The Devil's Workshop

IV. Descent

His chest had deflated, his posture had shrunk, his eyes had hollowed.

Nothing had happened to Mr. Lewis that hadn't happened to anyone else; but time is hardly as kind to everyone in the same way.

Where others might have, if at all, noticed his age start pooling around the crevices of his eyes, he saw valleys in his wrinkles, separating him from his old life.

Lori Lewis was seen around town with the gloom about her that all women have when they've discovered something about the future before it comes true. She'd correctly guessed that her husband would sooner rather than later be spotted coming out of Mr. L's workshop, and though unspotted, come out of Mr. L's workshop he did.

The bell's jingle gave away his presence when he first arrived, though he was not greeted at the door by the owner, but by a friendly black cat.

"Mr. L?" He called him out.

The cat quickly lost interest in him and, turning his tail in the shape of a hook, went on his way to the main area of the workshop. Mr. Lewis trailed behind him.

He found the Devil sitting comfortably on a chair by a black cauldron. He seemed genuinely surprised by the visit when he put his book down. 

"Mr. Lewis." He stood to welcome him.

"How'd ya do, Mr. L?" He took his hat off.

"I trust you've had no problems with your last request...?" He nodded at the impressive mane.

"Oh!" He ran a hand through his hair "No, it's been wonderful, really." He assured him.

With a single hand gesture, the Devil invited him to take the seat across from him. They sat down.

"I really am grateful for... your last gift to me, truly. It's just..." He searched for the words.

Mr. L waited.

"I've been thinking and... Well, it'd be a darned shame, you see? I've only just gotten my hair back, and my time basking in that joy has been but cut short." He pointed towards the bags under his eyes.

The Devil leaned forward to study him from his chair. He said nothing, but what little he had studied from the man's face had been enough.

"I only wish my reflection would mirror back to me the face of the man I used to be." He said, almost like a plea.

Mr. L stood up from his chair and moved towards the counter.

"A moment, please." He promised.

Mr. Lewis stayed behind on his chair, but the impatience convinced him to take a peek. He couldn't really see behind the counter, but he could hear the rumble of Mr. L searching his wooden chest. 

He could only bring himself to look away when he was surprised by the cat rubbing its tiny body against his legs. For a moment there was no workshop or a Mr. Lewis; just a boy playing with a cat. 

But the moment passed as quickly as Mr. L was able to return with the small wooden box he placed on Mr. Lewis' palm. The carvings on it resembled the ones he'd noticed before on the workshop's columns. Mr. Lewis carefully ran a finger through the cracks, admiring the work.

"I wouldn't try to replicate those patterns, were I you." The Devil warned him "They require an expert craftsman who can read infernal dialects. A flawed copy, the smallest error... It could bring all sorts of unnatural consequences for your kind."

Mr. Lewis recoiled in his seat and the Devil smiled.

"Not to worry, Mr. Lewis." He lightly patted his shoulder "The inside of this box is actually quite safe in moderation. Rub just the tip of your index on this ointment and apply it generously under your eyes. You'll get the results you wish within..."

"Three nights?"

The Devil smiled and nodded.

Knowing what to do, Mr. Lewis began to find solace in his attic routine; Mrs. Lewis, on the other hand, found only mystery: she quickly realized that, unbeknownst to her, the door to the attic was being kept permanently locked, with both the key and her husband nowhere to be found. 

Lori Lewis would listen for the steps of her husband walking about, trying to make out the ways in which he might talk to himself. Despite her expert eavesdropping, only faint gibberish was audible through the cracks in the wood, and nothing that would reveal whatever he could be up to for so long. Surely she would have liked to catch him leaving the room, maybe force an interview... But as the time he spent holed up in his devilry increased, the more the household seemed to need her.

And yet, for all the secrecy of his absence, whenever he did come out, it was obvious to everyone that that the spring in Mr. Lewis' step had come back well before his new antidote had even delivered what was promised to him.

He'd relaxed again, he seemed more present in conversation (at least outside of his home), his card games were going well.

It was near the end of the second night during a particularly lucky winning streak, that he sat playing cards with the last four people on the saloon, among them Hamish Beckett. The room was dimly lit and yet the old man could observe him well enough to note:

"You look different."

"You ain't seen nothing yet." Mr. Lewis promised, all smiles.

Mr. Beckett did not return the smile, but Mr. Lewis was too focused on his game to notice they were talking about different things.

And so the morning of the fourth day came, but Lori Lewis was not called upon to marvel on her husband's younger face. She had to find out about it the hard way, which involved a fair amount of turning her head trying to catch a glimpse from her now oddly shy husband. When subtlety proved futile, the game was over:

"Look at me, George."

George stopped picking at his food and, trying to hide his palpable apprehension, managed to look up at her like he didn't know exactly what his wife might want.

She leaned back on her chair and covered her mouth in disbelief. She did not recognize the man sitting there as her husband; that was the husband of the woman she was 20 years ago. 

"Good God, what have you done?"

Her husband got up to leave but she followed behind him.

"Daisy, look after your sister.... George!"

George was walking away.

"George!" She stopped by the porch.

Her husband hesitated before finally turning around.

"Why can't you just be happy for me?" He found his valor.

"You mean be happy for a ghost." She was unfazed "When does it end?"

Years before (perhaps five) before the Devil had come to settle, there had once been a gruesome duel that had taken place on the main street of the town. The accounts of how it went down, of whether Sam Boyd cheated or not; of how many shots it took for Alan Boone to finally go down... They all vary and muddy the episode the more the story is told. What everyone can agree on, however, was how deadly the air had felt when the two men had stood before one another under the sun. And it is precisely when one is so close to Death that many can finally concentrate on how cool the wind is; how oppressive the summer sun on one's bare skin; how insidious sweat drops  are, when you really need to see; how loud blood pumps in your ear drum, when you really need to listen.

In many ways the tension of that eventful day, however, paled in comparison to the tension between the once close pair.

The silence was deafening; it was as if the years of rage and pleading held in the couple's gaze, were thunder.

"I'll be over at the saloon." Mr. Lewis announced.

Mrs. Lewis watched as a stranger walked away from her home.