2023 OPEN SHORT STORY COMPETITION 1st RUNNER UP

1st Runner Up Goes to…

M.R. Gallows

THE WEST WINDOW

Stonebrooke, Quebec

August 9, 1985

I knew it was time when I saw Father Beaudoin hoeing his waxed beans in the late afternoon. I checked my bandage, then patted my pocket, feeling for the envelope I'd been carrying for weeks before wheeling my Massey-Ferguson tractor alongside the split-rail fence between his parish house and my bottom hayfield.

The fence served as the dividing line between our two Quebec cultures. Eastward from this point were tightly packed villages of match-box-sized houses interspersed with magnificent Catholic churches showcasing towering bell towers. Westward were Protestant communities with simple churches and sprawling farmhouses surrounded by wrap-around porches and expansive lawns. 

Father Beaudoin gave a small forefinger wave as if administering a blessing, gathered the hem of his cassock, and picked his way toward the fence using his hoe as a walking stick. Although arthritis had corkscrewed his towering frame down over the years, he still held his head authoritatively high. He had to be pushing eighty since I’d turned fourteen in the spring of his arrival. 

“Bonjour, Monsieur Macfarlane. How are you on this fine summer evening?"

"Fair to middling." I switched off the engine and draped one arm across the steering wheel and the other over the fender to indicate I was up for a spell of talking. The cooling diesel motor ticked as we eased into our usual polite conversations about his garden, the weather, and crop yields. Two old bachelors whiling away the time until our conversation dwindled as the crickets took up their chorus and bats swooped through the twilight.

He squinted up at me through his thick lenses. 

"Perhaps, Monsieur Macfarlane, you would care to join me for a refreshment?"

"Don't mind if I do."

Although I considered Father Beaudoin a friend, we’d been careful to maintain our distance. I'd only been inside his dwelling a handful of times over the years. Suspicions from both congregations kept us mostly tethered on our side of the fence line. 

His kitchen had stayed the same over the years, and looked similar to mine: bare with a couple of dishes stacked in the sink, a few African violets dotting the windowsill, and a pie on the counter from one of the church wives who felt obligated to supply unwed men with homemade baked goods. 

Father Beaudoin retrieved his bottle of Pastis off the top shelf along with two rose-colored aperitif glasses. He added a tiny splash of water to the liqueur, then dropped an ice cube into each glass before setting them on the bare wooden table. He slid mine across and settled into the chair at the opposite end. The drink looked like muddy water and tasted like licorice, a flavor of which I wasn't especially fond. 

We were on our second one before I finally admitted what I'd come for. "Father, I'd like to do what you Catholics call a confession."

Father Beaudoin unhooked his wire-rimmed glasses from behind his ears and carefully set them on the table. 

"Before we proceed, Monsieur Macfarlane. May I ask why you have chosen to speak with me instead of your own minister?"

"That's a fair question, Father. If it were old Reverend Williams, I'd be talking to him tonight. All I can say is you'll understand the reason once I've said my piece."

“And, you understand, Monsieur Macfarlane, because you are not Catholic, I cannot grant you absolution."

“Yes, Father.”

He looked down and fingered a couple of pleats in his garment.

After all these years, the possibility of speaking the truth sent a radiating pain through my chest. While he considered my request, I fished a nitroglycerin tablet from my pants pocket and poked it under my tongue.

Finally, he nodded, steepled his fingers, and folded them over his little potbelly.

I twirled my drink a couple of times. "Father, do you remember the earthquake that ripped along the Saint Lawrence River between Kingston and Trois-Rivières?" 

"Oui, I remember very well. I had just given my first mass that Sunday. The earthquake struck the next day and cracked the bell tower." He took a small sip. "There were those in my parish who considered it a sign that I had brought bad luck amongst them."

Indeed, there had been speculative rumors powerful enough to ripple into our Protestant community as to why this handsome priest had been exiled to this tiny village.

"Well," I said, raising my glass. "That's quite a compliment, giving you that much credit."

The old priest barked a laugh and tilted his glass back at me, before saying, “Please to continue. Monsieur Macfarlane.”

