The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (23 page)

Thank you, very kind. Actually, this one is about empty, do you—Excellent, thank you, thank you.

No. No, oh, but were it thus! What I took to be a death rattle was instead a cry of triumph, for behind me a traveler on horseback
had ridden into the courtyard. Even as he retched atop his steed from the noxious mist billowing off her melting corpse the
faintest, deflating visage of the thing shot toward me but balked at my flaming stick and instead fell upon this new arrival.

Was he an emissary from a nearby town or brother monastery or a soldier returning from a campaign or a merchant bringing alms?
I know not, and I never even saw his face, but that awful night I heard him gag and scream as it slipped inside him, his horse
galloping away of its own accord with the unfortunate rider astride it. I knew it had escaped me, but I also knew His Purifying
Flame could be its undoing if only there were not other vulnerable victims to be had. Why did it not simply enter my body?
Was it my cane which had caught fire and barred its way, or my deep faith that it could not harm me? Had I some immunity of
a physical nature to its loathsome pox? I know little more now than I did then, except that my life has revolved around ferreting
out that demon and its vile kin wherever they spread their pest.

What’s that? Of course, of course. I re-donned my habit then and there and took the vows which I had so eagerly shirked before,
again He my only witness, and the only witness that matters. Unlike in my youth, these vows were meant with every fiber of
my soul, I wept and wept, my tears sizzling on her smoking remains, and swore I would earn my place by her side as well as
Hers in the eternal. I knew He wanted me to do more than even my order would allow, which is why I have become a priest instead
of a simple brother. I have spent every moment from that until this searching, searching, for any clue at all! These last
few years have actually been more fruitful if more perilous, for instances of the pest are far less common, guiding me ever
closer to the victory which it seems you have taken from me. Better, though, for if I had been there only He knows what jeopardy
I might have put my soul into, so deeply did I seek vengeance. And there were others between it and me, lesser powers, furry
worms hiding inside the demoniacs, and these I ruthlessly suppressed and drove back, but always that one, that powerful malignancy,
who prefers to receive rather than steal his steeds, meaning the man harboring it who I pursued through this range was either
necromancer or diabolist, warlock or murderer. At the least a heretic, at the very least.

I will not bore you with the struggles I went through in that fair city of Avignon, where lush trees and ornate towers rub
each other in grim parody of the state our beloved Church has fallen into. The Holy Office, that very institution meant to
hunt it out, admits that heresies exist but questions the legitimacy of witches and warlocks, some even doubting the corporeality
of demons! What folly is this? They tell me only women are susceptible, and the victim must always sin to let them enter.
They exchange winks and tell me demons reside in the bowels, not the humours, and application of the cross will banish them
and save the demoniac. Falsehoods implanted by the very evil we must uproot! We above all others are impressed with this deplorable
duty, and yet they do not listen to me, one of theirs who has faced one of Lucifer’s! But always, always, I remember her face
and the words she spoke before leaving my side forever: we
must
have faith. God
will
deliver us.

Father Martyn looked from Grossbart to Grossbart, then sighed, pulled his blankets around him, and prayed himself to sleep.
Hegel shook his head to dispel the story and left the beard-gnawing Manfried to first watch. Manfried worried the night away,
never thinking to wake Hegel until the light slowly returned, accompanied by fresh snow.

Shaking his brother before rousing the priest, Manfried noticed Hegel’s right hand appeared as swollen and leaky as his own
left hand—the places where their skin had touched the demon. The wounds seemed on the mend but Manfried mentioned the nasty
nature of the injuries to Hegel once he had ceased hacking up phlegm and shaking out the cold. Discussing this brought to
light a matter both had considered at length but were loath to address. They shifted their gaze from the sleeping priest to
the wagon.

“It’s gotta be done,” Manfried insisted.

“Thought you’d think so,” said Hegel.

“She’s got it, you want’er in there? Might a dodged it once, but dodgin it all the way to Venetia could prove more luck than
even Mary’ll dish our way,” Manfried argued.

“And if she got’em you’s ready to do the deed?”

“Do what I have to.”

“Thought you’d say that.”

