DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.
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"You remember Hack Scudder. Prob'ly better'n anyone else. He was trouble. I like the kid, I do... Ten times trouble." - Samson to Ruthie in "Day of the Dead."
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Tears stung Ben Hawkins' eyes as he fled through the cornfield - scene of a hundred hellish nightmares, now brutally real.
Was it always supposed to end this way? Was I always meant to die in this damn cornfield?
No, he thought wretchedly, I screwed up. Too young, too dumb to get things right...
Did Belyakov mean that the only way I could kill the Usher was with my dagger? Why the hell didn't he say that, in plain English? Him an' his symbols - for all I know, he coulda meant literally that I should stick the dagger in the goddamn tree!
Shit. Don't blame Belyakov. It warn't his fault. He just passed on to me what someone else had shown him. He may not o' been sure what it meant himself.
Ben understood why he'd wanted to believe in Samson's plan. It had always struck him as wrong that an Avatar of Light should be required to kill. If the plan had worked as Samson envisioned it, it would have enabled him to defeat his enemy without taking direct action to kill him. The man would have died, but Ben would have overcome his evil through the performance of good works. As a bonus, there would have been no revenge against the carnival. All its people would have gotten out of New Canaan safely.
Ben had never wanted to endanger the carnies. He'd let Jonesy go back for the others as a means of getting his friend out of harm's way. He'd meant to assassinate Brother Justin while Jonesy was gone, willingly sacrificing his own life. But he'd missed him at the house; the baptismal service had been halted when a body floated to the surface of the pond; and Jonesy himself had returned to thwart his third attempt.
When he embraced Samson's plan, he'd had another thought in the back of his mind: that if the energy-drain didn't kill Justin, it would at least leave him unconscious. "Healer" Benjamin St. John could "go to his aid" - and finish him off with the dagger. That would have led to reprisals, but the main objective would have been accomplished.
It woulda worked, for sure...if Justin didn't have the strength of a Prophet.
If I hadn't failed to save my father.
Now, the eerie flashes of lightning over the cornfield showed him not a glimmer of hope.
On seeing the fate of the heroic Rev. Balthus, he'd raced out of the healing tent - to draw Justin out of it, put an end to the slaughter of innocents. He'd plunged into the cornfield because it provided some measure of cover, if he kept his head down. But now what?
Should I try to escape, live to fight another day?
Can't risk it. Even if his people turn against him, there's no tellin' how powerful he is. He's got one hostage now - if he can't find me, he may hold the whole carnival hostage.
He allowed himself to think, briefly, of the one who was already in Justin's clutches. Sofie.
He cared for Sofie - but only, he told himself, as a member of the Carnivale family. A woman, less able to defend herself than a man in the same position...
No, damn it. It's more than that.
When he first joined the carnival, his attraction to Ruthie had led to what he still thought was love. On both sides. But that in turn had led Lodz - and, yes, the supposed Christ-figure Belyakov - to make cruel use of her, in order to force him to use his powers. He'd pulled away from her after that, and vowed that no one else would suffer because of him.
Later, he'd felt a sense of responsibility toward Sofie. After he found her wandering in a state of shock and brought her back to the carnival, she began turning to him for support. He convinced himself that was harmless, because they were just friends. And she made him feel a little less lonely.
All well and good...until what happened on the road to Damascus. He was antsy about the delay. When Sofie insisted on sitting in his truck, he felt obliged to stay with her - whatever they both said to the contrary. His restlessness prompted him to suggest they get out of the truck and dance. Close dancing led to another kind of closeness.
Ben couldn't remember whether he'd ever let himself dream of some kind of "future." Not recently, that was for sure. He'd never had a "life" to speak of. By now he was narrowly focused on doing what he'd apparently been put on earth to do, and then being allowed to lay down the burden. The End.
And so, not thinking beyond the moment, he'd had sex with a woman he didn't love. Unprotected sex, with a young woman. He'd regretted it before the night was over.
Sofie ain't in love with me neither, or she wouldn't have left. So I didn't hurt her by makin' her think there was more between us than there was. But now Justin's not only got a hostage, he's got one who could be carryin' my child. If she is, an' he has a way o' knowin' it, that puts her in even worse danger.
He moaned in frustration. I'm gonna die here. I can accept that. Never expected to survive. But Justin's a monster, an' I don't see no way to take him with me!
Whether or not his dagger was the only weapon that could kill the Usher, it was the only one he had. But to use it, he'd have to get close to his enemy. And Justin was wielding a scythe that could be used for slashing, at more than arm's length.
Slashin'...or worse, Ben thought with a shudder. It's prob'ly what he used to behead my pa.
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Sickened as he was by that realization, he paused in his flight, hunkered down amid the corn.
For the first time, he allowed himself a few deep breaths.
And truly listened.
Silence.
Okay. Bad as things look, I ain't givin' up without a fight.
He's here somewhere. Both of us keepin' still now, so's not to give away where we are. But I'm thinner than he is. Maybe if I try, if I take it slow, I can move along these rows without makin' no sound. Sneak up on him, take him by surprise.
Grimly, he drew the dagger from its sheath on his ankle. Rose cautiously to his feet, turned slightly -
And his gloating enemy rose in the next row, directly in front of him! The scythe shot out, slashing Ben's left arm.