"It just so happened that quake coincided with my fourteenth birthday. One minute I was hauling an eight-gallon can of maple syrup from the sugar shanty to the shop for canning while admiring my new birthday boots, and the next minute, there was this big boom. I was thrown ass over teakettle and found myself flailing on the ground with the trees jitterbugging overhead, the earth bucking beneath me, and that can of syrup steam-rolling back and forth over me like it was trying to iron me flat. I thought sure it was the end-of-days.

"If it weren't for the deep snow that spring, I probably would have ended up with a pair of busted legs instead of just a bruising. I can still hear the animals kicking up a ruckus. The cows were bellowing, and the neighbor's dogs howled like a pack of wolves." 

I sipped my drink and picked at a small spill of candle wax near the table's edge. 

Father Beaudoin gave me an encouraging smile.

“Sorry, Father. I was just remembering my dog, Tippy, who’d died of old age that winter. But I digress. Long story short, we were lucky. Just minor damage: a few broken dishes, a busted water pipe, a cracked foundation, and a shelf of smashed preserves in the cellar.

"After supper that night, I went to the sugar shanty with my father. We'd had a good sap run that day. Both storage tanks and the gathering tank were full to overflowing, forcing us to boil through the night. We'd gotten a new syrup evaporator that spring—the biggest rig Dominion & Grimm had—six by twenty-one foot-long, three pans, twin smoke stacks forty feet high, and a huge six by six firebox. My father was chin-jutting proud, so it surprised me when he clapped me on the back and said, 'Well, Elgin, you're fourteen now, old enough to run the show by yourself for a few hours.'

“Oh, my head near swelled to bursting, 'till my father disappeared, and it struck me—if anything went wrong, it was on my shoulders.

“I musta walked a good mile that first hour circling the rig, checking the pans, the flow valves, feeding the fire, pulling off the syrup, washing strainers, re-stacking wood … and avoiding the west window.”

Father Beaudoin tilted his head questioningly.

I readjusted myself on the hard seat. “Old Allister Walker had died that week and was being waked in his parlor instead of the funeral home. Some say he did it to spite his wife, who was fearful of dead people. Wouldn’t surprise me. He had a wicked temper and had no qualms about using his fists on his wife or kids.”

Father Beaudoin sighed so deeply that I figured he’d seen his fair share of domestic violence amongst his flock.

“Even though the Walker place was over half a mile away, if I looked out the shanty’s west window, I could see the light in the parlor where he lay in his coffin. It gave me the willies, and it didn’t help that I’d seen my fair share of horror movies—and there I was, alone, in the dead of night, in a room full of boiling sap and shifting steam with only a staticky radio to keep me company.

“Come around 2:30 A.M., the first storage tank ran dry. I switched over to the second one. Trouble was it had turned colder, and the second tank had an extra-long pipe leading to the back flue pan. Being so far from the fire, that pipe tended to freeze up and stop the sap flow. As a backup, I needed to get outside and empty the gathering tank into the first storage tank. Since I was already going out, I decided to bring in an extra load of wood to surprise Dad.

“Got myself bundled up, put on my heavy mitts, and headed outside. It was blacker than tar paper and colder than a witch’s … oops, sorry, Father.” I tried to slap my hand over my mouth but missed and gave myself a good poke in the eye. 

Father Beaudoin waved forgiveness at my slip with a flourish so grand he almost tipped off his chair. He was as drunk as me.

Before continuing, I took a sip of Pastis and glanced at the open kitchen window where full darkness now pressed against the screen. 

“Off I slogged through the snow with my sled and a half-dead flashlight.

“I heard this pitiful whimpering coming from the end of a row of stacked wood. I pushed through the drifts and damned near tripped over a lump underneath the snow. It felt soft, pliable-like. Then it moaned. I played the flashlight over it and landed on a massive set of yellow fangs in the biggest maw I’d ever seen!

“Damned near pissed myself! First, I thought bear, then timber wolf, then the thing started to twitch its legs, and I realized it was just a big old dog, and the poor thing was half froze.

