Christopher Buehlman - Between Two Fires

“Just him,” the priest said, indicating Thomas.

“Yep. He looks strong, though you can’t always tell by that. We think it’s one in five gets through, as long as it’s the swelling kind. The blood coughers all die. The ones who turn black die, too. And quick.”

“We didn’t have any of those in my town.”

“Lucky you.”

“We’re starving. Can you help us?”

The woman scratched her chin, looking them over.

“Will you work for it?”

“God, yes.”

“What can you do?”

“He kills people. I read Latin. The little girl asks questions. And also reads Latin.”

“All right. The big one helps build the fence. You, too. And the girl mends nets. You give us a half day of work and we’ll feed you tonight. But then you’re on your way tomorrow. We don’t want to start liking you and have you up and die on us.”

“You’ve got a deal. Would you like me to say a Mass for you in the morning?”

“What, God-in-Heaven? The only thing I say to God is my daughters’ names. And it’s not a prayer. It’s a rebuke. We’ll thank you not to say any blessings at dinner.”

The work was hard, but good. Delphine learned the fine points of net mending from a little boy whose parents had died, and whose father, mad with fever, had tried to blind him with a hot poker so the boy wouldn’t catch the illness through his eyes. He managed to snuff only one eye before the boy, who was already infected, ran to his uncle’s house and carried it there. He awoke from his fevers to find himself alone in a dead-house. Nobody else would take him in, so he walked to Nemours. And then St. Lazarus.

The woman ate first, with her sons. Then they served the rest, measuring it out to the drop so all got the same portion.

“This is exceptional stew,” the priest said. “What’s in it?”

The woman told him.

Cabbage. Turnips. Mushrooms. Pork belly. And a few pinches of real pepper.

And at precisely that moment a sparrow in the tree above Thomas shat in his.

They slept in a threshing room that still smelled like last year’s barley, and in the morning they got back into the cart. The woman gave them a sack of blueberries and a squash to take with them, and told them there was a town three miles downriver with a wooden bridge still standing.

“What’s it’s name?” the priest asked.

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone’s dead. It’ll be all weeds in a year, except for the steeple. Oh, and if you see any yellow fruit in the trees, don’t eat it. It’s rotten.”

She laughed inscrutably at this, then slapped the mule’s ass to get it moving, showing them the callused palm of her hand in farewell as they clopped away.

The woods got thick again, and beneath the limbs of a very old oak tree they saw a flash of yellow. As they got closer, they saw that it was a cotehardie, saffron yellow, adorning the week-old, grinning corpse of a hanged squire; they all knew that cotehardie, and knew that its owner had once had pimples. There was a sign around his neck.

The priest shivered and crossed himself.

RAPIST

The first sign of the group they were following was their tracks. They had pocked the damp ground of the road with their footprints, as any large group walking would have; but every hundred yards or so they left an imprint where it seemed as though they had all fallen and pressed their bodies into the mud. Also, Thomas had noticed the white stumps of freshly snapped branches on trees near the road, with tracks leading up to those trees. When they got to the town of Ponchelvert, a strange sight greeted them.

Someone had crucified a dwarf.

He was still very much alive, however.

As the cart drew closer, they saw that he had been tied in place rather than nailed there, and his feet rested on a little platform, although he was wearing a crown of very real thorns. A ladder lay in the grass near him, as well as a bucket of water with a sponge on a long stick.

He did not speak to them as they approached, though he watched them the whole way. Père Matthieu stopped the mule and they all looked at him, dumbstruck.

He nodded at the bucket.

Delphine clambered out of the cart and soaked the sponge, which she then held up to his mouth. He lipped at the sponge in a way that made her think of a sheep.

“Do you want to come down?” she said.

He shook his head.

“Are you sworn to silence?”

“No,” he said. “They didn’t say anything about that.”

“They who?” said Thomas.

“The Penitents.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

He closed his eyes now, moving his lips silently in prayer.

“Pardon me,” Delphine said.

“What?”

“You should come down,” she said. “That can’t be good for you.”

“I have two days to go. I’m only on my first day, and each town is to crucify someone for three days. Don’t you know?”

“No,” she said.

“It’s the only way.”

“The only way for what?”

“If you’re going to make me talk, give me more water. My throat hurts.”

She dipped the sponge again and held it aloft for him.

“The only way to appease God. So He’ll take the pestilence away.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Very wicked towns are to crucify three people. But we were no better or worse than most.”

“Who decides how wicked your town is?” said Père Matthieu, fascinated.

“They do.”

“Were you out in the rain?” Delphine asked.

“They came after the rain. They came yesterday.”

“Do you have to stay out all night?” she said.

He tried to ignore her and return to his prayers, but she repeated her question.

“They come and take me down at night.”

“The Penitents?”

“No. The town. The Penitents are heading for Auxerre to perform a great miracle.”

“Come down,” she said.

He shook his head.

“Why you?”

“What?” he said again, clearly annoyed.

“Why did they pick you? Did you volunteer?”

“The town picks. They vote. It’s a big honor.”

Thomas laughed, and the dwarf gave him a dirty look.

“Are you sure they’re coming back for you?” Thomas said, still amused.

The dwarf went back to his prayers.

“DEUS meus, ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando, non solum poenas…”

“Because if it were me up there, I’d start thinking maybe the good people would leave me on the cross to make sure God was happy. Did you think of that?”

“…non solum poenas a Te iuste statutas promeritus sum, sed praesertim quia offendi…”

The girl looked at Thomas.

“I think you should take him down.”

“He clearly wants to stay there,” the priest said.

Thomas smiled. He knew the girl wanted to keep the man from harm; Thomas liked the idea less for that reason and more because he knew the dwarf would fuss about it, and he was glad to do something good that was also entertaining.

He didn’t expect the fight he got, though. As soon as he untied the dwarf’s feet, the small man started kicking at Thomas so hard he made the cross rock; it was all Thomas could do to keep the ladder upright, especially since he was laughing the whole time. Delphine furrowed her brow at Thomas’s attitude, and the priest paced restlessly, afraid one of them would be hurt.

Thomas had the dwarf over his shoulder and nearly down the ladder when his burden kicked against the side of the cross and tipped the ladder, spilling them both into the soggy grass.