Black Water Rises
Chapter Eight
Aramis brushed his thumb across Jeanette's cold knuckles. He didn't know what would happen to her, or any of the villagers when they disposed of Thunderbird, but he suspected they would all die along with him.
Perhaps die, isn't the right word, he thought, looking into her eyes. Sadness stared back at him, choking his speech. That wasn't all that kept him quiet. Since deducing the villager's fates, he'd been contemplating his and Porthos' futures.
But he could not think of that right now. He had a demon to slay, and a village to save. He only hoped, that in the end, his friend's would forgive him his transgressions.
"We don't know what will happen to you," answered Athos. He untangled Aramis' hands from hers and pulled him toward the door. "We have never dealt with anything of the likes of Thunderbird."
Porthos rose from his chair, ran a hand down his face. "Hold on. Are we really going to burn a man alive?"
"A Skademgamutc," d'Artagnan reminded him.
"Easy for you to say," huffed Porthos.
Aramis rubbed the puncture marks behind his neck. Ghost-Witch. From ancient Mi'kmaq lore. A filthy spirit who feeds on human souls. He stepped outside, his jaw clenched to stop it from trembling. Conviction to see peace come to Jeanette and her father, paused him in the threshold, He glanced back inside, and forcing a smile, he promised the La Salle's everything would be okay soon.
Torches were gathered from the derelict blacksmith's shop, and a pyre was constructed in the village square. Athos and d'Artagnan worked diligently to assemble what they'd need, while Aramis and Porthos, too tired and sore to work, rested on the steps of the inn.
D'Artagnan dropped a log onto the amassing woodpile, then set off back into the forest to salvage more. Townsfolk watched from their doorways and paused in the street, but didn't interfere.
Porthos grunted and shook his head before turning to Aramis. "You know, it feels like we're killing good people."
Aramis patted one of his slumped shoulders and looked into his tired eyes. "We can not kill what is already dead. We are putting them to rest. They deserve peace, and we shall grant them it by burning Thunderbird." He looked down. "But yes, I know what you mean."
"Are we sure we'd even be killing the villagers by burning Thunderbird? What if we end up trapping them here for eternity? Never able to leave?"
"Then we burn the whole village if we have to," stated Athos.
He'd appeared from around the corner of the inn, lips firm and walking a fast pace. D'Artagnan followed a few paces behind, equally as convicted. Aramis hadn't heard them, nor had he been watching them and was surprised by their arrival.
Athos stopped at the steps to the inn, then took them in slow measured paces. "Let's get on with this before any of us lose our courage." With his hand wrapped around the door latch, he made no further movements.
Athos carried himself with such confidence, though some days it didn't reach his eyes. Much like right now, Aramis thought.
After a deep breath, Athos opened the door.
Aramis followed behind Athos, through the inn, his legs stronger after the short rest. But it fought off his exhaustion in exchange for dizziness, making the short walk to the cellar seem an eternity. Beside him, Porthos faired no better. His eyes fluttered, and when they were open, they were wide and unfocused.
Aramis patted his shoulder. "We will get through this, friend."
Outside the cell, Athos ran his fingers over the cygil Aramis had carved into the door. Aramis was used to his friend's quiet reflections, but this was different. Athos' expression was placid, like a man who'd reached his limit and depleted of all emotions.
Aramis reached slowly for the rosary beads handing on the door handle. He lifted them and put them in his pocket. "You are not the only one doing this," he whispered.
Athos' eyes' closed, his head dipped forward. He exhaled through his nose. "But I am the one giving the order."
"Because of my mistake," replied Aramis. He opened the door and pushed it open.
Sitting tied to a chair in the cold cellar was Thunderbird. He seemed different. His hair seemed longer, wilder and straggled. The dim light made his skin look leathery. And his shoulders seemed broader, pushing the fabric of his shirt to its limits. But the smile he wore chilled Aramis' heart.
He imagined Thunderbird's lips curling back, exposing sharp crooked teeth. He imagined them ripping into his shoulder, and shuddered.
The room was as silent as a stone box when Athos entered the room behind him. D'Artagnan followed a pace behind with his sword drawn. Aramis thought it best he and Porthos remain in the door in case Thunderbird attempted an escape, so they braced themselves shoulder to shoulder in the doorframe. Deep down, Aramis suspected a physical barrier would do nothing to hold Thunderbird should he decide to escape. That was obvious based on the newcomer's death. But taking a defensive position felt familiar, and real. It helped bolster Aramis' confidence, making him feel strong again.
