Jesse Bullington - The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

“What’s your name?” Hegel gasped, desperate to know before he lost himself. He knew something important was brewing and somehow he had to find out before the end. “Please?”

“Call me Mary.” She grinned, popping his index finger back into her mouth as she ground against him.

Hegel spent himself quickly but she kept moving after he had stopped, and before he could protest or lose his firmness his prune-skinned paramour utilized tactics that would make the most weathered whore in the Holy Roman Empire scratch her head in wonder, and soon she reached another occasion. Freshly invigorated, Hegel would not let her rest and greedily set to bouncing her again. Eyes locked on a fetching little liver spot just beneath the folds of her jowly neck, Hegel had no way of anticipating how suddenly the potion would fade and his old convictions would return.

He pulled her closer, their tongues intertwining up until the climactic moment. Then she broke the kiss, a cord of saliva bridging their panting mouths, and his perception of the heavenly Mary vanished, replaced with an odious witch.

Withered breasts swaying pendulously, her tongue flicked over her few teeth and severed their drool-bond. He shriveled even as he came inside her cold clamminess, screaming in terror at the realization he had been bewitched and wrenching away from her headfirst into the tipped table. He blacked out and vomited simultaneously, her cruel laughter following him into nightmares that stood no chance of besting his first sexual encounter.

Hegel kept consciousness at bay as best he could but eventually the room came back into focus. Sitting up, he spied the hag crouched over his brother, and getting to his feet, he silently drew his sword. Witch, he thought, witch, witch, witch.

Without turning she said, “He’ll die awful soon if I don’t finish my work.”

Teeth gritted, Hegel closed his eyes and did not move for a long time. Finally he snapped, “If he’s not fit awful soon I’ll open you up.”

“Fair’s fair.”

“You’s a witch.”

“Perceptive.”

“Devil worshipper.”

She turned, a rust-colored needle in hand. “Not what you called me earlier.”

“You tricked me.”

“You agreed to the price, Grossbart. From the goodness of my soul I fixed it sweet for you, so you had as fine a time as I, and now you’re acting a right child.” She batted her eyes at him.

“Witch.”

“Got some quim-juice drying in your womb-broom.” She motioned to his beard.

“Witch!”

“Oh, horse apples. You’re no monk yourself, lover.”

“Call me that again and all a us’ll be in Hell fore this night’s out.”

“Tempting, tempting. Now put that thing away, you insatiable letch.” She went back to stitching Manfried.

Hegel felt the draft on his nether regions and, blushing, sheathed both of his tools. He collapsed into the chair, his stomach contorting painfully from her words and his memory. Blinking at the window, he realized daylight had come and the snow had departed. He stood and went outside to loosen up his stomach.

Coming in after doing his business, he joined the witch at his brother’s side. Manfried breathed easier, and his brow felt neither scalding nor frigid to the touch. She had cropped most of his right ear, the severed, blackened pieces drying on the hearth. Poultices were bound to his leg and ear, and his chest rose and fell rhythmically.

“That all needs doin?” Hegel asked.

“You took longer than he, but the beard should cover any scars.”

“Eh?” Hegel touched his face, surprised to feel the crust of some ointment smeared on his wounded cheek and underneath that the bumps of stitches. The whole side of his face was numb and, continuing his inspection, he felt ointment on his dog-bitten ear and scalp, and more stitches on his manticore-clawed arm and hound-gnawed leg.

“When did you do all that, then?”

“Last night. Had to open up the old bite on your ankle and get the nasty out, would’ve turned in another week and rotted off.”

“Eh,” Hegel said in lieu of thanks. He was not going to thank that witch for nothing. “Simple as that, then? Sew us up like we was ripped tunics? What kind a witchery’s this?”

“Hegel,” Manfried groaned in his sleep, slapping the floor.

“Right here, brother,” Hegel said, forgetting his line of questioning.

Manfried opened one bloodshot eye and grabbed his brother’s hand. “Manticore,” he hissed, and passed out again.

“What’s that he said?” the witch asked from behind Hegel.

“Never you mind.”

“Fair’s fair. Eat some of this.” She set a bowl of stew beside Hegel.

“Ain’t eatin nuthin you’s touched, witch. Probably poison.”

“Hush. You’ve already et the foulest thing in this house.” She cackled and sat down in the chair.

Hegel reluctantly devoured the food. Between mouthfuls he would glance from witch to Manfried and back again. Finally he asked, “How long til he can get up?”

“My ways are better than a barber’s, as I’ve told you. He should be fit by tomorrow, and if not, then the next.”

“Eh.” Hegel did not relish spending another moment in her company, let alone another night. The day passed excruciatingly slowly, and with darkness the snow returned. He went out to the side of the shack and fetched enough wood to replenish the pile, and at one point Manfried sat up, guzzled four bowls of stew, and promptly went back to sleep without a word.

“Fancy something sweet to warm yourself?” the witch asked coyly, night settling onto the mountains.

“Shut that loaded trap fore I spring it,” Hegel retorted, trying to bully her into silence.

“Oh, I see how your dirty mind works. No, no, sorry dear, no more of that for you. Got me all tuckered and puckered.”

“I said-” but he saw the bottle she offered and suspended judgment for the briefest of intervals. He sniffed the mouth suspiciously, relief and joy coursing through him as the familiar scent of mead wafted out. “Better not have mixed none a that other in here, or I’ll cut off your head and burn it, witch.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Drink.”

Crossing himself, Hegel took a small pull, then a larger one. It tasted slightly stronger than other honey brews he had sampled and he greedily drank more. Out of a sense of fairness he pinched Manfried’s nose and poured a bit down his brother’s throat. That the ill Grossbart did not gag from this liquid intrusion is testament to his quality. Hegel pretended not to notice the witch staring at him but his nerves would not let him relax.

“What?” Hegel eventually snarled, trying his damnedest to be intimidating.

“If I tell you something, will you give your word to keep sword in place?”

“Ain’t promisin you nuthin.”

“Very well.”

Time wore on, and the more Hegel drank the more his curiosity gnawed at him like a rat at a grain sack. He fidgeted and scratched. He checked on his brother until Manfried managed a few obscenities and clumsily struck at him. He went out and pissed, stared at the snow, and came back inside to fidget some more. Eventually:

“What are you on bout, then?”

“You’ll keep your hands to yourself?”

“Only if you do the same,” Hegel snorted.

“Fair’s fair. Your word, then?”

After a small pause, “My word.”

The witch began talking and did not stop for what seemed ages. Hegel settled in by the fire, pleased the witch had abandoned her foul innuendos for the time. The warm, well-fed, and drunk graverobber listened to her tale, perking up at times, at others nearly dozing. Manfried stirred occasionally, catching enough with his good ear to color his dreams.