The Flesh Eaters (18 page)

“I see no need for that,” the Sheriff says. “The results are conclusive.”

“No need! There no need. Guilty! Guilty! No need.” Varney jumps up and down like a deranged ape.

Fairlie speaks in a most reasonable manner. “But if the results are conclusive, another test will merely confirm them. Is it not better to be doubly sure?”

The Sheriff considers. “I don’t know....” He is more interested in having breakfast.

“Then there can be no objection to a second trial,” Fairlie says firmly. He turns to the Bishop. “If the first trial was valid, the second will be as well, will it not?”

“Certainly.”

“Then what is the objection to testing Rob Varney?”

Rob Varney has several objections. “No need. I tell truth. He guilty. Guilty.”

Confused, the Bishop pulls at his chin. “It is most irregular, but put the way you put it, I can see no objection. Sheriff?”

“It seems queer to me, but if you think we should, Your Grace, I will do it.”

The discussion might have continued for some time, but Rob Varney resolves the issue by shrieking in panic and running away. The guards catch him and drag him back.

Varney is choked with fear. “No! No! No need. I tell the truth! Do not listen to him. He guilty! He bad. I tell the truth.”

Fairlie smiles. “Then you have nothing to fear. Is that not correct, Your Grace?”

The guards tie the rope around the shrieking Varney. When he is secure, the Sheriff says, “Rob Varney, you will now be tested by water. If you have told the truth, you need not worry.”

The struggling Varney is carried to the end of the pier. The rope is tied to a piling, and the screaming man is tossed into the water.

Varney sinks, but soon rises, spitting water as he yells for help. He sinks and rises again, still yelling. Then he swallows water, chokes, sinks again. A moment passes and the surface of the water becomes smooth.

The Sheriff looks at Fairlie. “You see? He was telling the truth. The pure water accepted him.”

Fairlie snorts. “That water, in all its purity, has killed two men today. I am not that impure. I have no lives on my conscience... unless it be that wretch who has just drowned. And I have difficulty in feeling any remorse for that.” He looks at the impassive faces about him. “You are content with your morning’s work?”

“The truth has been discovered according to the law,” the Sheriff says stiffly.

“God in His infinite wisdom has guided us. Let His will be done,” the Bishop answers.

Fairlie starts to say something, then realizes it would be pointless. He shivers. “I am cold. And I am tired of this. Let us be finished with it.”

To everyone’s surprise, he turns and walks away from the pond. The guards hurry after him, but it is obvious that he is not trying to escape. The Sheriff and the Bishop look at each other, then shrug and join the procession that

Fairlie leads back to town.

Fairlie dangles from the gallows in Market Square, scarcely recognizable now as something that was once human. His eyes, his lips, and bits of his face have been picked out by birds. Two crows are perched on his head, squabbling raucously as they continue to, de-flesh the skull.

The sight of a corpse hanging in the square is not uncommon, and few of the townspeople pay attention. Master Cutter, however, stands looking up at the gallows with an expression of disgust and contempt. Ashton joins him, but the sight of the dead man makes him queasy and he turns his eyes away.

“Perhaps our troubles are over now that the villain has been executed,” he says.

“Do you believe that?” Cutter gives a mirthless laugh.

Ashton blushes. “No, I suppose I do not. Do you?”

“The only thing this man was guilty of was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“The evidence was not exactly convincing,” Ashton ventures cautiously.

“Convincing! The only evidence was the word of some low-life thief who should have been hung years ago, and who bore a grudge against this man. But once again our illustrious Sheriff was in hot water and felt obliged to do something. Poor Fairlie just happened to be in the way. I would rather face those who are responsible for the disappearances than face the Sheriff when he is looking for a solution!”

“I no longer know what to think,” Ashton says weakly.

Cutter fixes him with a gimlet stare. “Well, I do. These strange disappearances have been going on for twenty years. Was Fairlie responsible for them—all that time? Or were any of the other ‘criminals’ the Sheriff has paraded before us? Not likely! Every few months the mystery is solved—until it starts again. I tell you”—Cutter pokes Ashton in the ribs with a bony finger—”between the Sheriff and who or whatever is making people disappear, this country will be a desert soon.”

Ashton shrugs, trying to shake off this threat of disaster. “Perhaps not, now that our good King James I has been released from England, to rule again here in Scotland.”

“It is better that he is here, of course, than held prisoner by the English, but he will be more concerned about affairs of state than about our problems. Anyway, what can he do for us?”

“He has an army, and I have heard that he is most distressed by reports of the chaos that grips this district. We were too long without a King.”

“Without a King—and possessed of a Sheriff. The combination is devastating. Do you know that things have reached such proportions that our problems and our Sheriff are now the subjects or mummers’ plays? They are performed at fairs, and we are held up to ridicule. We are the laughing stock of the country. But at the same time, only the most dire necessity will make someone come to our town. Inns are closing on our highways because of lack of trade. And perhaps because other innkeepers fear they will share Fairlie’s fate.”

“He is out of it now.”

Cutter looks up at the corpse. “Ha. That he is. He no longer has to worry about business being poor. A comforting thought, Ashton.”

II

In an open field near a crossroads, a large fair is in progress. Dozens of makeshift stalls are set up, and a multitude of wagons serve as stages and stands. From these, vendors sell a variety of goods, some useful, some frivolous.

Hundreds of people move about the fairgrounds. Most have arrived early and have already completed their business. Now they are free to roam the grounds, to spend their money and enjoy the strange and wonderful sights. There are many hilarious games and contests, and every type of person and costume is to be seen and marveled at—jugglers, clowns, dwarfs, even a trained bear.