D'Artagnan pierced Thunderbird's chest with the tip of his rapier, making him squirm but holding him in place while Athos undid the ropes tying Thunderbird to the chair. When he was released, Athos ordered him to stand.
"As you wish." Thunderbird rose slow and steady from his chair, his eyes shining bright even in the dim light of the cellar. The tip of d'Artagnan's sword fell away, and not even a drop of blood stained Thunderbird's shirt.
"Be careful," murmured Aramis. "Remember what he is."
Athos tied an end of one of the ropes into a noose. "I don't suppose you'll come nicely, will you?"
"Come where?"
"We've got a nice little spot picked out for you in the village square," replied Porthos.
Thunderbird canted his head. "What do you plan to do with me?"
"We're sending you back to hell," said Aramis.
"That is a Christian construct," replied Thunderbird.
Athos inched closer to his prey. "We can do this the hard way, or the easy…"
Thunderbird thrust his foot backward, kicking the chair into the wall where it shattered to pieces. "By all means," he drawled in a thick voice. He dropped his head an inch forward, his gaze fixed on Athos. The room turned cold, like a winter storm front had blown through the cell. "But I suspect you will do no such thing."
Thunderbird's eyes turned dark. Aramis saw the specks of tiny white dots reflected them in… like stars at night. He rushed forward and pulled Athos back. "Don't look into his eyes! He plays tricks with your mind."
The moment Athos turned to Aramis, Thunderbird pounced.
Athos was snatched between two strong arms, rendering him immobile. D'Artagnan threw himself on Thunderbird's back, punching and cursing. Aramis and Porthos drew their swords, slashed at Thunderbird's legs to avoid hitting their friends.
A deep cut from Porthos' shianova dropped Thunderbird to his knees. Athos pulled away and scrambled to the door. "D'Artagnan! Get off him!"
When their friend cleared off Thunderbird, Aramis and Porthos lunged forward with raised swords, piercing Thunderbird's shoulders. His shrill cry reverberated around the small room, as the sword tips remained embedded in his shoulders.
Aramis and Porthos pushed forward until Thunderbird's back hit the wall where he remained pinned, screeching and clawing, kicking and thrashing.
Porthos dug his shianova deeper. "We can't hold him much longer!"
D'Artagnan grabbed a pair of splintered chair legs and ran into the hall. He came back with them aflame. "Fire. He hates fire."
"Good thinking." Athos grabbed two more pieces of the chair and ran to the lit torches in the hallway.
Thunderbird hissed and snarled when Athos passed a torch to Aramis.
"Move in close," Aramis said. He removed his sword from Thunderbird's shoulder, watching him close for signs of attack. "Now you, Porthos. Slow and steady."
Porthos yanked his blood-soaked sword from Thunderbird's shoulder. Or that, mused Aramis.
Athos moved in. It didn't take much prodding to get Thunderbird moving, merely waving the flames near him worked well enough. He cowered when the flames licked at his clothes, and his attempts to attack were easily thwarted by a quick thrust of the burning flames. When they arrived outside, things became difficult.
It was decided that Porthos lead the way to keep any villagers who dared interfere at bay. Most stood back, watching with craned necks and whispering with their neighbours. The few that ventured forward quickly retreated when Porthos glared at them. Aramis was glad the big guy was one his side.
Unfortunately, that big guy was deteriorating as fast as Aramis. He walked on shaky legs and he kept rubbing his eyes when they weren't involved in staving off the villagers. Aramis commiserated with Porthos, for he felt the same weakness invading his own body. It wasn't until Athos and d'Artagnan began securing Thunderbird to the pyre that Aramis experienced a somewhat excited state.
He scratched his chin and laid tired eyes on the thing tied to the pole. "We found your adversary. And it seems, you will be making acquaintances soon enough."
Thunderbird's gaze flicked to the pyre. "You are to burn me, alive, I presume?"
"That's the plan," replied Aramis.
Two things happened at once. Thunderbird's muscles deflated, and he smiled.
What was that for? He has no business smiling. Suspicious and eager, Aramis pulled Athos back from the monster, then gestured for d'Artagnan to do the same. "Let's get on with this," he said, nodding at Porthos.
No movement came from Porthos, making Aramis turn to him. "What's wrong?"
"Are we really doing this?" asked his friend.
There was a tinge of remorse in Porthos' voice that Aramis had not expected. "Of course," he replied. "We have no other choice."
"You can't possibly be having cold feet?" Athos said, more than asked. "You are one of his victims."
Porthos shook his head as he stared at the ground. "That's my point. What will happen to Aramis and I if we actually do this?"
