

Glancing at my waist and smiling wryly “do you even know how to use that priest?”

 

I then realized my hand was still hovering near the pistol grip. During the war, I had used a pistol many times, though only ever in self-defense and as a last resort when my profession did not deter the murderous intent of a soldier, Union or Confederate. Then, out of the connecting room, erupted the form of Rev. Lynch, wielding a cavalry saber and advancing on my position.

Instinct drove my next actions as I drew upon my weapon, cocked the gun with my right-hand and fired with my left. Rev. Lynch fell to the floor with the thud and, training my eyes on the young murderers Mr. Lynch, cocked the gun and sighted in.

 

Mr. Lynch exclaimed, “I've got the…!”

 

As he bellowed, I was overwhelmed with hatred and fired through the shoulder of the innkeeper’s daughter. Mr. Lynch dropped the knife and the pair collapsed. The innkeeper’s daughter wailed in pain as Mr. Lynch was drowning in the blood that filled his lungs. Moving quickly, I grabbed the young woman and shouldered her outside.

As I erupted from the inn with a bloodied and crying woman slung over my shoulder, I spied a horse corral nearby. Tied to the post, one horse stood ready, having been saddled and waiting at the corral's exterior. Pushing the young woman atop the horse, I untied it and, as I mounted it myself, I gave a final glance at the inn and saw that it was being swarmed with dark figures. Filled with horror, and my eyes fearfully welling with tears, I reared the horse backward and fled south on Main Street, leaving Rutland behind me forever.

#

 

 

-The End