A Good Man

… hands, grasping the sand, he sucks in the sea air. Head bowed and hair hanging over his face, thick with salt, he groans through his gasps.

His breath slows, the pants become growls, then snarls, sputtering with rage, agony and humiliation. Never such pain. Never such shame. Never again …

His arms crumple beneath him, leaving the imprint of his face on the shore. The sun. He can feel the sun. It is coming. Soon. He will face it, he swears, open his eyes to the killing rays. His bones grind together, broken end to broken end, as he forces his body to turn over, to face the sky.

But there, just out of the range of his crooked neck and battered spine, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. Dark in the rock. Dark calling to him, despite the pain of his hunger, despite the pain of his destruction. Dark. Peace. Sleep.

The child begs his father to tell him what those marks in the sand are. Daddy spent hours instructing the child on the footprints of the wader birds, and the delicate punctures in the sand that told of passing mudcrabs. These marks, so big, surely meant something grand, something exciting.

No, says the father. Only that something dangerous has dragged something to eat into its home in the rocky cliffs. You must understand, my boy, that creatures like the lion and bear can be the end of you. Signs like these, that drag through the beach and displace the sand like cartwheel tracks, these are things that make you walk away.

The hurry away from the growls and groans that float from the depths of the cave on the cliff.

And in the darkness, through his pain, he remembers.

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A good man. Everyone in the village knew that Vicente Valtieri was the best of men, kindest of youth. He would be a good husband, an indulgent father. Abella Payen was no fool, no matter what the cows in the village square thought of her. She knew that a match with Vicente would settle her future.

The crones might think her insipid and silly, but it got her what she needed, didn’t it? A shy smile here, a batted eyelash there and Vicente was meeting her tonight. He was coming, she knew it. She could read it in the heat of his eyes as he watched her over the dining table in his father’s hall. She could smell it when he bent over her hand to say farewell. He understood. He would come.

As she waited, sitting on the stone wall by the path, she dangled her feet in the grass and lifted her pretty face to the sunshine. Barefoot, deliberately. Shocking. But the added affect of vulnerability would only draw him closer. He was coming.

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Oh, he was vile! He cared nothing for her suffering! The brats that had changed her body, the work of running his household the tedium of caring for his doddering mother and father … there was no time for dancing, no-one to admire the gold of her hair or the blue of her eyes. She had jewels, of course. But they lay in their boxes, collecting dust. Should she wear sapphires to bath his children? Should she wear diamonds to feed his parents?

Every day, the sergeant-at-arms hailed his return. Every day she gritted her teeth, lined up the children and watched as they fawned over him. And he would swing them in the air, laughing at their delighted shrieks. He would kiss her cheek and settle on the floor with those little monsters and tell them ridiculous tales of princes and heroes and fine ladies.

Why are there no fine ladies or heroes here, papa?

I guess they’re only in tales, my sweetling.

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His feet were heavy with clinging mud. If he pushed through the night, he could see his children tonight. But the inn looked so welcoming. The smell of roast mutton drifted through the air, tantalizing him. No, no further. He would stop for the night, a fire, a meal, some wine … warmer than the welcome at his own hearth after the children were asleep.

Eyes in the shadow watched him from the corner. Recognized the weary step, but also the warm smile for the innkeeper and sincere prayer before tucking into the savoury stew. A good man. The woman was right, this was a good man. The shadow might not even charge her full price. Good men were so much sweeter.

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Thirty days and thirty nights. Enough to make her believe he wouldn’t return. If he was dead, her son got everything. If he was missing, it remained hers. If he was missing, she couldn’t be forced into the black of mourning. She rejoiced at her freedom, as she packed her jewel coloured gowns into trunks to be hauled to The City. Those mavens, those old cows, praised her cheer, her strength at keeping her grief from her children. She laughed.

How much deeper the bitter sting, then, when the thrice-damned sergeant-at-arms announced his return late into the night. She lay cold and sour in her bed, waiting for his weight to press down beside her.

He was pale in the moonlight as he watched her pretend to sleep. You know what you sent to me. You know what you put in my path. He whispered through her golden curls into her tiny ear. You know what I have become.