“‘Easy, boy,’ I said, then hoisted him onto the sled, dragged him into the shanty, and eased him onto the warm cement in front of the fire doors. He was one big fellow. Stretched near the width of the evaporator with heavy-set shoulders and an oversized head. Had the blackest coat I’d ever seen and carried a peculiar sulfur-like smell about him. The poor thing lay flat out with his tongue spilling out. I grabbed some clean felt strainers in my mitts and rubbed him down, all the while speaking to him like I used to do to Tippy.”

Memories of my old dog made my throat tighten. A drip of water splashed onto a dish in the sink. A full chorus of cricket songs floated through the open window. 

I swallowed hard. “I don’t know how long I stroked that animal. All I know was his coat was almost dry when I snapped out of some kind of trance I’d been in. The pans were down to a simmer. The fire was down to coals, and only a few wisps of steam hung in the air. I sprang up and ran around checking. The second storage tank pipe was almost frozen, the flow down to a tiny trickle, and I hadn’t emptied the gathering tank like I was supposed to. There was no backup! I couldn’t fire up the rig, or I’d risk burning the new pans. So, I hauled myself outside and got the gathering tank spout lowered into the feeder trough and the sap running into the first storage tank.

“When I got back inside, the dog was gone. I figured it’d just crawled away to hide, and I didn’t have the time to worry about it right then. I needed to get the rig back up to boil. And, for a kick in the pants, just as I got both fire doors swung wide, the radio started playing Ozzie Nelson’s version of I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire. I picked up a stick and almost heaved it in when I spotted something inside the firebox.”

I slugged down the rest of my drink and slammed the glass on the table. After fifty years of keeping my secret caged, I struggled to set it free. Father Beaudoin sat still as a Buddha, hands folded. 

“I squinted into the heat, Father, and saw that—that dog creature curled on top of those glowing coals. Its eyes were closed, and its head rested on its paws like he was having a cozy little nap.” 

Father Beaudoin’s chair creaked.

I sat up straighter. “I know how it sounds, and I wondered if I was running a fever or had just gone plain crazy. But that wasn’t the worst of it, Father. Something was wiggling inside that thing’s gut, twisting and squirming, fighting to get out. Then …” I swallowed hard. “I heard a small voice coming from that wiggling thing. It was begging for mercy, and as God is my witness, I recognized the voice.”

Father Beaudoin pushed his Pastis toward me. I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face the skepticism in his eyes. My hands shook so bad the liqueur slopped, but I managed to get down a good swallow. “The voice was unmistakable—it belonged to old Allister Walker.

“Then the creature opened its eyes. They were red-rimmed, oily black in the middle with no whites. Looking into them, I felt a despair so everlasting, it drove me to my knees. A vision scorched into my mind brighter than the noon-day sun. I was standing at the end of our woodpile where I’d found the creature. A tunnel appeared in the earth. That dog creature crawled out and slunk westward through the woods toward Walker’s place. Then the earthquake struck, collapsing the tunnel and rolling wood down the stack burying the spot. 

“When the animal returned, it tried to dig past the wood and reopen the tunnel, only it couldn’t. Got half a dozen sticks rolled away before it got too cold and so stiff it fell paralyzed into the snow. 

“The vision faded, and there I was back in the shanty, on my knees, gasping for breath, holding my head, and knowing what that creature wanted me to do.

 “The thing started crawling across the grates. A part of me wished it’d kill me there and then so I could escape its hold over me. I didn’t want to do its bidding and was screaming ‘No, no, no,’ inside my mind, but, God help me, Father, I couldn’t help myself. 

“It hauled itself onto the sled. I grabbed a shovel and dragged it out into the night. Coals clung to that creature’s coat, yet it shook and shivered. It had started to snow. I had no flashlight. Didn’t matter. I could see in the dark like it was twilight. I ran and fell and crawled to the end of the woodpile, clawed the wood aside, then chipped and hacked and dug clots out of the frozen earth. I was soaked with sweat. My muscles screamed, my lungs ached, yet I couldn’t stop. The need to obey, Father, it raged inside of my head like a rabid animal.

“When I dug below the frost line, the ground softened. I broke through to the tunnel and stood bent over, hanging onto the shovel, panting, and looking straight down the shaft. It glowed. A shower of cindery sparks spiraled out and brought with it the sound of—voices. Thousands upon thousands of them, screaming and crying and moaning.” 

