Other Night

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The False Coyote cuts you off before you can even [[start.->2]]

She's walking [[you->you]] to church with a polite but firm hand on your back. 'Walking' might be a generous descriptor. Your head is spinning, your steps are all wrong, and none of the words seem to come back right. The woman is, despite her slight frame, practically carrying you. "Why're you doing this?" You strain, as she helps you negotiate with the chapel staircase. It's a nice gesture, but you hate it. You hate it very much. You want to kick and squirm and bite at her, you want to scream and yell and make a scene. But the childish impulse frustrates you to tears, and your body betrays you. "With the kinds of things you've been sayin' about her," The [[False Coyote->coyote]] says, "I thought you'd best tell them to the good [[Reverend->reverend]] yourself." <i>[[Oh, god.->3]]</i>

Redmond Faraday. Inquisitor of the Church, with a capital C. The only true adherent to Her left in the godforsaken town of Sam Hill. Your faith has put you at odds with most of the locals. You don't mind, though. You're not here to save their souls from certain damnation. You're here to [[settle a score.->2]]

You don't know where to begin with her. Devil-under-the-black-star. The Thaumat. Enemy of Man, of god, of most things, you think. Reverend Jesse Cauldwell, the devil in preacher's clothing. Quite literally. She's cut little holes into her galero, where her horns poke through. You don't know what spell she has over Sam Hill, because you have to fight tooth and nail just to get the townsfolk to acknowledge the more... <i>aberrant</i> aspects of the woman's anatomy. You're not sure if you care. [[This is between you and her, after all.->2]]

The False Coyote. Cai. You're not sure what her real name is. You think it would be impolite to ask. Locals know her as the only source of a stiff drink in town, but strangers like you quickly realize she's the only one in Sam Hill who can hold a rational conversation. You're not in any mind to give her a reason to cut you off. Well. [[You don't really have anything to lose now,->2]] all things considered.

You open your mouth to protest, but it's too late. The False Coyote knocks on the great chapel doors. There comes a soft scuffling from behind them, somewhere up in the rafters. The Reverend's voice follows shortly. "Just a moment." [[You feel pathetically small on Cai's shoulders.->4]]

You fix your eyes on the stone floor, and say nothing. The Reverend quickly closes the gap between you. The night couldn't hide the blood on your cassock forever, but even in the company of the Cai-- a dear friend, you've come to learn-- there's caution in her approach. "Ms. Faraday." The Reverend's voice is a thin whisper. "[[You're hurt.->5]]"

"Oh, Cai," The Reverend's voice is soft, and marked with a drowsy lilt you're not sure you're hearing correctly. Maybe you've lost more blood than you thought. The church's lamplight turns the Reverend into a stark silhouette. She's still dressed in the cloth; horns poking through the broad rim of her hat, tail swaying beneath the heavy hem of her coat. Her roughworn banjo is tucked under her arm, as she strains to push open the massive ironwood doors. "You'll have to forgive me. I didn't expect you at this hour..." The Reverend trails off, as the light spills out from the church and onto your face. [[▶ Say nothing.->say nothing 1]]

“My apologies to wake you at this hour, Reverend," The False Coyote says. "She's stable, but just about spent. Been talking some kind of way about you. I thought... I thought it'd be best you hear." The Reverend looks you up and down. Her mouth is drawn, and her eyes are tired. If you didn't know better, you might think that's pity you see in them. [[It dimly occurs to you that there is a reason why.->6]]

The walk was long, and the humidity oppressive. Your cropped hair clings to your face like sticks of straw. The dark circles under your eyes are no longer the mark of a late night, but written permanently into your face. Your immaculate cassock is now pleated, tattered, stained with blood and tears. You reek of rot. The Reverend averts her eyes. [[This place has aged you five years in the span of perhaps six months.->7]]

The Reverend can't quite lift her eyes from the hem of your cassock. She dips her head, licks her lips, and stoops to shift your weight onto herself. “Don't apologize. You're looking out for her. Not many people who do.” The False Coyote pats you firmly on the back as she lets you go. “Thank you, Reverend.” [[You don't respond.->8]]