“Dammit, Hegel, I’s wearyin a your implications. We’s pure, yeah? I reckon the cause a your distress is your own perverted
thoughts.”

Mistaking his brother’s silent recollection and the shuddering that accompanied it for acquiescence, Manfried settled back
down. “So we check’er.”

“Later, when we got a proper sun stead a that weak,” Hegel said, shrugging off the memory of Nicolette like the unwelcome
embrace of a drunken relative.

“Sooner the better.”

“Can’t see nuthin.”

“Wager I could feel’em, though.” Manfried wiggled his grimy fingers Hegel’s way. Hegel almost exploded but caught the mischievous
glint in Manfried’s eye.

“Now who’s harborin shit-stinkin thoughts?” Hegel laughed, and they returned to their Arabian musings. The priest eventually
awoke, forgetting his wound and yelping as he reached for a bowl of snowmelt. The Brothers and Martyn wasted little time after
that, and made to leave at once.

“Fore we set out,” Hegel told Martyn, “got us a passenger needs inspectin.”

“In the wagon?” Martyn rubbed his eyes.

“If you’s up to it.” Manfried spit, perturbed to be denied the task.

“You mean you’ve not checked him?” Martyn came fully awake.

“Seein’s she don’t speak, least not our way, we was waitin for an opportune opportunity,” Hegel sheepishly explained.

“She? Oh.” The curtains over Martyn’s eyes lifted. “I’ll do the examination, then. If she is poxed, are we up to the task?”

“Damn right.” Hegel looked at his brother.

“Yeah, we’s ready,” Manfried said with less conviction.

“Bless the both of you,” Martyn said, entering the wagon.

She scowled at Manfried when the priest closed the tarp behind him, and there followed a brief period of Martyn murmuring
to the woman inside the wagon. Then the priest burst out, pale and shaking. Hegel put his hand on his pick while Manfried
demanded answers.

“Yeah?”

“Clean enough.” Martyn licked his lips.

“What’s that?”

“Smooth. Er, her underarms are fine, and the other—”

“The other?”

“The other I did not see. But it felt—”

“Felt!”

“Yes. It felt fine as well. Of course I would have to
see
to be sure, but I don’t suppose—”

“No, you’d better not!”

“Manfried!” Hegel reprimanded. “Mind who you’s talkin with. All clear, Priest?”

“Clear as well water.” Martyn composed himself. “Smooth as down. Saint Roch has blessed her as much as us.”

“Then that’s us gone!” Hegel and Manfried helped Martyn up onto the bench.

“Kill a thousand saints for some meat,” Manfried said, rooting in his bag for the cheese.

“Brother!” Hegel gave him the stink-eye.

“There is no need to amend your typical discourse on my account.” Martyn smiled. “I know the difference twixt a turn of phrase
and a considered sin.”

“See?” Manfried tore into the wheel, Martyn hungrily eyeing the food. “Care for a taste?”

“Very much, please.”

“There you are, and some bread beside.” Manfried returned the stink-eye to Hegel. The priest gobbled his food, and when they
stopped a short time later to clear the road Manfried sloppily transferred some beer into a bottle and all three had a drink.
They surveyed the road ahead, the same sparse mountains and stunted trees buried by winter.

“My dear horse gave out not far from here, and I took of his body what I could carry,” said Martyn. “Perhaps the wolves have
left us some of what I could not.”

“Don’t wager on a dog leavin nuthin for a man,” Hegel said with the air of imparted wisdom.

“Well, Brothers.” Martyn looked back and forth, scrunched between the two. “Last night I shared my burdens, perhaps now you
might share yours?”

“Ain’t really got any,” said Manfried.

“Surely, we all have burdens, and in my experience the spiritual weigh heavier than those imposed on our physical backs. How
came you to find me on the road, and where are you going, and where have you been?”

“That’s Mary’s business more than ours, and certainly yours.” Manfried took another swig.

“Suit yourselves,” said Martyn. “But in the name of your salvation, you
will
tell me what transpired with the abomination you say you killed.”

“Not much to tell.” Hegel relieved his brother of the bottle. “Seen a demon, killed a demon.”