Gripping the empty glass, I laughed a little. “People are always praising me for being such a hard worker. Truth be told, I deliberately exhaust myself most every day, so I won’t lie awake hearing those voices.”

I pushed the delicate glass aside before I broke it. “Next thing I knew, that beast sidled alongside me. My coat sleeve had pulled up, away from my mitt, and when the animal slipped toward the hole, its fur brushed against my bare skin.

“I can’t begin to tell you how much that burned, Father. Not just my skin but something way deeper inside. The spot where it had touched puffed into a blister. When the creature saw what happened, it fixed those dreadful eyes on me, and I felt its—pity. Then it threw back its head and let out a howl so mournful I thought sure it’d rip me to shreds.”

Father Beaudoin gasped. “Mais, I remember, Monsieur Macfarlane! The howl in your woods, it woke me!” He shivered. “It made me so fearful, I felt compelled to kneel in prayer, and I could not stop until the morning light.”

Belief shone in his eyes. “There was an old priest in the seminary who spoke often of seeing such a creature. The other priests told us not to pay attention because they said he was senile and had confused reality with myth.” Father Beaudoin’s eyes opened wide. “Monsieur Macfarlane, you witnessed a hellhound collecting a soul!” 

“A hellhound,” I repeated and slumped in my chair. After all these years, I finally had a definitive answer as to what I’d seen. 

Father Beaudoin leaned forward. “Please to continue, Monsieur Macfarlane.”

“Down the shaft, that—hellhound went, with Old Walker worming and screaming inside as the tunnel collapsed behind them. I don't know how long I lay there or when I got back to the shanty. All I know is I had everything set right when my father walked in the next morning.

“‘Well now, Elgin,’ he said. ‘You did a mighty fine job.’ He went to clap me on the back, then stopped short and looked puzzled. He lowered his hand, stepped back, and asked, ‘Anything happen?’

“I opened my mouth to tell him, but something stayed my tongue. How could he believe me? I wasn’t even sure if I believed me. ‘I burned my wrist is all,’ I said, holding it out. 

“He whistled and asked, ‘How’d you manage that?’ And, just like that, Father, I told him I’d tripped over my new boots and fell onto the fire door. That lie slid off my tongue easy as grease across a hot pan. I’d never lied to my father before.

“He told me to get to the house and have it tended to. My mother, God rest her soul, went into a kerfuffle when she saw it, squawking at me about being more careful before she set about boiling water and collecting ointment and bandages ripped from old sheets. She draped a towel over the kitchen table when the water cooled. I laid my arm across with my sleeve rolled up. She sat across from me and dipped a cloth in the water to clean the wound. But, when she got close, she jerked back like she’d been scalded. ‘Oh,’ she said and shook her head. 'Isn't that silly? I'm not that squeamish.’ She tries again, same thing. ‘You better make a start,' she said, so I cleaned it, spread the ointment and wrapped the first layer.

“She finished the bandaging, but her mouth was puckered up the whole time like she tasted something sour. And after she was done, she couldn't bring herself to hug me or give me a peck on the cheek like normal.”

My chest ached at the memory. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the quavering cricket chirps before taking a deep breath. 

“By the end of the week, I’d convinced myself that I’d simply fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing. I couldn’t find any sign of a tunnel, figured the scattered wood was the work of the quake, and that my parents were distant because I’d turned fourteen.

“Come Sunday, we went to church like usual. Only when I approached my friends they shied away. I can’t tell you how much that stung, especially when Maureen McCartney, who I was sweet on, put a hankie over her nose like I’d just come from working in a manure pile and waved me away from her pew. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, when we filed out after the service, the minister stood aside instead of shaking my hand. 

“Then all of a sudden, Clarence Sorrel comes sliding up beside me, grinning, and latched onto my burned wrist like we were best buddies.”

Father Beaudoin grimaced at the mention of Clarence Sorrel. Years ago, he had broken into Father Beaudoin’s church, smashed the head off the Virgin Mary statue, and stolen the silver collection plates. 