I was a good man, he said. He told me I was a good man. It’s the only reason I walk now. He loves the corruption. One less good man. One more demon. I’m your demon now, aren’t I?

Moonlight sparked off of the feral smile that rippled over his face. He was so hungry. Her fear now almost made up for the years of disdain he’d lived through at her feet. It fed his soul. He dragged the sharp points of his hunger over the shaking curve of her throat.

Papa! Papa, you’re home! Papa?

He stared at her, the blood trickling from her fingers. She held his child, his youngest, his joy. She held the knife to that tiny neck. Get away! Leave me alone! You think I won’t? If you touch me, the infant dies!

Her back, pressed to the cold stone, straightened as she realized his fear. She hissed with glee. I have all of your children. They are all mine to do with as I choose. You are dead. You are a monster! The children will know their father is dead!

Da? Da!! Is that you?

Even now, he can not believe how fast his body moves – and yet … too slow. He turned and faced his eldest son – that wide smile of welcome. Almost he turned again in time, almost … but no. A tiny cry cut short. His eyes, his demon eyes, were sharp enough to catch a knife slipped into her belt.

Run, my son! See what he has done!! He comes home a monster! Run!

The limp body of her child – his child – slipped from her fingers and landed with a soft thump – a sound no more than a chicken being prepared for dinner.

Another turn, just in time to see his son – that wide smile – turn to fear, rage, disgust … terror. He couldn’t move as he watched the boy’s slender form disappear down the dark hallway, screaming.

The quiet giggle from the corner caught him like a fish on a hook. He swivelled again, dizzy now, caught in an endless circle of betrayal. I’ll take them all, you monster. Stay away from us.

Across the village children leaped from their beds, dogs howled at the dark hearths, with coals banked for the night. Even adults shivered in their sleep as a snarl of deepest malevolence swept through the houses on the wind. No-one heard the gasp of a laugh cut very, very short.

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In the morning, the tale spread like wildfire. The youngest child butchered. The wife … destroyed. Only her embroidered nightdress allowed her corpse to be recognized for burial. The oldest son only barely escaped. Now he stands, pale, eyes burning with fever, as he watches his mother and infant sister lowered into the ground. He looks so like his father.

The village crones, those cows, praised her beauty. Cursed her husband – monster, demon.

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He had come for them over the years. One-by-one, and then two-by-two, his rage dragging him back night after night. Sweet death in the dark, blood for food, revenge for the soul. Night after night he took their children, their wives, their mothers – those cows.

They fought him with swords, clubs, bows and magic. He laughed as their blows bounced away. Reaching out with inhuman speed, he tore them open, feasted, drank, and disappeared into the darkness. This place where his wife’s memory was honoured, where they praised her beauty – her beauty! – would cease to be. Her memory would cease to be.

Finally, they came out to fight him with fire, scorched his skin, left long-dead flesh melting, hanging from dry bone. Fire is not scrupulous, it will eat homes along with blood and bone. With flames licking his own hair, he danced, laughed, pressed his burning flesh to the straw roofs and stick walls. The smell of burning meat sickened him, but he danced all the same – until the rain came.

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He sits in the rain, his melted eyes slide over the wreckage of the village, burnt husks of houses, blackened skeletons grinning in the mist. Ah, my home, he laughs.

Oh, he will have to dine to repair all the damage done. He will have to gorge mightily to fill out the places where fire feasted. He drags himself upright and heads toward the sea – he likes the salt taste of the fishermen in the nearby village.

A slight shuffle, a crackle, his only warning before his bones are crushed under the fall of a warhammer. The silver weapon sparkles in the dying light of the village blaze as it falls again. He staggers under its weight, but turns – turns again – to see his son. So tall. He looks so much like his father. The rage in those eyes burns with its own fire. The silver burns like flame.

A third blow and he staggers back, one step, three. He can hear the waves of high tide lapping against the cliff behind him. A moment to decide. His son. A good man. Good men taste so much sweeter and he’s so, so very hungry.

A lunge forward, reaching out to his son in a parody of welcome, of reunion. Another step, a tiny pebble loose beneath his feet. One last shattering blow of silver, ribs crumble, pierce his skin, pierce his heart. He reaches again, stumbles and, as the sky falls away from him, sighs before he hits the sand.