A farmer and his wife move from stall to stall. She is a tall, plain woman whose pleasant features radiate a childlike enthusiasm; her eyes are bright as she points out interesting objects to her husband. He has the skeptical glance of a man who works hard and knows the value of things, but his eyes also shine at the sight of his wife bubbling with excitement over some trifle. His love for her is evident.

They walk by a baker’s stall decorated with brightly painted pictures of various birds.

“I have all manner of pies here—pigeon, partridge, pheasant. What is your pleasure?” the baker calls out. “The pigeon is the best you have ever tasted. The partridge is sheer ambrosia. And the pheasant—the pheasant!— words cannot describe its succulence! Which will you have? Two large pieces for a penny!” He holds out a large wedge of greasy pie, but the woman smiles in polite refusal.

The couple strolls on to a stall selling cloth and other items for dressmaking. The clothier holds up samples of his wares. “What would you like? I have the finest lace from Bruges”—he offers a yellowed piece, of cloth that looks as if it has been nibbled by rats—”the sheerest silk from France”—this is a muddy rag that may or may not be the fabric in question—”the richest brocade from Spain”—he holds out a hideous wine-colored material suffering from the pox—”and the softest wool from Britain. I have silver needles, I have beads from Italy...”

“Oh, Tom, look at these!” the wife says, pointing to the brightly colored beads.

“All the way from Venice,” the clothier states with perfect sincerity. “Glass, they are. Look at the way they catch the light. You’ll not find beads like this anywhere else in Scotland. Bought from a Moorish seaman. Because you appreciate them, I will make you a very low price.” He pauses significantly. “I am going almost to give them to you.”

“Tom, what do you think?”

“I think it is time to go on,” her husband decides. “Come along, old girl.”

She clicks her tongue in disappointment. “You’re right... they were pretty though,” she says as they move off.

“That they were. And maybe someday you shall have some. We have had a very good day today. I sold all that I brought here at a very good price. Next year should be even better. Why, before you know it, I am going to have you decked out like some great lady! You can have beads like that by the bushel.”

“That would be wonderful.” A smile lightens her face, and she presses his arm affectionately.

They join the crowd at the Pardoner’s wagon.

The Pardoner’s display is elaborate. There are crudely painted religious scenes, statues, and a number of curious objects in intricately carved and painted containers.

The Pardoner is thin with shiny, yellow hair that hangs down to his shoulders. His skin is smooth and soft, and it looks as though it has never known a razor. His high-pitched, pleasing voice carries a considerable distance.

“Come close, my children. Come close, my thweets.” He lisps somewhat, “I have good tidings for you, and wondrous things. I come direct from Rome, where His Holiness the Pope has authorized me to dispense indulgences to you.

“It is indeed fortunate that we are met today. Fortunate for me, because I delight in bringing joy. Fortunate for you, because I am empowered to grant indulgences that will shorten the time you must spend in purgatory before the gates of heaven open for you to join Christ, our Redeemer and our Savior.”

With one hand on his hip, the Pardoner waggles a cautionary finger. “Listen to me closely, because I will pass this way only once. I have many places to visit before my mission is completed. Beware of pardoners who are false, who do not have the authority of Rome. I can prove I am true. Look!” He holds up a dirty bit of muslin rag. “A piece of the handkerchief the blessed St. Veronica gave to our Savior on the road to Golgotha.” He holds up a dented goblet. “Look! The cup from which St. Peter drank at the Last Supper.” He opens a container and reveals what could be part of the axle of his wagon. “Most wondrous of all! A fragment of the True Cross upon which our Savior died for our sins! Look upon these miraculous relics, and you will know that I am a true pardoner, sent from Rome to help you in the next life.

“For a small fee, I will grant you an indulgence. It is a very small fee when you consider the centuries in purgatory that you will be spared. My good friends, I can save you hundreds—nay, thousands!—of years that stand between you and Paradise.” He makes an extravagant motion with his arm, as though he were pushing open the Heavenly Gates. “And for a small additional token, you may touch the relic of your choice and absorb the holy power it contains.”

Tom and his wife move away. “Should we not listen further?” she asks. “He was talking about reaching heaven sooner.”

“If we take care of ourselves in this life, and do our best, we can trust God to look after us in the next—without assistance from the likes of him.”

They walk briskly through the fairgrounds, but stop when they hear the discordant clamor of bells chiming, gongs ringing, drums beating. The sounds come from a large wagon that has been set up as a stage for a troupe of actors, who are playing the various instruments to attract attention. One actor is beckoning people to come closer.

The woman asks her husband if they can stay to watch, and though he is anxious to be off, he lets her have her way. They join the crowd before the stage.

The actor who has been beckoning is still prancing about. Like the others of the troupe, he wears an outlandish costume, the most striking feature of which is an enormous stuffed codpiece that hangs nearly to his knees. This he twirls occasionally, in a lewd but comic fashion.

Now the actor begins the actual performance. His address is accompanied by much eye-rolling and grimacing, but the audience hangs on every word.

“Gather round, good people, and you shall see

The most frightening story in history.

It will open your eyes and rattle your teeth,

And you will say it is beyond belief.

But pay attention to what I am telling you—

Every word of this story is totally true.

So move up close and you shall be told

About the terrible monster of the Coast Road”

The last line is accompanied by such a fearsome grimace that the audience gasps. Now the actor disappears behind the painted curtain, and another actor steps out. He indicates that he is walking along a road in a happy, carefree manner. He rubs his stomach to show that he is hungry. From the pack on his shoulder, he takes a large carrot and begins to eat it. As he chews contentedly, the monster, a man wearing a grotesque mask, appears from behind the backdrop. The audience squeals with delight. Despite the shrieks from the crowd, the actor continues to eat his carrot, unaware of the danger.