The Actor, Ben Crown

Hey guys,

It’s been a while since I’ve written a story with a western setting, so I thought it was about time I delved back into the genre. Like with a lot of my pieces, I’ve written in my own blend of fantasy into the mix, I hope it makes for a good read.

As always, I appreciate any thoughts or feedback you might have on the piece, let me know what you think.

Cheers,

Jevan Thompson

 

An outlaw.

That’s what all the folk whispered about nowadays, everywhere he went, it was all he could hear. A never ending river of words, bubbling in the waterways that was the townsfolk gossip. When one conversation stopped, two more sprang up to take its place.

Ben Crown.

The name on everyone’s lips.

He finished the final draw of a home-rolled cigarette, flicking the last scraps of tobacco out with his gnarled fingers while he exhaled. The smoke curled around him, unwilling to be taken by the gentle currents of the wind.

The distant sound of galloping horses signalled the start of the next act, the next part of the play. He had been an actor for a long while now, too long in fact. The remnants of his true self were slipping away and with every character he assumed, every day he lived, it got harder and harder to remember.

The smoke eventually leaked away, leaving him once again alone, with only the faint brushing of the branches and creaking of the trees as company. His knees gave a slight groan as he stood, the life of roaming and wandering was beginning to take its toll on his worn body. A sigh escaped his lungs.

Ben took off his hat and calmly hung it upon a sturdy branch, then repeated the process for his leather jacket. He let his hands wander to his pistols, which rested comfortably on his hips. His fingers traced the weapons lovingly, caressing the bone grips before falling limply to his sides. Twigs on the ground crunched as he walked to a small clearing about ten yards away, the dead wood still somehow finding the energy to grumble at their disturbance.

There was a slight click, as there always was when his pocket watch snapped open and even though the hands of the clock had long since stopped, he knew he was exactly on time.

As if on queue, the sound of hooves grew louder and three figures rode into the edge of the clearing.

Three men, in all white suits, wearing thin spectacles sat atop their mounts. Although they had the familiar look of travel weariness, Ben could see in their faces that they were fresh. Keen. Ready for business. The man in front spat over the side of his horse, his eyes trained hungrily on Ben. These were no simple eyes of a nobody, but the predatory eyes of a hunter.

“Ben Crown? Or at least the actor known as Ben Crown?” He shouted over firmly. The other two men watched like hawks for his reply.

“Yessir.” Ben shouted back.

The speaker of the white suits spat again and they all dismounted drawing their pistols.

“Ben Crown, by the powers of the honest court, I name you a liar, charleton and thief of lives. I Judge you an abomination, consorter of demons and a traitor to mankind. Your penance for these crimes are death. No mercy will be given.”

“None asked for.” Ben replied, following the script he had been read a dozen times.

“May your sentence commence.” The white suited man said, touching the brim of his hat.

They all stood still for a moment in that quiet clearing, then the fighting started.

The suited men all raised their weapons, firing their first volley with a practised ease, but Ben was wise to the start of this scene. He dived to his left with unnatural speed, his body leaving a faint glowing outline in his wake. The bullets they had fired tore through the spot where he was and their next chorus of gunfire ripped the bark from the tree he was now sheltered behind.

The leader of the white suits cursed at their failure and the men all split up, running to the cover of the thick trees. One of the suited men lit a match as he did so, throwing it high into the air. By the time he had tucked himself neatly against a stout oak, the match’s flickering flame burst fully into life.

A white dome of holy energy burst into being, creating a perimeter for the battle. It shone and blazed with a beautiful glow, a light as pure as fresh snow. Ben knew he could not cross the light, at least, not until the match had burnt out. He moved his hands in a blur, drawing his pistols with a killers grace and took a few deep breaths. He leapt from the tree, darting to another like a flash of lightning, firing three quick shots as he ran.

The suited man who had lit the match had picked a poor moment to lean out and a bullet smashed into his chest, spraying a thin line of blood onto the undergrowth below. To his credit, he fired twice more before he sank back into safety. They had come uncomfortably close to Ben, the spectacles they wore granting them sight against his unholy speed.

A few seconds passed while Ben contemplated his options and more pieces of the tree were blown off by the suited men’s continuous fire. Amidst the battle, he heard a satisfying grunt, no louder than a whisper, followed by a man slumping to the ground. He took no pleasure in the man’s death, for after all, it was just another scene to act out. Another chapter in the performance.

He could hear movement, the crunch of soil and the telltale snapping of branches, sounds that a human would never be able to hear in the company of the roaring guns. But alas, he was an actor, not a human. Leaning out from his cover, he fired again. His fingers working autonomously, like a pianist at a recital, cocking the hammers and pulling the triggers in perfect harmony.

