The not-immortal Blacksmith

October 31, 1903

He looked up into the eyes of his young son, and smiled. “Remember, Maxwell, if you ever go to war, remember, be on the right side of history.” He coughed. The consumption would take him tonight. He knew it, and smiled. I hope I have made amends enough. He turned his head, coughed again, looking at the collar, the rosary, and the cloak of his office that hung on the wall next to his bed.

“And son, I will be with you, always.” A coughing fit took him again, and he slept.

At midnight, under a full moon, Tristan Abernathy, hero of the south, Hero of another world, husband and father, breathed his last.

*-*-*

1914, Fall

His trench had fallen. Maxwell Abernathy kissed the locket chained around his neck that contained the the picture of his pregnant wife. He looked at his rifle, ammunition expended, at his fallen comrades, and he awaited his death. As the Storm-trooper crested the top of his trench, he felt a weight at his side, and looked down.

A gun belt from the Civil War, was strapped around him. In it were a pair of revolvers. He withdrew the one on his right and stared at the black, light devouring, metal in his hand. The Colt Army Model 1860 seemed to look back at him, and laugh.

He looked at the Storm-trooper in front of him, cocked the hammer, just as his father had shown him, with this exact gun, and fired.

*-*-*

The sniper of the Canadian Expeditionary Force silently stepped into the trench that had fallen to the enemy, in search of more German uniform parts for his collection. He stopped and stared at the sight before him. He had expected a quiet trench of Germans, looking around, maybe scavenging food or sundries. What he saw stopped him cold. If an artillery shell had struck...no, two or three shells had struck, together, it would account for the carnage, and parts of bodies... but not for the acid like burns or limbs that were severed and cauterized, that decorated the hell that lay before him.

In the center of it all, lay the corpse of a man, gripping a pair of old fashioned revolvers. As he approached the body, he stared as the revolvers dissolved before him.

In the silence of the night, he buried the man in the bottom of the trench. He touched nothing else. I pray his afterlife is better than this place, the sniper thought as he left the trench as quietly as he had entered. Echoing in his ears, a quiet voice repeated Victory or death. Either is fine.

*-*-*

June 28th, 1927

Arkansas

Junior looked over the lunch table at his mother, “ Mother, why do we not have share croppers on our land?”

“Because your Grandfather forbade it. His will was very adamant on the point. '...No slavery will EVER be allowed on My Land. Nothing even remotely related to slavery is to be permitted...' Your father was also very clear on the concept as well.” Mrs. Abernathy said.

“But Jamie at church said that we were loosing a fortune by actually employing niggers to farm---”

Mrs Abernathy slapped him from across the table. “If you EVER use that word again, I will put you over my knee and spank you until you see next week.”

*-*-*

June 6th, 1944

Normandy

He sat bleeding behind a rock; his M1 rifle lay empty on the sand next to him. In the moments of quiet between the mortars and artillery, he could hear the cries of pain around him, and the death rattles. He thought of his wife, Annabel, and his children, Maxwell the 3rd and Laura. I wish I had a picture of them...I wish I could do something.

Like a mirage come to life, an old lever action rifle appeared before him, leaning against the rock as pretty as a picture. He lifted it, aimed it at the cliff that overlooked the beach, and started to fire. And in the back of his mind a phrase was repeating: Victory or Death. Either is Fine.

*-*-*

August 23rd, 1944

Arkansas

A letter. It had come at last. Delivered by a man in service clothes, and accompanied by a pair of dog tags.

Dear Mrs. Abernathy,

We regret to inform you of the death...

She fell to the floor, and wept.

At the top of the stairs, little Max held his sister, and cried.

*-*-*

Arkansas, 1952

Maxwell Tristan Abernathy the 3rd, stood at the top of the stairs of the family mansion. He had heard a noise. His mother was at the cinema tonight, so it wasn't her. His little sister was sleeping, he had checked.

His eyes roamed the first floor from his vantage point. He heard the sound again, a scratching noise. It was coming from under the stairway! He scooted over a few feet so he could get a better view. More scratching, then a door that hadn't opened for most of a century creaked open, exposing a man. No not a man, a something. Light from the half full moon fell through the cloudy sky and illuminated a creature. A thing of nightmares, all claws and teeth, and leathery arms and wings. Maxwell gasped, and the thing looked up. Large round eyes, glowing an unhealthy green, with horizontal slits for pupils skewered his guts. He squeaked.

Dear God. Anything. I would give anything! HELP! His mind screamed, as the thing started to ascend the stairs.

Something heavy, and cold, appeared in his left hand. Something that seemed to drink the light. He pointed the ancient revolver at the thing, cocked the hammer and fired.

*-*-*

The next morning he jerked awake in bed. He sat up, Okay, it was just a bad dream. Then he looked at his nightstand, and saw the revolver. Oh. Shit. He got up and went looking for answers.