“A troubled boy,” Father Beaudoin said. “But, he brought us a friendship, did he not?”

I nodded. When I’d found the stolen plates stashed in a culvert while fencing our backfield, I’d brought them to Father Beaudoin with a pail of ashes and some rags. We’d sat at this table, polishing the silver with wood ashes, and I’d said, “I suppose you’re wondering why a Protestant boy is helping you shine the silver.”

He’d given a small laugh, and said, “Oui, I am a bit curious.” 

“Because of my great-grandmother. She was one of the Renauds from your village, and used to attend your church before she married my great-grandfather.”

Father Beaudoin had smiled at me and said, “She would be very proud of her great-grandson.”

I looked at the priest, so old now, yet still handsome in his own right. “So you see how it was, Father? It was the Clarence Sorrels of the world who wanted to be close to me now. Decent folk wanted nothing to do with me after I got this."

I fumbled with the buttons on my cuff, unwound the ACE bandage, and turned my hand over. Thick purple veins bulged from gnarled knots of mottled flesh encircling most of my wrist. Father Beaudoin sucked in his breath then tentatively extended a hand toward it. The dark veins suddenly throbbed and pulsed, thrusting upward like a living thing trying to grasp him. He shrank back, yanked at the chain around his neck, and dragged his crucifix from beneath his cassock.

“Mon Dieu,” he whispered and made the sign of the cross.

“Now, I’ll answer your question, Father. You asked me why I didn’t talk to the new Reverend. It’s because he wants to touch my wrist like Clarence Sorrel.”

Father Beaudoin squeezed his eyes closed and mumbled a small prayer.

I bowed my head and waited for him to finish before continuing. “It took me years to accept the truth. I thought if I did this or that, I could change the outcome or reverse what had happened.

“It may sound crazy, but I didn’t fully believe it until Nettie Winthrop killed herself two years later. If you remember, she’s the one who did a stretch in prison for trying to poison her second husband.”

Father Beaudoin nodded, but his eyes never left my disfigurement.

I sat quietly, letting a chest pain pass and listening closely for any break in the cricket's cadence before going on. “We attended the funeral for her sister’s sake. I was standing in the receiving line when my wrist lit up like it was on fire. My mother shivered and said, ‘A goose must have walked over my grave.’ Over her shoulder, I saw the creature’s shadow lurking in the gloom behind the casket. That’s when it clicked in my head why it pitied me. Even though I had been an innocent boy when I met it, I’d touched its evil, and now I was tainted, stained, if you will. People felt the malevolence radiating from this mark, my connection to a dark force from which I could never be free. No virtuous woman would have me as her husband, no good man would have me as a friend, and I’d never feel my mother’s loving touch again.”

An unexpected sob escaped me. I drew my handkerchief from my pocket and blew my nose. “It’s a good thing this table is so long, Father. The closest decent folk can get is two feet before it repulses them.”

Father Beaudoin rose shakily and returned, clutching the neck of a new bottle of Pastis. 

I twirled my empty glass. “I knew in my heart if I started associating with the Clarence's of this world, I'd become one of them in time. So, I vowed that night to live a pious life. But, it’s been a very lonely road, Father.”

Father Beaudoin refilled his glass before pushing the bottle toward me. Compassion filled his face. “I understand, Monsieur Macfarlane.”

“I figured you would, Father. When the leaves are off the trees, I’ve seen your bedroom light come on in the middle of the night and your silhouette pacing back and forth.”

“Oh!” Father Beaudoin sat back. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Being a priest in a small village is, as you say, isolating. I am forbidden from mixing too closely with my parishioners because I am their moral leader, someone they must always look up to. And others at my level are far away.” Father Beaudoin sighed so deeply; it hurt to hear it. Tears shone in his eyes. “As you say, Monsieur Macfarlane, a lonely road.”

I grunted in agreement and rubbed at my chest. “Father, I’m sure you already figured I’m not long for this world. So, here.” I pulled out the worn envelope and pushed it across to him. “In memory of my great-grandmother, Lea Renaud. She was a real hard worker who helped make our farm what it is today.” 

He put on his glasses and opened the envelope. “Mais, Monsieur Macfarlane,” he sputtered, fanning the bills, "surely this is much too generous?”