“Easy as that?”

“Easier.” Manfried snatched back the beer.

“Tell me. Please.”

“Right,” said Hegel, and gave a somewhat accurate account of their adventure in Rouseberg. Manfried chimed in only when he
deemed it necessary to censor his brother where sensitive matters involving graveyards were concerned.

“Incredible. But you say you laid hands upon the demon?”

“Yeah, when it was crawlin in Ennio’s craw. Slipped through, though.” Hegel had hoped this failure would not be scrutinized.
“Mecky fucker was tryin to get its touch on the whole time.”

“Legs busted off, leaked all on us. But we done our all for the poor foreign bastard.” Manfried frowned at the empty bottle.

“Let me see.” Martyn swallowed anxiously. “Let me see your skin, where you touched it.”

Shrugging in tandem, they each showed the palm scalded by the demon’s ichors. At first reluctant to touch them, Martyn began
prodding and squeezing, then leaned in and sniffed. He recoiled and waved their hands away.

“Despite the stench, they seem uninfected,” Martyn said nasally. “Avoid eating or drinking out of them until they return to
normal.”

“Why’s that?” asked Hegel, scratching his blistered scalp.

“Cause they been polluted by a demon, fathead.”

“Er, yes. It is amazing, though. As I told you, all who have touched the malignancy have become host to it, yet you two were
spared. Did you pray to Saint Roch?” At seeing their blank stare, Martyn explained, “Saint Roch is not yet, er,
officially
canonized, so your unfamiliarity is forgivable. I happen to possess one of his finger bones, to use as a weapon against Devil
and devils alike. You may not know him but he certainly watches over you! I have never met any who survived the pest without
invoking his name!”

“Til now!” Hegel tried to pass on his swagger through the reins to the brainless horses.

“Ain’t the first time, mightn’t be the last.” Manfried pushed the tarp aside and crawled into the wagon for more beer and
a surreptitious glimpse. Neither brother felt the need for saints, having been in Mary’s good graces from childhood.

“Eh? You mean you’ve seen such evil before?” Martyn twisted around to watch Manfried.

“He’s referrin to us catchin the pest when we was young, and givin better than we got,” Hegel explained.

“You mean you survived the Great Mortality?”

“With aplomb.” Manfried almost kicked the priest in regaining his seat.

“Amazing,” said Martyn.

“Miraculous is more like it.”

“Mind the company, Manfried.”

“No, Hegel,” Martyn said before Manfried could return fire, “it
is
miraculous. Not one man in a thousand survives the Great Mortality once it has taken hold. I have never personally witnessed
such a recovery but have heard tales. The Virgin has truly been merciful to you.”

“Couldn’t say it better, Friar.” Manfried chugged victoriously.

“Between weathering the pest and besting an agent of the Archfiend, you are truly soldiers of the Lord!”

“Soldiers a Mary, you mean,” Manfried corrected, and Hegel did not argue.

“Well, I suppose it could be seen as such.”

“Drink up, Martyn.” Manfried passed him the refilled bottle. “Now you’s heard our tale, nuthin left but to shrivel the time’s
best we fuckin can.”

“What is this
fuck
?” Martyn asked.

“What?” Hegel said.

“Who?” Manfried said.

“Fuck,” Martyn repeated, “fucking, fuck, fucker—the word you like so much. A slur?”

“Oh, the
word
fuck!” Manfried laughed. “Yeah, a slur, right enough. Village not too far from our birth-home’s called Fuckin.”

“Why did they name it after a slur?” asked Martyn.

“Oft have I mused the same question,” said Hegel.

“You have?” Manfried grinned at his brother’s folly. “Hardly surprisin. Nah, Martyn, it’s like this. Fuckin’s a town filled
with men what are assholes, but assholes so mecky it don’t serve to just call’em assholes or mecky assholes or even Maryless
mecky assholes, gotta get somethin stronger by way a differentiatin, to say nuthin a brevity. Hence, we call someone so mecky
they might’s well been from Fuckin a fucker or a fuckwit or anythin else related to bein from Fuckin. Yeah?”