The blood left Aramis' face like water down a chute. It pooled in his boots, making it harder to stand with each passing moment. He'd been terrified of this moment since he first thought of it himself.
"We can only wait and see," he replied. Aramis knew that wasn't enough to sway his friend's hesitations and fears, but it was all he had.
Beside him, Athos paled. Short breaths pumped his lungs. His gaze remained fixed on Thunderbird, lips parted as if wanting to say something. He stood silent for several beats before clamping his mouth closed.
Fearing what his friend was about to say, dread filled Aramis from his head to his feet. He had a good idea of what would happen to him and Porthos, and from Athos' little display, Aramis believed he knew as well. But saying it out loud would make it more real, and Aramis knew neither of them wanted to be the one to make it so.
"Aramis," whispered Porthos. "What's gonna happen to us?"
D'Artagnan shouldered his way between them and wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders. "You'll be okay," he said, in quiet voice. "Tell them, Athos. Tell them they will be okay."
"I can't."
Porthos shook his head. "Naw, this can't be true."
D'Artagnan walked up to Athos, stood behind him and pointed back at Aramis and Porthos. "Tell them they will survive this. Go on. Tell them!"
"I'm so sorry. But I can't."
Porthos dropped to his knees.
Aramis did the same and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. His own life he would spare to save a village, but he could not ask that of his brothers. Porthos had been brought into this because of him, and now he was going to die because of him. "I am to blame for…"
"You son-of-a-bitch!" Porthos, rose to his feet. "Why can't you leave well enough alone? Why'd you have to touch that damn pole!"
Aramis' jaw quivered, his head swam in circles. "I acted without thinking."
"Just like everything in your life, you touch what isn't yours!" cried Porthos.
A deep laugh erupted from Thunderbird's chest. In unison, the musketeers turned to him.
"What will happen to them?" demanded d'Artagnan.
Thunderbird shrugged. "I truly don't know." He licked his lips, running his gaze across their faces with interest. "I never finished my feed."
"Enough!" shouted Athos. "We need to finish this."
"This is our lives at stake here!" replied Porthos. His hands were balled into fists, his eyes narrowed.
"I know!" replied Athos. "But what would you have us do? We have no choice. I'm sorry."
Porthos stepped forward and pounded his chest. "This is us we're talking about! How can you be so callous? This isn't right!"
Athos closed his eyes. "There's nothing right about any of this! But we must do what we must do!"
Although Athos spoke words of conviction, his tone reflected a deep sense of regret that burned a hole in Aramis' heart. It wasn't only his and Porthos' lives at risk here, but those of Athos and d'Artagnan. They would live on with the memories that their friends died in some god-forsaken village, knowing they'd had a hand in their deaths.
The ones lighting the pyre were also the ones destroying Black Water and all its ghosts, as well Aramis and Porthos. Aramis had nothing to say to that. Guilt ridden and exhausted, he almost wished it were over until he looked into Porthos' eyes.
"I'm sorry, old friend," he said, putting a hand on Porthos' shoulder.
Anger, or fear, Aramis wasn't sure, rippled beneath Porthos' skin. A vein above the scar of his left eye throbbed, and his mouth was set in a grim line. "Don't worry about it," said Porthos, but Aramis knew him too well.
He didn't want Aramis to die with regret or guilt. Porthos' departing words were meant to relieve worry, and allow Aramis a peaceful journey. Aramis would have no part of it. He deserved anger. He deserved his best friend hating him.
But all he got were sad, despondent eyes looking back at him. Which tore Aramis' already broken heart in two.
"Shall we get on with this?"
Athos' voice jolted Aramis from his misery, causing him to jump. He put away his guilt and sadness in order to see this through without second-guessing himself.
Aramis signed the cross, then folded his hands in front of him. Before him, Thunderbird stood silently watching them with a perpetual frown creasing his brow. Aramis wondered how he could remain so calm when facing his mortality, but decided that in the end, he really didn't care.
He cleared his throat and looked around at his brothers; each standing and facing the pyre with a determination any Musketeer would be proud of. "Would anyone like to say something?"
"A prayer would be nice," said Porthos. "My soul could use a good cleansing before I depart this earth."
Suddenly, Athos looked at Porthos. "I'm not convinced you're going to die."
"That's a sudden change of opinion," replied Aramis.
D'Artagnan looked at him. "I'm with Athos."
Aramis smiled. "I wish I had your optimism."
"It's not optimism," replied Athos. "After considering this, there is no evidence to suggest you will die along with these villagers. Thunderbird just said as much."
Aramis quirked his head to the side. "And there's none that suggests we won't."
