Blood

Chapter 2: Blessed Are The Meek

Bill Bishop rode into town on a dusty, quiet day. The townspeople were mourning the loss of a farmer who had passed away in his home the day before, rumors were spreading how he had died, some people claimed it was a suicide, some said a broken heart, but through all the rumors and speculations the general consensus was that he had been shot on his front porch in front of his fourteen year old son. The poor boy was an orphan now having lost his mother a year before to the day. Bill’s heart hurt for the boy but he didn’t have time for house calls yet, he was a preacher who had heard tell of a town on the outer reaches of Carvell. Word was that it was a lawless town lacking in justice and guidance, and so he had packed his things and taken his trusty old horse halfway across the continent to offer what little help he could. He wore a dusty sheepskin cloak that was worn and cracked from many years wearing it, a simple black hat with a solid flat brim that kept the sun out of his eyes and on several occasions was lowered to shield someone from a scowl during a confession, turns out even this preacher was guilty of wrath, in his age he had managed to become a man of peace and curb his more fiery emotions but sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder how some people could manage to do such evil, stupid, things. There was a small church in the town, the wood had begun to warp and the roof was leaky, but there it stood awaiting a new occupant. The townspeople stared at him as he entered when they thought he wasn’t looking, by the time he had hitched his horse and made it through the door he was glad that staring wasn’t all it took to put a hole in the back of your head. The silence of the dusty old church rang in his ears but offered him a moment of tranquility after a long time on the road, he didn’t have much money from his time back east but he hoped that maybe generous souls still existed in this godless town out West. The church pews were arrayed in a strange pattern like they had moved around constantly, some bore scars from rebellious children and romantic partners carving initials and names into them. The altar itself was simple wood and within the hollow section inside it someone had stashed a bedroll, some candles, and a few rations, probably a drifter or a vagrant who had squatted in the church while it was unoccupied. Bill hoped that whoever it was would return so he could give them back their items and offer them work in return for room and board. The life of a preacher was filled with sociality but was still depressingly lonely so perhaps some company would do him well. When he tried to think of his last genuine connection from person to person instead of preacher to person he struggled to remember, but perhaps those days of his life were better left in a clouded memory, because at the end of the day the truth of most preachers willing to risk life and limb in a situation like this did not have righteous backgrounds but instead had sought redemption and instead found righteous futures in a new purpose serving the innocent and the lost. Bill was no normal preacher anyways, as sacrilegious as it was, Bill did not dedicate himself to any God but instead he had dedicated himself to serving the common man. As he checked his watch to remind himself of the time and the day he made his way to the short belltower in the backroom adjacent to the office which was already tucked into a corner behind the crumbling confessional, the time was six pm on a Wednesday, he grasped the rope in his calloused hands and pulled it six times. The townspeople all perked up in shock upon hearing that old bell ring, the younger folks had never heard it but found a new sense of community in the warbling of the bell, the older ones who remained in town found solace in the nostalgia of harder, although better times, long since past. Bill finished unpacking his things and found his way to a cellar with a small cot in it and some canned foods he hoped were still safe to eat, on his way in he had spied a water pump by the trough where his horse was hitched and henceforth dedicated tomorrow morning to fetching some fresh water to drink and stabling his horse either in a stable in town, if they had one, or perhaps he could strike a deal with a farmer nearby with space for an extra horse. The old draft horse was getting up in years, nearly nine years old, and Bill had grown quite attached to his horse with no name, but his days of traveling on it were done as he too had recently begun to feel the cold fingers of time tearing away at him, he thought it was strange how those icy daggers from the always turning clock started by digging into your mind but somehow went straight from there to your joints, but he had grown tired and was finished reflecting for the day. Bill scanned the shelves in the cellar and opted in to eating a simple can of beans for dinner, he debated starting a fire in the kitchen and warming them up but he was convinced that old chimney was cracked and certainly didn’t want to burn down the church on his first night there so he just cracked open the can with his trusty camp knife and devoured them hungrily. After finishing his meal he rinsed it down with the last of the warm water in his waterskin and did his best to scrape the can clean perhaps to use as a cup if he ever had a guest over and needed a spare, it would work until he could make it to the general store for some better dinnerware. As he bedded down for the night he heard a mysterious creaking from a window sliding open and boots hitting the hardwood floor above him, he checked his watch to see how long he had been lying there fighting for sleep and was unsurprised to see that at least four hours had passed, it would be dark out right now so whoever this intruder was must have come from out of town, all the people in the town had seen him enter the church or at least heard word of it by now and with the cover of darkness there was a chance his horse hadn’t been spotted. Weighing the facts and not sensing cruel intent Bill took his time getting dressed and slipping his boots on, not forgetting his trusty cloak over his shoulders. He climbed quietly up the steps out of the cellar and saw a young boy, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, retrieving the items hidden poorly in the altar. Bill cleared his throat to announce himself and the boy dropped the things he had picked up, scrambling to retrieve the ax that was leaning against the altar