With the lawman’s rounds whistling by furiously, it made it very difficult indeed for him to shoot straight. He sent seven more shots into the lawmen, but before he could see if any had stuck home, one of their bullets hit.

It was only a matter of time Ben supposed, before eventually they would hit him with their sheer volume of fire, but it was a surprise all the same. A terrible, venomous burning seared across his arm, forcing an involuntary hiss to escape him. The blessed bullets were anathema to his kind, the sacred pieces of metal seeming to delight in burning his flesh and muscle, almost singing with a cheerful glee as they went about their work.

Instantly, he felt his right arm go numb.

Completely and utterly numb.

Growling with anger, much like a cornered animal, he darted back behind his cover, turning full attention to his throbbing arm. Ink was leaking steadily from the wound, dripping down his arm and pooling into his shirt. He attempted to holster his pistol, but it had already slipped from his grasp when the bullet had hit.

It didn’t matter, for he had fired all six from it anyway.

Trying to set the burning pain aside, he took a set of short, quick breaths and ran again. More shots buzzed angrily passed his ears, but he escaped further into the woods untouched.

The blazing light of the dome stopped any further progress of escape, but he had broken the line of sight to his hunters, which bought him a valuable few moments. Wincing from the blessed bullet wound, he sat down behind the barrier of heavy wood and jammed his revolver in between his knees. He tried moving his right hand again, but alas, it was still unresponsive, deadened and dull by the lawman’s bullet.

Ben narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth to the pain. With another sharp breath, he proceeded to load his pistol with only his left hand. Although not impossible, it drained his precious time away, each new cartridge stacking the odds increasingly against him. But, by the time he’d recovered his breath, his pistol had six rounds nestled in the cylinders.

It was then, when he had gripped his weapon firmly again, quietly confident in his ability to kill these men, they were upon him.

They were well drilled and well trained, he didn’t hear them until it was too late.

“Damnnation.” Ben muttered, his head bowing in acceptance of what was to come. He raised his gun halfheartedly and the lawmen raised theirs. Time seemed to slow, a blink of an eye lasting a lifetime. Each breath that was drawn into his lungs, each boom of his heartbeat, stretched out for what seemed like an eternity. He could feel every vibration, every minute click of the mechanism as he thumbed down the hammer on the revolver.

He knew that he was dead.

He’d come up against the honest court before, but they had never gotten the drop on him.

He assumed it must be the bullet wound that had slackened his guard, but these were certainly no hired gun hands, these men were, in every sense of the word, professionals. Ben felt a faint note of surprise flicker through his mind as he realized the honest court must of thought him very dangerous indeed. An innocent smile began to blossom on his face, one not born out of malice but realization. As his mouth began to curve however, the first of the bullets hit him.

One in the shoulder.

One in the chest.

One in the stomach.

There wasn’t any pain at first, which he was thankful for, but instead a frantic numbness flowed through his being. He didn’t realize he had hit the floor until he felt gnarled roots digging deeply into his back.

His body twitched violently and black ink escaped his mouth with a harsh cough. The pain was beginning to take hold, subtly unfurling throughout his whole body, forcing another hiss from his mouth.

A crunch of twigs.

The smell of cordite.

The white suited leader of the lawmen had moved to stand over him, his gaze as hard as steel and his eyes as sharp as ice. He spat and took off his spectacles carefully. Producing a cloth from his waistcoat pocket, a cloth as white as his suit, he cleaned the lenses with a delicate touch. All the while, Ben lay bleeding, the ink spreading across his chest.

The other lawman had opened up his revolver, letting the empty cartridges tumble to the earth and sliding in new ones to take their place. The muscles of his jaw were tight with anger and sorrow flickered faintly in the wrinkles of his face. Ben’s mind flashed with the image of the match burner, the one he had shot. Even with all the pain flaring throughout his being, he felt remorse for his actions, a deep kernel of emotion that throbbed deeply from within his chest.

Ben attempted to apologise, to say that he was just following the script, but as he opened his mouth, a fit of coughing stopped any words he might have said. More ink splattered across his chin.

The leader finally put his spectacles back on and with a professional calmness, he thumbed back the hammer of his pistol, the barrel moving towards Ben’s head. He started talking, but his monotone voice had become distant and far away, the sounds all melding into one. Ben breathed out slowly and his body convulsed.

Before the leader pulled the trigger, he mustered all his strength and managed to croak out one final sentence.

“This wasn’t in the script.”