Athos stared straight ahead, studying Thunderbird. No frown furrowed his forehead; no smirk crinkled his eyes. His face was placid. Aramis had no idea what he was thinking.
Eventually, he turned to Aramis. "Then you pray. D'Artagnan and I will light the fire." He stepped forward and tossed his torch onto the pyre. Porthos followed after him, then d'Artagnan.
It took several minutes for the piled wood to ignite. Aramis watched Thunderbird closely, and saw no reaction come from the man facing his own death. Thunderbird leaned his head back against the pole, closed his eyes and let the flames inch closer and closer to his body.
"I thought fire was supposed to frighten him?" asked Porthos.
Aramis turned to him. "I thought so as well."
Again, Athos stood as stone. "Aramis? It's your turn."
Aramis held his torch close to the dry wood at Thunderbird's feet. Flames grew higher and higher, cracking and popping as it devoured the wood. Aramis studied his torch, calculated how long he could hold on before having to let it go. The fire stung his fingers, singed the hairs on the back of his hand before he finally tossed it into the pyre.
He rubbed his burnt hand, deliberately increasing the pain as a way of punishment. Damn it, he thought. It was the least he could do after what he'd done to Porthos and this village.
Thinking of Black Water, he turned around in search of the Jeanette. He knew she'd be watching, and nodded in her direction when he saw her standing on the front steps of the church.
She waved to him, her thin fingers swaying back and forth in a gesture of good-bye.
Aramis couldn't watch, and turned away.
"Hey, look out." Porthos pulled Aramis back as one of the flames flicked close to his legs.
Aramis didn't see the point; he was dying anyway. He could feel it. Feel his energy slipping away. Feel his heart beat slowing and his eyes closing. It wasn't long before he fell to the ground along with Porthos, where he used his last bit of strength to turn to his friend. "I'm sorry."
Porthos' eyes were closed, and Aramis never knew if his friend even heard him.
Being a Musketeer for as long as he had, death was an abstract thing for Aramis, thought of not in horror, but with casualness that most would consider cold. But this was not abstract death nipping at his and Porthos' heels. It was real.
Aramis turned his face heavenward, listened to the fire hissing and spitting at his feet. Someone held his hand, he wasn't sure whom, and he lacked the strength to open his eyes and find out. Whoever it was, Aramis appreciated the comfort.
The ground started shaking. Aramis felt it rattle his bones. A low-pitched cackle came from the pyre. Aramis opened his eyes, lifted his head with what little strength he had, and watched smoke trailing upward, the stench of burning flesh filling his nose.
Aramis' first thought was, I'm not dead. His second, was that neither was Porthos.
He sat up and looked around. Porthos was also sitting. Athos and d'Artagnan were kneeling beside them staring at the fire. The pole, and Thunderbird along with it, was gone. They watched only flames burning off the remnants of the wood.
The earth shook again. Aramis braced his hands on the ground on either side of him. "What's happening?"
"Why is the village still here?" asked d'Artagnan, looking around. "I thought it would disappear when Thunderbird died?"
"And why aren't we dead?" asked Porthos.
Aramis spun his head toward the church. Jeanette stood there with her hands pressed against her lips. The other villagers stood around the central square, watching the scene with curiosity.
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Aramis said. He rolled onto to his knees to push to standing. Hands grabbed him around the waist and hoisted him upward. On weak legs, he studied the pyre. "Is it over?"
"I don't know," replied Athos. He inched forward, closer to the diminishing smoke and flames when the ground rumbled again. He stopped and looked back. "What is that!"
D'Artagnan helped Porthos to his feet, and they both moved to stand next to Aramis. Aramis smiled at Porthos, patted his shoulder. "Good to see you, friend."
"Good to be seen."
D'Artagnan squeezed between them, placing an arm around each of the their shoulders. He grinned at them both. "Well this is good news."
"It is, but what about them?" asked Athos. "What about this?" He waved his arms, indicating the village and its residents still present.
Aramis scratched his cheek. "Like I said, let's not look a gift horse in the mouth."
Anger burned in Athos' eyes. "They are ghosts, Aramis! This village is an atrocity!"
"But Porthos and I are alive, and Thunderbird is gone."
Lightning arced across the sky. Aramis closed his eyes against the blinding light. Cackling came from the pyre and he opened them again. Smoke, once floating in sinewy flares toward the sky, started coalescing into a giant ball where the pole once stood.
Athos stepped back. "What in god's name is happening?"
Red eyes penetrated the smoke. A mouth, wide and filled with jagged teeth formed beneath them.
Aramis drew his sword. "Thunderbird is not dead."