The Twins of Noremway Parish (15 page)

James was uneasy about this. The man to whom they had just spoken was a bit too smooth, and certainly couldn’t be trusted, or so he figured. He wasn’t too sure about that, but the way Rita’s eyes had glazed over when he spoke told him that she was not in complete control. He couldn’t say for sure why he felt this way, but the lingering feeling in his gut said so; his wife was being manipulated.

The irony was that Rita, in her battles against witchcraft and sorcery, had been more than willing to make a deal with some sort of demon, some otherworldly master manipulator. “Rita, what evidence do you have? Just the say-so of some strange guy we’ve never seen before?”

“
He’s from Bassingway Parish, a place a lot better than here. Besides, you’ve seen the way they eyed each other. It’s obvious they are bedding. And that is a violation!”

“
Alright,” he backed down. Sometimes he felt like a tool. He just fell in line behind Rita with whatever the mission of the week was, or whatever tirade she had going at the time. He dared not call her out on any of it for fear that she would accuse him of bullying her. In fact, he was the one being bullied; she acted the part of the bully well.

They weren’t waiting long before the chancellor found them in front of his house, having arrived from the cathedral. He still looked quite pale, as if he was sick, perhaps dehydrated. Sweat beads crowded his forehead in a large cluster above his brow.

“
Rita, James,” he said and pulled a large cigar from his breast pocket. He chopped off the tip, lit it easily and took a deep drag off it. Color came back to his face. “What can I do you for, Rita? Is it this? That? Or tonight is it the other thing? You really make a mockery out of the whole system here, with your whining and griping, and who knows what else. What is it tonight?”

“
I will not be mocked, Chancellor.”

“
You make a mockery of yourself, Rita. If you can’t understand that, you are a fool. Now tell me what it is you want or carry on with your business.” He took another drag and blew it out slowly. He walked up to the house and stepped up onto the small portico in front of it, and sat in the large rocking chair near the door. With the smoke billowing openly into the air from the cigar between his index and middle fingers, he breathed deeply the fresh aroma of the night. “Never get tired of the night air after a good rain.” He then leaned back, placing his feet on the railing surrounding the portico, and closed his eyes, all while tugging hard on his long beard. The howl of wolves could be heard in the distance, but not the far distance. The sound likely came from roughly a quarter mile away. He smiled.

James could feel the heat rising through his face. The small beads of sweat from earlier had become large, flowing droplets. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his cloak and it came back soaked through. The wolf howls terrified him, and he had no idea why the chancellor was smiling at the sound. Was he just going to sit back and listen to the wolves invade the parish while he sat in the rocker smoking a cigar and tugging on his beard?

Rita swallowed deeply, holding back the anger she felt rising in her throat. As calmly as she possibly could, she said, “Chancellor, I have reason to think that Brother Decon had his way with Sister Teret in a…a familiar sense, if you know what I mean. He’s
known
her.”

The chancellor laughed, “Aye. Rita, you know I don’t deal in gossip, hearsay or any of that other nonsense you have a proclivity toward. Tell me, what’s your evidence?” This question was punctuated by another howl, this one a bit closer than before.

“
They are…well…they look at each other…”

“
Long ago, in a land far more ancient than the sand below your feet, there lived a king named Hammurabi. He had a set of laws–a code is what they called it. Did you know that this code detailed what exactly the punishment against the accused would be? Stealing would involve the removal of a hand, but if one were to falsely accuse someone of stealing, why, they would be put to death. Isn’t that interesting? It’s a curious law, wouldn’t you say? One aimed at treating dishonesty as a much larger offense than thievery? I’m looking at you right now, Rita. You’ll want to make sure you don’t go around spreading lies and rumors. I may not be Hammurabi, but I can be a bastard if you force my hand. I will lay down the law. Now, James,” he said addressing the Morgan patriarch, “keep your wife on a short leash for a while. We don’t want her getting into any trouble.”

James merely grunted an ambiguous response. He wanted to be able to tell Rita later that he wasn’t siding with the chancellor, even though more than anything, he wanted to be free of his wife’s constant campaigning against everything good. All he could think was
How did I get myself into this life?

***

When they left, Ghora Urey stayed on the portico, smoking the cigar, leaning back in the rocker with his feet on the railing, looking out into the night. The voices of those still out were fading as they found their way to the safety of their homes. He was not at all concerned with being out in the night–not tonight. He no longer feared the wolves.

It was a fact that was becoming clearer as the hours passed. He vaguely remembered the bite on his arm, and looking at the sleeve of his cloak, he could clearly see the torn fabric, but the skin beneath was as pure as the day he was born.

Yet he had felt the onset of the occasional fever over the course of the day: the fever, the cold sweat. As frightening as those symptoms had been, he now felt a love toward those mangy creatures. He felt one with them—a kinship that could never be broken. The thought of running through the cold night at a speed no human could ever achieve made him want to stand from his rocker, get on all fours, and sprint.

The howls seemed to be calling him, and as they grew closer, their meaning became clearer, almost as if they were speaking in a human tongue. In fact, as he would discover, the wolves were not howling in any other “tongue” than they were already disposed to doing, but he could now understand the subtle cadences involved. When they arrived at the chancellor’s house and observed him smoking the cigar, he felt like they were talking directly to him.

“
Come with us, Chancellor. We need you,
” the lead wolf said. There were three in this pack; all of them appeared well fed.

“
I would love to,
” he replied, but was surprised at the sound of his voice as a howl escaped his lips. He was speaking
their
language.

“
Run with us under the light of the moon.”

He stood and bent low to the ground until he was on all fours. He never felt the transformation take place, just as he was hardly aware of the fact that he was howling instead of speaking. It was all so normal.