All the words are thick in the back of your throat. Despite yourself, despite the itch to liberate the woman's teeth from her jaw, your body is limp in her arms. The Reverend buckles under your weight. Her arms are lean and soft, under your hard, sinewy muscle. She struggles to support you. [[You don't know why that surprises you.->9]]

The Reverend-- Jesse-- nods Cai off as she takes her leave. The ironwood doors creak shut. Jesse lets a breath slip that echoes audibly back at the two of you. [[The chapel is much too quiet for two people.->10]]

Jesse loops your arms around her neck, and steps off for the chapel attic. [[▶ Protest.->struggle 1]] [[▶ Do nothing.->do nothing 1]]

At the Reverend's touch, you seize up. You try to protest, to win back your sharp tongue, but it's thick and dry and all that comes out is a tiny, pathetic cry. Your eyes start to sting, and you furiously bite back those tears. The Reverend stops. She shifts, adjusting your weight to win you back a few precious inches between you and her. "Ms. Faraday..." She says. "Please. You're not well." [[▶ Protest.->resist 1]] [[▶ Do nothing.->do nothing 1]]

You don't make another noise, but for your steady breaths against Jesse's back. The Reverend breathes deep, and pulls herself back up into the attic. You begin to wonder if her meekness is indeed a facade. She seems to have no trouble hoisting you up with her, though she wipes her brow as [[the two of you->11]] clambor over the attic door.

"I don't-- I don't want--" You struggle to get the words out. You're not even sure where you're going with this thought, but it is enough. You don't want to be here. You don't want her help. You don't want her to see you like this, to watch you through that thin mask of concern-- pretending to tend to you like a Good Person does. The Reverend turns to see you properly. The lines of her eyes and mouth are pulled hard against her face. She looks tired. "I'll only be a moment. I need to make sure you're alright, then you'll be rid of me. [[Will you let me do that?->resist 1 2]]"

[[Jesse lays you down on her ratty little futon.->12]]

You stare up at her for a long time. She stares back. You wonder, briefly, if you should be running through your last rites. This is not the first time you have been alone together, of course. But during those encounters, you were able-bodied and lucid. If trouble came knocking, you could always answer with a lead bullet. That knowledge gave you a heady high. The woman always made a good show of trying to defuse you, but you knew that, hiding behind her empty eyes, she harbored a certain fear for you. Not <i>true</i> fear, mind you; you're convinced the Reverend displays emotion the same, false way that an angler kites around a lure. But she knew what you were capable of, and [[she respected that.->13]]

Jesse reaches for something. [[▶ Not today, Thaumat.->resist 2]] [[▶ I'll allow it.->do nothing 2]]

You buck up, pulling yourself up onto your elbows as you back into the headboard of her bed. Your tongue's coming back to you, now. "[[Not another move, Reverend.->resist 3]]"

You just watch her. There's a numbness where your skin meets the raw wool sheets of her bed. What would you do? What <i>could</i> you do? Your head is pounding, and you can barely think straight. Your body is clumsy and heavy underneath you, frustratingly complaisant. You struggle just to focus on the Reverend-- you think the blood loss is even softening your eyes. A knot forms in your chest. [[You're at the Reverend's mercy.->do nothing 3]]

The Reverend freezes. She cranes her head, slowly, to catch you in her peripheries. You grope around the inside of your jacket for something-- anything-- sharp. You produce an iron khanse with a shiv concealed in its grip. It'll do. The Reverend cautiously raises up a waterskin in her hands. She dips her head, slightly, [[deferring to you.->resist 4]]

The Reverend produces a waterskin. You lurch forward, tracing the roof of your mouth with your dry tongue. You want to snatch it up in your hands and take a deep draught, but your body is lead. For once, this is your saving grace. Not the moment the impulse strikes, a fierce shame pierces your chest. You feel small and craven and cowardly and weak. The devil doesn't have to come to you with the promise of redemption; She doesn't have to tell you pretty little lies about hope, or faith, or a loving god. She need not lie to you at all. No, she comes to you with water, and you're ready to leap into her arms like a loving lamb to the shepherd's ax. The thought fixes you to the sheets, motionless. Jesse joins you at the bedside, and quietly offers the skin to you. [[▶ ...->do nothing 4]]

