Before nightfall on the sabbath, the infamous hunter called Roland Marshall was smuggled into the Church without anyone noticing. This was critical in order for the task to be completed. While no information of his quarry was provided to him, the aging hunter came with one hand firmly on his weapon. If Roland Marshall was to be charged for burglary, theft, or poaching, then the man responsible would learn to regret this. But upon being pushed through the passageway, there is only the clergyman awaiting him. Whatever these people were hunting, it was clearly beyond their ability to handle. Of course, this leads to unconventional methods like hiring a monster hunter.
While the clergyman refuses to introduce himself, he gestures to a wooden chair provided for their meeting in advance. Clearly, these people assumed that by keeping him disoriented, it might make him easier to handle. If only they understood. “Forgive me, Mister Marshall, but certain precautions were necessary for your arrival. You may call me Reverend Hawthorn, if you still respect the traditions of our Church.”
Rather than choosing to answer this unspoken question, Roland Marshall glances about the Church itself. With the Church now a relic of older times, the aging wood still creaks and moans, with the pale moonlight bleeding through the stained-glass windows. “Luckily for your Church tonight, I’m in a forgiving mood. Otherwise, I might consider such elaborate methods to constitute a kidnapping.”
“To business, then, Mister Marshall. Since our last lunar cycle, we estimate that nearly a dozen men, women, and a single child have fallen prey to it.. Traps, baiting, and armed soldiers have failed against the beast who stalks our Parrish.” Barely a man of thirty, Samuel Hawthorn now bears the weight of countless unseen decades. Beneath those sunken gray eyes, the clergyman still possessed a keen intellect. But even Reverend Hawthorne understands that this reign of terror will only reach its conclusion when the unholy beast is mounted on the wall.
Without breaking eye contact, the silent mercenary leans in closer. “And I assume you know which unholy beast is responsible, Reverend Hawthorne. After all, why debase yourself by summoning me here.”
From that cold glare alone, Reverend Hawthorne knew where this would lead. Though discretion is a requirement, to introduce this mercenary into civilization is a decision he would learn to regret. But without Roland Marshall, that unholy beast will continue preying upon women and children alike. “Pride is the death of us all, Roland. Surely your many years in the trade have taught you that much.”
“Not particularly. But if it pays well, I’ll forgo the pride.” Known throughout the English countryside after the Great War, the reclusive Roland Marshall prized himself on his ability to track down and kill creatures of unknown origins. But the aging hunter is not spoken about in polite society. For that reason alone, Roland thrived outside the constraints of modern civilization, clothing himself in the rich furs of the animals he had killed.
After close to a decade serving the Parrish, Reverend Hawthorn was now helpless. Given access to resources, perhaps Roland Marshall could track this unholy beast down and kill it within the week. “I expect nothing less from you, Roland.”
“As always, Reverend, your divine judgment is a gift to us all.” With that insult, Roland tips his fur-tipped hat. While the clothing is self-made, neither Reverend Hawthorne nor anyone else present had seen such a beast.
Having devoted the entirety of adulthood to the Church, Reverend Hawthorn refuses to let this insult pass unchallenged. But there is nothing for him to do. For without the services of Roland Marshall, that unholy beast would never stop. “While I respect your skillset, that lack of respect for the Divine proves disconcerting.”
Nonetheless, the aging hunter respects nothing and no one. Perhaps this is why he preferred life in the woods, unconfined by the modern ways. “Which is why I prefer the wilderness, Reverend, and leave civilization in your more than capable hands. Now, where did this unholy beast of yours strike first?”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Only a kilometer from here, you’ll find the remains of our earliest sighting. One summer evening, a grandfather and his son went deep into the woods. Probably hunting whatever they could find out there. But this unholy beast managed to find them first.”
“How curious,” Roland muttered. But whatever conclusions the hunter had reached, he kept them firmly to himself. “Could they have stumbled upon its den? Or antagonized the animal in any way, shape, or form?
“It almost sounds like you sympathize with this monster, Mister Marshall. While I admire your dedication to the natural world, I can assure there is nothing natural about this beast. The constable remains convinced that the killer is at large.” Still haunted from memories of the aftermath, Reverend Hawthorn produces photographs from his desk. Upon glancing over at Roland, Hawthorn notes that furrowed brow, the way those cerulean-tinged eyes flicker across each photograph. With one photograph, there is a brief recognition. There is a history here between man and monster that could not be placed.
Now lighting his pipe, Roland studies the pictures with a cool dedication. Once satisfied, he glances back at the Reverend, determined to extract more answers. “And tell me, Reverend, what do you believe?
“Well, Roland, I believe that there are forces outside this world seeking dominion over the soul of every man, woman, and child.” With those cold gray eyes, Reverend Hawthorn projected a commanding presence. But this sermon is hardly convincing enough for the still aging hunter studying him.
“I understand that you are an educated man, Reverend Hawthorn, unlike the majority of this community.” Despite that rugged appearance, Roland Marshall understood more than he pretended. Those cerulean-tinged eyes study the Reverend in front of him, searching for vulnerabilities. “From the moment I laid eyes on you, I imagined a learned gentleman rather than someone bound by superstitions. So, tell me, Hawthorn, what do you think caused this unholy beast to set upon your Parrish?”
But Reverend Hawthorn is unwilling to challenge those preconceived beliefs. Still a fiercely pious man, there is no escaping his judgment. Neither would the aging hunter threaten his composure. “Those answers are not found on Earth. You see, the Divine tests us on occasion, seeing if we will stray from the path. Like the parable of Job before us, perhaps we are at the mercy of the Divine itself.”
“Surely you don’t believe that, Reverend?” Now overcome by curiosity, Roland Marshall stubs his pipe out. Nonetheless, the truth is hardly forthcoming. For as long as Reverend Hawthorn remains in charge, the world outside the Church remains unaware. It is only a matter of time before the unholy beast breaks that illusion.
The Reverend is aware of this conclusion. No longer considered to be a simple servant of the Church, Reverend Hawthorn speaks softly, gauging how each word lands. “Perhaps not. But if the people no longer believe that the Divine provides safety and security, of what use are we who are considered its servants?”
“You never struck me as a cynic, Hawthorn.” Maybe in another lifetime entirely, Samuel Hawthorn possessed a charitable spirit. Still, almost a decade of service had ground his constitution into rubble.
Even while living in this humbled state, Reverend Hawthorn held a quiet dignity. Whatever secrets churned under the surface remained a mystery. Whether this dignified presence would survive the hunt is another matter entirely. “Perhaps not. But I am a realist, which is why I urge that this unholy beast be dispatched with haste and discretion.”
“Of course, Reverend. Though in order to complete this task quietly, I would require accommodations on site, a map of known sightings, and a guide, in order to properly navigate the countryside.” This is only the cost of doing business. There would be time for further extortion later on. Besides, if the Church was willing to kidnap him, then it could certainly pay now that he was free. “Naturally, I would require a fee of five hundred pounds, with half delivered now, and half when the unholy beast can be mounted.”
Reverend Hawthorn carefully weighs this proposal. Without other options for him to pursue, the choice is clear. Still, if the unholy beast cannot be slaughtered within the week, perhaps the consequences will be dire. “Your price for services rendered is steep, Mister Marshall. But if you were to provide your absolute discretion in this matter, that can be arranged. I suggest you get some sleep. When morning arrives, you will be provided further details on where the hunt will begin.”