The Soundmaker

But Winter Hastens at Summer's End

Friday, April 23, 1937.

1834 Hours.

Forest.

Then, there was nothing.

Silence.

Complete, unnatural silence.

Not even the rustling of leaves pierced through the heavy silence that fell between me and the beast.

Nothing.

I felt as if my head was somehow submerged underwater. A pressure that only augmented as it went deeper and deeper. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't blink. I couldn't even speak without my words getting caught up in my throat.

Nothing but the beast.

My eyes bulged from their sockets as they refused to yield from the beast staring at me with its one eye.

It was death. It was worse than death.

Then it talked to me. Not with words--I couldn't hear any words--but to my mind. It formed in my mind, without shape or rhythm, telling me one thing.

“Surrender.”

And I did. Without my input, my hands let go of my rifle. It fell to the ground without a sound. There was nothing but the voice.

“Surrender.”

Even now, my hands tremble with the things I felt that day. It wasn't fear, or sadness, or impending doom.

The thing I felt was...love.

The beast emanated a wave of love like nothing I have felt before. It swaddled me like an infant resting on its mother's bosom. There was nothing wrong with the world. No war, no anxiety, and no waiting for death.

Love. Pure love. Unswaying and unmoving.

I needed the beast. I wanted the beast. The beast loved me as I have never been loved.

I wanted to be one with the beast. I. I. I. It was me. I was the center of the universe. And the beast was my guide.

As the beast approached with heavy footsteps, I couldn't move. I didn't want to. My arms were open with a smile on my face, ready to meet the beast.

The wait was over.

Every step it took made my world smaller. The trees faded away. The floor faded to nothing. There was nothing but the beast.

It stared at me with its one eye. “Surrender,” it whispered into my mind.

And there he was, a step before me. It raised a hand to meet me. A beautiful, perfect hand with a horn protruding from it. I was going to be one with the beast. I was going to be saved.

Then it stopped. The beast stumbled backward, falling flat on its back.

The world became whole again. The wind whistled its twilit tune. Birds were chirping, and animals were roaming about. It was all back.

My hands trembled as the feeling of love and completeness I felt moments earlier were being washed away by the sudden realization that I was about to die.

Shivers ran down my spine when I realized that the beast in front of me was Tuerto. It couldn't be no other. The song, the eye, and even the clothes underneath the protruding tusks. Fatima's unmoving body discarded behind him rounded up the grim scene.

In the middle of the white, metallic mass that was Tuerto's face was a small bullet hole that wasn't there before. Had someone shot him? Whatever made him stop, it didn't do it for long. Tuerto began to convulse madly on the ground as it slowly began to rise by its shoulders. His head snapped forward as his one good eye pierced my soul.

It would've caught me again in his trance were it not for a gloved hand grabbing me by the shoulder. Father Jagger stood behind me while maintaining eye contact with the beast. He was unwavering, not even acknowledging me as he pushed me behind him. In his other hand rested a gun--one of those German-made Mausers.

I couldn't say anything when he pushed me down, firing three bullets at the beast in quick succession.

They weren't as effective as the first one, only connecting with its body, making it reel back. With unnatural strength, the beast jumped from the ground to the top of a tree as it released a haunting wail that shook the very trees.

Father Jagger ran with all his strength underneath the trees and began to fire at it. One of the bullets hit it under the jaw, making the beast fall down as it cried. With a swiftness a man twice his weight,  Father Jagger threw a silver cross at the beast, getting stuck straight in its forehead.

It didn't make a sound as it unceremoniously fell to the ground, stopping its rampage. Father Jagger grabbed it by one of its horns as he dragged him across the ground.

My legs felt like nothing. I couldn't stand up, but I could at least talk. And I had so many questions. What was that thing? Was it really Tuerto? How was Father Jagger able to defend me? What was happening? But first, to thank him.

“Thank you, father,” I said.

I didn't expect him to answer me, but I also didn't expect him to point his gun straight at my face.

His eyes were cold and ungrateful. There was no love and kindness in them. He was going to kill me like a dog and nobody would mourn me.

Or it would've, were it not for the appearance of a certain young lady behind me.

“Sebas?” said Lula, holding a rusty metal bar in her hands. “Are you okay? What happened?”

I cast my eyes where Father Jagger and Tuerto were standing. They had both disappeared.