Christopher Buehlman - Between Two Fires

When Giles the armorer suggested that these bones might be put into broth, the monks knew they would get nowhere appealing to the better natures of the Auxerrois, and the candles were surrendered.

Rutger beat his drum, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

The Penitents, having handed their candles off to the people, bloodied themselves with their whips and branches in time to the rhythm, ending in an orgiastic frenzy that actually sprayed droplets into the crowd. The madness spread from the flagellants to the townsfolk; many cried out or swayed, and some were moved to begin striking themselves or one another.

“More!” shouted Rutger, and the blond boy echoed him, crying, “More!” His openmouthed grin might have been the same if he were sledding down a steep hill.

Some in the crowd punched each other.

Then the biting began, and the scratching.

One who held a candle held it to his face, lighting his beard, then slapping it out with a hoarse scream.

At the crescendo, Jules cut his little finger off with his own knife, shocking Emma, who stood near him openmouthed.

Rutger saw this and smiled for the first time, showing his crooked teeth.

“Yes!” Rutger said. “ Und zo! It is enough!”

He beat the drum one time hard.

The crowd’s violence ebbed, and they edged closer.

Now he pointed at his acolytes, the four men and women who had given the call and response.

They took their evil, hooked whips and stood near the dead.

Rutger banged the drum.

“Death, where is your power?” he asked.

“Gone!” responded the eight, whipping the dead ones.

With each question, he banged the drum.

With each response, the dead were scourged.

With this last stroke, the body of Yvette Michonneau jerked.

The crowd gasped.

Now all of the dead spasmed when struck. Some at the edges of the crowd ran away, but others leaned in, eyes wide. The last slice of sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky lavender and pink.

Yvette stood in her shroud. A stain spread from where her mouth was. A woman screamed while a few men cheered, and more ran.

The once-pretty barmaid stood, her blackened face searching the crowd, bewildered.

After three savage whip blows, Richard unbent his legs and rolled over on his stomach. He lacked the strength in his limbs to stand unaided, so the acolytes helped him. He swayed there, his simple cap still tied below his chin, moving his ruined jaw as if to speak, but nothing came out. Another half dozen broke and ran, including two shirtless Penitents who had come from the last town.

“When these sisters and this brother are strong enough, I will send them to find the unbelievers who ran from this holy place. They are very good at finding. And all of you who march with me shall be proof against the plague; for if you die, I will make you live again, as you have seen with your own eyes.”

Emma, who had been watching all of this as if in a dream, moved forward shouting, “No!”

Rutger saw her, and said, “This woman fears her husband, even as Lazarus was feared. But her man will heal and love her once more. All these departed shall be restored to health. If you believe.”

“This is wrong!” Emma shouted, pointing her cane. And then, pathetically, “Leave him alone.”

“Wrong? How can this be wrong when it comes from the Lord?”

“It is only for Christ to raise the dead. And I do not think you are Him.”

“Are you sure? There is no middle place, you know. You had better be sure.”

“If you’re a man of God,” Emma said, “pray the Pater Noster .”

Rutger smiled and wagged his finger at her, as if she were a naughty child.

“Lord,” Rutger said, “if this woman’s disbelief displeases you, show us some sign.”

The boy threw the stub of a carrot at her, hitting her dress.

The crowd gasped.

Everyone was looking at her, many with their mouths open in disbelief.

She looked at her arms and saw why.

She had turned yellow.

Now a voice from the crowd spoke up.

“Stop it!”

A young girl in a dirty gown stood near the front of the crowd, holding a blanket around her.

“STOP IT!” she shrieked. The people of Auxerre parted to let her through. All of the Penitents, even Rutger, were dumbstruck at the sight of her, and nobody stopped her as she went to poor old Richard and kissed his hand.

As soon as she did, he collapsed and returned to death.

“No!” Rutger shouted.

The boy ran over to her, shouting madly, “Was tust du?! Was tust du?” She ignored his words and shouldered him aside, now kissing the hand of the wine maiden, who also gratefully crumbled.

Now the boy pushed her from behind, but instead of falling, she let the momentum carry her forward toward Yvette, whose hands were still bound in the shroud. The girl knelt and kissed one of her bare feet, causing her, too, to fall.

The boy spun the girl around.

“WAS TUST DU, HEXE!?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking at him, even through him, with her sad, luminous gray eyes, “It’s not your fault. But you’re dead, too.”

She kissed the beautiful boy on the cheek and he exhaled in a long rasp, and did not inhale again. Rather, he turned back to the plague-spotted dead boy he had been when Rutger found him, and fell as if exhausted into Delphine’s arms. She laid him down and gently closed his eyes.

Now two of the Penitents grabbed Delphine’s arms brutally, shouting, “Witch! Witch!”

“Let go of her!” shouted a woman.

“No! She is a witch!” a man screamed, and soon the crowd was pushing and tearing at itself, some trying to get at the girl, some trying to protect her. She was slapped sharply, and her hair was yanked so hard it hurt her neck. The acolytes who held her pulled her back, looking at Rutger for leadership, but he was oblivious to them, staring at the girl as if he might stare through her skin and see what she was.

The crowd had become a mob.

Those who saw the girl as wicked had overpowered the others and now surged toward the acolytes, who threw her to them and ran.

The crowd grabbed her roughly, tearing her blanket from her and using it to bind her arms to her sides. She knew she was too weak to fight them; she wished Thomas were here, then blinked that wish away, knowing he would die for her and still the mob would have her.

They lifted her up above them, and she was sure they would dash her head against some wall; it seemed they were all shouting at once. She let her body go limp, trying to see it from outside herself. If she must die, she would neither cry nor cry out—it was all she could do, so she focused on that. She would die bravely.

Rutger was walking closer, still staring at her.

What are you?

“Throw her in the Yonne!” one shouted.

“Yes! And with a stone around her neck!”

They had started moving in that direction, toward one of the dark little streets that led steeply downhill and to the river, but they did not leave the square with her.