He turned and ran, faster than he'd ever run in his life. But he heard himself crashing through the corn - and the only sound that was louder was his pursuer's demonic laughter.
The dagger had been in his right hand; he hadn't been startled into dropping it. But that was small consolation. His wound might not be serious, but it was painful. He was too distracted to perform a quick self-healing. And he knew he was leaving a trail of blue Prophet's blood, visible in the moonlight even in the absence of lightning flashes.
Running desperately, with his head down, he stopped just short of crashing into...something. When he drew back to take a look at it, he realized it was a scarecrow. Complete with a man's broad-brimmed hat, and mounted on a rough wooden cross.
He started to ease around it - taking care not to disturb the cans hanging nearby, meant to serve as another deterrent to crows when the wind set them jouncing and jangling. But then he looked up at the cross again. And suddenly, he found himself remembering something Samson had said earlier that day.
"You think the Lord had to die to make his point? What if when they said, 'Come on down from that cross,' ol' Jesus just come on down an' spit right in their eye?"
Sorry, Samson, I still don't think that woulda worked for Jesus. But it may work for me!
By the time Justin came barreling down the row, Ben had taken the scarecrow's place on the cross, with the hat obscuring most of his face. Justin had his own head down; he was bending to look at the corn as he walked. He went right past Ben in the dim light - belatedly recognizing the "scarecrow" as what it apparently was, ducking most of the cans, but not caring that he stirred some of them enough to announce his presence. He, of course, had no fear of the wounded prey he was stalking.
A few steps farther on, he stopped.
Sneaking a look over his shoulder, Ben thought, This is it. He's caught on that he ain't seein' no more o' my blood on the cornstalks. He'll turn an' come back this way, standin' up straight an' lookin' around, thinkin' to spot me in another row.
An' I'll drop down on him. Not on his back, like I woulda had to do if I caught him as he passed. I want to take him from the front, get that tattooed chest he's showin' with no layers o' clothes over it.
For the second time that night, the Usher walked into a trap.
Ben pounced on him, exactly as he'd planned. Gripping the dagger in his strong right hand, he drove it at his enemy's chest.
And the dagger broke!
What the hell -? His skin is like armor!
The blade of the dagger - most of it - skittered off to Ben's left. He had time to see there was no blue blood on it; the skin hadn't been pierced at all. Then Justin flung Ben off him - and slashed him deeply, viciously, in the left side of his lower abdomen.
Ben landed hard, on his back. He was still conscious. But he knew the battle was over. This time, he'd taken a mortal wound.
I screwed up. Too young, too dumb to get things right...
His enemy bent over him. Eyes that glowed, despite being black as pitch...chest that rose and fell regularly, despite being festooned with the image of a dead tree.
"Look at you, boy. Such a sad mess."
I don't need you to tell me that, you sumbitch...
Lifting Ben's head to get a better look, the Usher said regretfully, "So young..."
Ben loathed the patronizing attitude. But his inner voice was saying, He's right. I am a "sad mess" - a total failure. I wasn't a worthy foe for him, didn't make him break a sweat.
He knew he was slipping into death. At this point, he wasn't even trying to stop the slide.
He knows it too. An' it was me he wanted. Will he be content with my death, free his hostage?
He managed to say, "Sofie -"
Justin replied unctuously, "She's waiting for you."
And Ben's anger flared up. He's already killed her? The heartless bastard!
That thought triggered another. Suddenly, he heard Belyakov's voice intoning, "A dark heart dwells where branches meet..."
Was that the part I was supposed to take literally? "Where branches meet"...in the tattoo?
Justin evidently wasn't planning to wait out the few minutes Ben thought he might have left. As he was saying, "I'll be quick. You will not suffer," Ben's eyes frantically sought the blade of his dagger. He saw it - within reach, if he had sufficient strength in his wounded arm. But there was no time...
And then Justin stopped to gaze up at the heavens, proclaiming, "My kingdom come!"
Ben grabbed the blade in his left hand, and lunged at the man who'd been about to kill him. This time, what remained of the dagger found the vulnerable spot in that tattooed chest. Justin let out an agonized cry as he staggered backward and then fell, the blade still in him.
Ben fell backward too. He clung to consciousness. But his head was swimming, and the pain in his belly was so excruciating that only weakness kept him from screaming.
Since he wasn't screaming, he was able to hear Justin's gasps.
Can't stop now. He's still alive. Gotta...hang on long enough...to finish him...or it will all be...for nothin'!
He forced himself up to a sitting position, just as a flash of lightning illuminated the lurid scene - and let him see how much blood he'd lost.
He shuddered. Okay. I know where Justin is. A few feet away. Last journey o' my life, an' it's gonna seem like the longest. But I gotta get there. He ain't in good enough shape to fight me now, but I can't assume he won't snap back later. Can't die in peace till I'm sure he's dead.
The journey was as arduous as he'd expected. But he made it.
Justin's chest was still heaving.
Ben maneuvered himself into the right position, placed both hands over the protruding blade, and pressed down with all his strength.
"Plunge...thee...deep!"
The deed was done.
The tattooed chest was motionless.
And as Ben heard a shockingly loud peal of thunder, he knew he was about to fall dead over a dead body.