Jesse Bullington - The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

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.