The khanse falters in your hand. You stare at the waterskin hungrily. The pounding in your head burns louder and louder, roaring in your ears and throbbing in your clenched jaw. Jesse rises, and joins you at the bedside. She holds the skin out to you-- just within reach, but not an inch too close for comfort. If you were a duller woman, you might think she's intimidated by you. But there is no fear in the way she watches you, the way she studies every motion for your next move. Your hand is already hovering in the air between the two of you, before you realize what you're doing. <i>Anything</i> could be in that skin. It's almost midnight, the church is well outside of town, and you do not have the luxury of throwing yourself to Sam Hill's knees if you decide you don't like it. But god, almighty, you could really use a drink of water. [[▶ Drink.->do nothing 6]]

[[Very gently, very meekly, the Reverend presses the cold metal spout of the waterskin to your lips.->water]]

You look at the spout of the waterskin listlessly. You don't move. Something in the Reverend's face darkens. She studies you, for a while, rolling a thought around behind those empty eyes of hers. And then Jesse does something very curious. She rises from her seat, and leans over you, steadying herself on the edge of the bed. She offers the waterskin again. You do not react. She edges it closer and closer to you-- to your face. She gives it a soft but urgent shake, for good measure. You do not react. She hesitates. You eye her, in your daze. You think you understand what she's doing, but you've never seen her act so [[brazen->brazen]] before. At the surface of your brain, you're repulsed; you feel filthy for lying in her bed, putrid for tolerating her false kindnesses, for allowing her to be this close to you. But your body buzzes with a morbid fascination. <<link "You want to <i>frustrate</i> her an ounce as much as she frustrates you." "do nothing 5">><</link>>

You clap your hands on Jesse's and lift up the skin, greedily lapping up the water. It's cool, and sweet. You think you recognize the taste from one of the springs, yonder Hell's Gate. Sam Hill's river water is mineral-rich to the point of salty, and the groundwater-- well-- you could cut it with a knife. Water runs down your cheek, tracing the crook of your neck to your collarbone. You don't care. it's midnight, and you left your blood and better sense somewhere in the bosque. [[It tastes good in the way that only water does,->do nothing 7]] the morning after a sleepless night spent gutted like a fish.

You down about half of the skin, before remembering to breathe. You feel a little better, and... A little gross. You look up at the Reverend, and you expect that knot blossoming in your chest to flower into cardiac arrest. You expect the water to turn to acid in your stomach, to double over yourself and retch a pungent cocktail of viscera and blood. You expect the Reverend to look down at you with emptiness in her eyes, and announce that you have failed some esoteric test of faith, and that she is the devil, and [[she owns your soul, now.->soul]] You expect your vision to go dark, to lose control of your faculties one-by-one, limbs locking up and shutting down before you can even scream. You expect to wake up in Hell, naked, with the Reverend stroking your cheek and asking you if capitulation was half as bad as you thought it would be. You look up at the Reverend, and you feel disgusting, because [[absolutely none of those things happen.->do nothing 8]]

[[She already does,->do nothing 7]] but she could at least have the grace not to rub it in during this thought experiment.

The Reverend's eyes widen, slightly, as she looks down on you. Her hand is locked in place under yours. Either she didn't expect you to accept it, or she didn't realize what she was doing. You're not sure what you expected, either. You tighten your grip. Her leather gloves are velvety and soft where age has worn them down. She recoils, but doesn't take her hand away. The water puts clarity back into your vision as you stare at her, hard, searching her face for something-- some insincerity, some crack in her facade that would reveal [[the bastard Devil hiding just behind her eyes.->do nothing 9]]

[[There's nothing there.->do nothing 10]]