The three wolves took off running into the dark, and behind them a new wolf, one with a majesty so profound that he could someday become a leader of the pack.

Chapter 9

That night, Plague saved Ortega Gool’s life with only minor surgery and, to his surprise, this was a fact he was somewhat sorry for. He was hoping to see Ortega’s insides completely destroyed by Franz’s arrow after that stunt he pulled outside the cathedral. With Rita Morgan to deal with, the last thing they needed was another miscreant stirring up trouble. Even so, this was even deeper. Pulling a revolver on the friar was just plain
evil
. In a way, he supposed, he should be thankful that the damage to this man’s innards was only superficial. If his actions determined the life or death of Ortega Gool, he couldn’t be sure he would have allowed the man to live. Could he be the executioner if he were put in that position? He didn’t know, but his motivation would surely have been less than ideal for saving his life. Would he live the rest his life in regret? Or would he have looked upon this moment as one of the best of his life? It was a moot point since whether the man lived or died would not be up to him. It was now the chancellor’s duty to determine guilt and punishment for the crime.

After resting for several hours, Ortega opened his eyes. “What happened?” he asked putting his hand to his bandaged chest.

“
An arrow through the back; it came out your chest. You’re lucky it didn’t kill you, just passed through muscle. You’re healthy enough to be shipped off to the jailhouse, and that will be where you’ll be staying until sentencing. Then I presume the gallows will be waiting. Makes you wonder what the point was in fixing you up since you’re going to die anyway, either by the gallows or banishment.” He wasn’t going to sugarcoat anything for this guy. Noremway Parish hadn’t executed or banished anyone in living memory so the possibility that Gool would be killed was doubtful, but that was a detail he was willing to ignore.

“
Jail? Why? Gallows?
Banishment?
No!”

“
You threatened the friar and parochial vicar
with a
revolver!
Why would you do that?”

Memories from the moment in question came back to him and he grabbed the doctor’s cloak. “That creature needs to die. It’s going to be the end of Noremway Parish! I know it. Please. It’s the devil.”

“
Please release my cloak, Ortega.”

“
Listen to me, Bart. Please!”

Franz Phoenix, hearing the commotion from just outside, charged into the room and smashed Ortega’s right arm with a club. The smack was loud. The crack was even louder as the two bones in his forearm shattered. “Ah! You broke my arm!” he cried.

“
What the hell did you do that for? Damn the inconvenience! Learn to control yourself, Sheriff. Now I’m going to have to make a cast for this walking dead man; it’s inconvenient
and
a waste of resources.”

Franz scoffed. “A cast? Ain’t going to happen, Doc. A cast on the arm could be used as a weapon. Prisoners of Noremway Parish are not allowed to carry anything that could be used as a weapon while incarcerated. Hold ‘em out,” he ordered Gool, unlatching the cuffs on his belt. He locked the manacles on Ortega’s wrists. He cried out as Franz pulled on his broken arm. “You’ll live. Get up.” He pushed him out of the room and out of the building.

The doctor stood beside the operating table. Laura was in the adjoining room. She walked in as soon as the sheriff and Gool were gone. “Is everyone going insane around here?” she asked, deadly serious. He had been wondering the same thing. Something was in the air, ever since Tomias and Lynn had died. For one, and most obvious–to him anyway–no one seemed all that broken up about the mayor’s death. They treated it like the death of a mere pet.
Anybody
else’s death would have precipitated a week of mourning. Tomias Waterman would have required it. Now that Tomias was the one who was dead, there was no one to enforce mourning.

“
The mayor’s death,” Plague said. “People aren’t sure what they’re supposed to do anymore.”

“
Excuse me?”

“
They knew where they stood with Tomias. Now that Chancellor Urey and Sheriff Phoenix are holding down the law, people aren’t sure what to do anymore.”

“
What about Brother Decon?”

“
He only has authority over religious things; he’s got nothing to do with the legal system.” Plague was amazed at his new understanding of the situation. People really had no idea where they stood with either the chancellor or the sheriff. The sheriff was a bastard, but the chancellor seemed an honest enough fellow; but with Tomias Waterman gone, who knew what would become of Ghora Urey?

There were rumors that he was giving away water to the caravan-folk in exchange for almost nothing—just token trinkets and mementos, nothing worth jeopardizing the parish’s water supply over, and definitely not worth dealing with those dangerous savages.

Plague cleaned Gool’s blood off his hands and removed his smock. Laura said, “I really miss Tomias and Lynn. They would know what to do.”

He gazed into the mirror above the washbasin and let the slow drip of water wash the blood off his hands. He was tired. The bags under his eyes were puffy and purple. He looked down at the blood washing down the drain as memories from the night before came back full force. Even though he’d been examining the twins earlier in the day, the curiousness of the circumstance finally hit him.

“
Bart, listen,” she said, coming up behind him and putting her arms around his waist. Plague closed his eyes and imagined Pamela, Nora’s mother, holding him. He turned around; eyes still closed, he breathed the scent of her hair deeply as he kissed the top of her head. “Bart—”

“
Hush, Pamela.” His eyes were still closed. A part of him knew that Pamela was gone, that the illness that took her life would never give her back—not in five years, and not in a million. She was never coming back.

“
Bart, you know I’m not Pamela. I can never replace her, and I never will, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be there for you like she was.” He opened his eyes slowly. Of course it was Laura standing there even though a part of his mind was sure Pamela would be standing in front of him, her long auburn hair shining in the lantern light. The shadows dancing across Laura’s face tricked him for a moment, just a brief moment, but enough to make his heart stop in his chest. “I’m so sorry, Laura. I just miss her so much.”

“
I know you do, Bart. Come on; let’s get out of this dreary place. You look exhausted.” They walked out together, a fact that saddened Laura, but one he didn’t care about. His mind was still on Pamela.