I waved my hand at him. “It's only a dent in the pile, Father. I've done nothing but work my whole life and hardly spent any.”

"Merci, Monsieur Macfarlane.” He slowly returned the donation to the envelope. A night breeze hissed through the thin kitchen curtains and billowed them over the African Violets. Undisturbed, the crickets continued their serenades. 

“You were right to have faith, Father.” I finally said. “Over the years, I saw the creature's shadow quite a few times, but after my vow of piety, I started to see something else.” 

Father Beaudoin’s eyes shone with curiosity. 

“For most, I see a shimmer of light hovering above them after they die, and it's so beautiful, Father, it pains me to look at it.

“Father … could you pray for me? Maybe light one of those candles. I've tried to live a pious life—read the Bible every day, never stole, never cheated, always tried to do the right thing; but the question that keeps circling my thoughts is, was it enough? When the end comes, what will come for me? Will I see that beautiful light, or will I see that old hellhound sidling up beside me?” 

Father Beaudoin bent double. The crucifix dangled from his bent fingers. The sides of his cassock pulled tight against his legs as his body convulsed with wracking sobs.

“Father?”

“I am not the person to pray for you, Monsieur Macfarlane," he muttered, then looked up. Anguish twisted his face. His glasses had fogged. "I am a charlatan. I was sent here as a punishment. My parents were prominent in Quebec society. Because of them, I was expected to go far and was given a position in a beautiful church in Quebec City with many other priests and nuns. But I was foolish. A beautiful woman fell in love with me. She was married. Her husband had been injured in an accident, and they could not have what you call ‘relations.’” He closed his eyes. 

“She came to be with child.” His fingers tightened around his cross. “I prayed every day for forgiveness. Then one day, she slipped into my confessional booth and whispered, ‘There is no more baby, Father Beaudoin.’” He sat staring at his arthritic hands. “That was the last time I saw her.”

Knowing the courage it took to confess, I remained still.

“I am ashamed to say, I did not feel sorrow, Monsieur Macfarlane, only great relief. I believed it to be God’s will that she lost the baby and thought I had escaped any repercussions. 

“But, a few days later, my Bishop called me into his office and told me I was being sent here.

“I wanted to believe that she deliberately seduced me, that I was an innocent victim and therefore held no responsibility. But, over the years, I have come to understand my vows were being tested—and I failed. This village is a part of my chastisement.”

“Part, Father?”

He rubbed his fingers along the length of his cross. “A year after I came to be here, I wrote my Bishop, asking to be returned to Quebec City. I thought I had been punished quite enough for such a simple transgression. 

“Then I received the Bishop’s reply and learned the truth. 

“I was never to leave this village because the woman … to avoid scandal … had aborted my child.”

A chest pain radiated into my jawline. Of all the things denied to me in this life, the lack of children had been the hardest to bear.

Father Beaudoin raised his face, naked with pain. “Monsieur Macfarlane, I think of that child every day.” 

Before I could reply, the crickets ceased singing. A howl from the yard rent the air. My wrist pulsed to life. I clutched at my chest as searing streaks of pain paralyzed me in their crushing embrace.

Father Beaudoin toppled his chair. It whapped on the floor like a gun blast. He scuffed to the sink, tumbled the African violets off their ledge, and ripped the curtains aside to peer though the screen. A shadow, darker than the night, loomed in the window. Father Beaudoin gasped and back-peddled until he slammed into the stove with a grunt. 

The door latch snicked, and the creature, round-shouldered and belly-slung, slunk in radiating sulfurous heat. Its nails clicked as it crossed the floor toward me.

“Dieu ait pitié! God have mercy!” Father Beaudoin said as he stiffly thudded to his knees, clutching wildly at the oven handle for support as he fell. 

The creature snarled, exposing its teeth. A rope of saliva sluiced from its lip. It fixed its depthless eyes upon me. My pale face, reflected in the dark orbs, showed me surrounded in a protective halo of the iridescent light I’d seen around decent folk. 

The pain in my chest eased as the beast shifted its dreadful gaze and calmly clicked past me on his way to the dying priest.