You blink. You hadn't considered that the alternative might be worse. That's not quite true. You've considered the alternative many times. After all, Jesse has a lot to gain from showing you kindness, at least in public. It's a powerful image, the beloved Reverend-- compassionate, gentle, meek, and above all a Good Person who shows grace even to her most depraved enemies. You know this. She doesn't breathe a word, and yet Sam Hill still jumps to its feet to do violence in the good Reverend's name. She has a lot to gain from showing you kindness in private, too. If anything, she seems to derive a particularly sick pleasure from this. Perhaps it's not a surprise that the Reverend finds every excuse she can to bump into you; your business in Sam Hill is with her, after all. But it doesn't explain the soft upturn of the woman's voice-- <i>"Ms. Faraday?"</i>-- or the handtalking she does when she compliments you on the way you speak the word. It doesn't account for the sincere concern in her eyes, when she finds you bent broken over your desk and quietly asks what has you so upset. She's never pushed you, never forced. Hardly even coaxed. But tacked onto the end of every exchange is an implicit offer: <i>"What can I do to make it right? Let me make this right."</i> And you know there is a terrible hunger behind these invitations. There <i>has</i> to be, because she knows you know this. This is just a part of the game she plays with you. How long can she flirt with sincerity before you [[start to believe her?->do nothing 11]] She only needs a second of your good faith. One false move, and you'll be gone forever.

You're just not sure you understand what she gains from showing you [[kindness->do nothing 12]] when you're punch drunk, and probably won't remember any of this in the morning.

You let the Reverend's hand go. She doesn't register it, for a moment-- She's still watching you. Then, she [[seems to remember herself,->do nothing 13]] and politely takes the waterskin back.

You share the [[silence->do nothing 14]] that follows.

[[▶ "Jesse?"->do nothing 15]]

The Reverend flinches. Nobody in town calls her by her first name. You've certainly [[never used it,->do nothing 16]] before.

You study the Reverend, for a while. [[A thought occurs to you.->a thought]]

Jesse falls silent for a long, long time. You think that should satisfy you. [[It doesn't.->do nothing 18]]

You're certain the conversation is over by the time the Reverend answers you. She folds her hands in her lap and looks at you, as if really seeing you for the first time. [[“I'm going to tell you something blasphemous, Ms. Faraday. But it's something I believe.”->do nothing 19]]

[[You say nothing.->do nothing 20]]

[[“Hell is not a place you can go to.” ->do nothing 20.5]]

You study the Reverend's face. You don't know what you expect to find there. Age? You think that she should be old, and tired, and sad. <i>You</i> feel old, and tired, and sad. But she isn't. She looks at you, and you are disarmed by the humility there. Like she knows she's being naive. Like she knows she's showing you portions of herself that you will only find a way to weaponize, when you're in your right mind again. [[But she does it anyway.->do nothing 22]]

Your voice is hoarse, and thin. [[“That would get you thrown into the streets, where I come from.”->do nothing 23]]

“It has,” Jesse says. [[“Many times.”->end]]

End. [[Play again?->1]]

At least, not by her [[standards.->do nothing 4]]

The moment you taste it, [[you forget yourself.->do nothing 6]]

It's the kind of thought that comes to you while drifting in and out of a nightmare. One that sits low in your gut for the rest of your week, [[like a heavy sickness.->a thought 2]]

You wonder if the Reverend ever [[feels like this,->a thought 3]] too.

You try to imagine her pacing grooves into the creaky floorboards of the chapel attic, struggling to understand <i>you.</i> You are a novelty to her, you know that much. She wouldn't choose to spend so much time around you, if she didn't find you entertaining. Perhaps this is all a huntsman's sport to her. Does she consider you an equal, then? Or just a clever hound, who escapes the snare in the short term, but-- like all creatures-- falls prey to the wild hunt sooner or later? The thought repulses you. <i>No,</i> you think. The Reverend knows you too well. There is no part of you that is a mystery to her. She already knows this feeling; not because she's felt it, but because she recognizes it in you. But maybe that's all you can do. You play pretend with her. Maybe-- maybe you can pull the wool over her eyes, this time. Maybe that's how you finally best her. Or maybe this is how you die. Bloody and delirious, [[playing mind-games with the Thaumat.->a thought 4]]

Maybe you believe, if only for a moment, that the softness in the Reverend's eyes is [[real.->a thought 5]]

Maybe you <i>[[want->a thought 6]]</i> to believe it.

[[▶ "Do you think I'm going to hell?"->do nothing 17]]

Your voice dies in the back of your throat. [[You can only follow.->do nothing 1]]

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"It can be created, yes, in the hearts of men as the world tries to right itself. But [[no loving god->do nothing 21]] would launch a ship to sink.”