Chapter 7 | le dessert

Griottes noires, pitted and poached in a bitter reduction, served with tonka bean créme, over charred brioche.

That’s some story,” John said, scraping the bottom of his metal bowl and eyeing his host’s whiskey jug.

Kit, attentive to his guest’s needs, nudged the jug over with the toe of one boot, not bothering to uncork it this time. After a night of talk and liquor, the relationship had grown beyond the need for such niceties. “God’s honest truth,” he replied, before he was taken with another coughing fit. He blotted blood from his lips with his handkerchief.

“So, with Alys and your ma dead, is that when you became a lawman?”

“It was about that time they pinned a star on my chest, yes. That said, I feel one point needs a touch of clarification: Alys didn’t die.”

John sputtered, spraying good whiskey. “You just said she burned to death in the pyre.”

“I appreciate your attention to detail there, John, but I never actually said she died.”

John thought back to the final moments of Kit’s tale furiously, sure he’d find that little factoid buried there like gold on a creek bottom, but, no, Kit was correct. “Well, don’t that just beat all.” He wiped his mustache and face before taking another slug and replacing the cork. He set the jug by his foot but didn’t slide it back, in case he needed further fortification as the talk proceeded. “So, what happened to her, then?”

Kit added another piece of wood, and the fire flared into life. “Come and see.” He creaked to his feet and motioned for John to follow. Against his better judgment, he did. Kit grabbed the bowl of steamed chokecherries, then led the way to the back of the sanctuary, where a weathered wooden door stood.

“The sacristy?” John asked.

“Where better to keep something sacred?” Kit pushed the door open. “Come inside. I think you’ll wanna see this.” Kit stepped through the door, and John followed.

The sacristy was the width of the hall and proportionately deep, and all four walls were lined floor to ceiling with dust-covered shelves. Bits of bric-a-brac lay here and there, and John saw what he took to be a couple of molding Bibles and a few dilapidated psalters. But what truly caught his eye was the bier in the center of the room. A figure lay upon it, one that John had no problem recognizing, although he’d never seen her in the flesh.

“Alys!”

“She’s not dead, Mister MacLellan, although she’s never far from it.” Kit walked the rest of the way to the body, set the cherries on the bier, and motioned for John to follow. Not quite sure how, John found his feet obeying. The body was that of a woman, neither young nor very old. If pressed, John would have said she was perhaps twenty-five at the outside, although it was difficult to tell with all the scarring. Hair grew in tufts and patches on half her head, sprouting between scars that looked like scales. Her face was likewise marred, and there were deep furrows burned into her wrists.

“The pyre and Goodman’s manacles,” Kit said, noticing John’s gaze. “When I pulled her out of the flames, she was charred. If you think this is bad, you should have seen her then.”

“How is she still alive?” John asked with genuine wonder, shuffling a couple of steps closer to the bier.

“Took a long time to start healing up, but it’s damn hard to kill the tylwyth teg. They’re a hardy folk, and long-lived to boot.” He chuckled, but a coughing fit cut it short.

“But she’s not awake, is she? Has she come ‘round since the fire?”

Kit looked down at his love. “No, she never does.”

“Then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why all this?” John gestured at the body and the bier. “Why this charade? Surely, a sharp knife would be more merciful than this…this lingering death!”

“No!” Kit slammed his fist onto the bier. “She’s healing. She’s coming back to me.” He paused, took a breath. “She has to.”

“Kit, I think—”

The other man ignored him. “I noticed it after moving her body into the house after killing Goodman — her chest rising and falling. I knew then that if I could just care for her, she’d come back to me.” He knelt beside the bier and took one of Alys’s scarred hands in his own. “Come back to me!” he whispered. There was no movement from Alys but the slow rise and fall of her breast. Sighing, he stood and reached for a mortar and pestle that stood nearby. He poured a handful of chokecherries in and began mashing them.

“What happens when your consumption runs its course? You said her kind are long-lived, and she don’t look a day over twenty-five. Will she still be here wasting away two decades after you’re dust?”

Kit did not answer. Instead, he ground another handful of cherries, trying to suppress his coughing all the while. When they were sufficiently mashed, he slid onto the bier and propped Alys in his lap, before dribbling a little of the mashed cherries between her open lips. “Steamin’ makes it easier to get the pits out before mashin’,” he said. He poured a tiny bit of water into her mouth.

John stood silent for a moment, then patted Kit awkwardly on the shoulder, and made his way out of the sacristy, through Kit’s makeshift shelter, and through the nave. He paused at the double doors and listened, but heard nothing. Perhaps the storm had blown itself out. He shoved the door, but nothing happened at first. A harder shove and it moved six inches, then another eight. Eventually, the gap was large enough that John could slip through. He gazed around, bemused. Drifts of dirt lay up against the sides of the mission, almost half the height of the walls in places. The Earth was taking back her own. He shuddered at the thought and made his way to the stables, where Noah greeted him grumpily.

“Good to see you too, old boy.”

John dug around in the wagon and brought out an apple, which he quickly cut up and fed to Noah a handful at a time.

“Better?”

Noah brayed.

“Good.” John dug around in the wagon again and set out a sack of flour, a new knife, and a blanket. He set these on a bench not far from Noah’s stall. He thought for a moment, then rummaged a bit more, finally bringing out a small wooden box of ammunition, which he set on top of the pile. He hitched Noah to the wagon and was about to climb into the seat when he thought better of it. Instead, he carried the bundle of items to the mission’s doors and set them just inside. He listened for a moment, but heard nothing. Returning to the wagon, he climbed into the seat, and they began their journey back to the road south.

A shot rang out from behind, surprisingly loud. John did not look back. A moment later, a second shot sounded. John reined Noah to a halt, pulled his hat off, and sat for a moment in the oppressive quiet, thinking of two young lovers, doomed from the start. He briefly wondered if Goodman had won after all, but pushed that thought aside. It was a sadness to see such a love pass from the world, but in the end, the world was richer for it having existed, even if for a moment.

“Let’s go, Noah.” He flicked the reins.

Noah, unhappy about being forced from his comfortable stall out into the wide world, let his displeasure be known.

“Keep it up, and I’ll have to sell you to the knackers. Might make some decent glue.”

The donkey fell silent.

John did as well for a few moments, but the silence got the better of him as it usually did. “Let me tell you a story. It’s got everything you could want: romance, good against evil, insurmountable odds, the whole kit and caboodle. Enter our hero, Atticus Caine, and our heroine, Alys Lawless. Set against them is the evil Pastor Goodman…”

THE END

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