Jesse Bullington - The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

Nothing could dampen their souls at the first sight of something other than the boundless succession of snowy rocks that had enclosed the Brothers for weeks. They dipped through forested valleys and over grassy meadows, and had they been the frivolous sort songs would surely have been sung; instead they talked of honor, faith, and the gift of prophecy. Had Martyn not shared the bread, he would have thought them heretics of the worst sort.

“Further proof? What further proof you need?” asked Hegel, amazed his sanctimonious brother doubted the truth.

“Could be somethin else, devilry or spells,” grumbled Manfried. The idea that his licentious hallucinations might come to pass bothered him in all sorts of ways.

“That is possible,” admitted Martyn. “The Deceiver might well have given us such visions for the express purpose of fooling us into thinking we were touched by the divine.”

“But could even he impersonate Mary so well?” demanded Hegel. “I seen Her Face and heard Her Council. Why would the Devil take Her Guise only to tell me I was servin Her proper? Wouldn’t he rather I changed my ways?”

“Witchery can make you see all kinds a niceness ain’t really present,” said Manfried, unconsciously grinding salt into his brother’s spiritual wounds.

“But Hegel’s point is valid,” Martyn insisted. “Why would the Devil urge us to be truer of faith?”

“That’s just what I was sayin,” Manfried countered, “bout askin too many questions.”

“Exactly! Take it on faith’s what you’s always sayin, brother.”

“Yeah, and I’ll take them horrors on faith as proof a evil spite and nuthin more.”

“Manfried, if the Lord wanted us to know without questioning there would be no faith,” said Martyn.

“Priest-”

“Father Martyn, please.”

“Martyn-”

“ Father Martyn.”

“ Priest Martyn,” the annoyed Manfried continued, “questionin is fine and good so long as one keeps it all in perspective. Got nuthin to gain, spiritual or other, by assumin we was blessed with sights from Heaven.”

“True enough,” Martyn confessed.

“But Manfried.” Hegel tugged his beard nervously. “There’s some other, er, proof.”

“You best not be talkin bout what I suspect.”

“Yeah, you’s probably right.” Hegel felt relieved not to address it after all.

“What’s this? Come now, Hegel, I am a priest, there is no fear to speak your mind.”

“I-” started Hegel.

“Don’t.” Manfried scowled.

“Oh, shove it.” Hegel scowled right back. “He ain’t gonna put me on a pyre for tellin the truth bout somethin ain’t my fault to begin with.”

“Never know.” Manfried glowered at Martyn.

“Oh, come now,” said Martyn. “Think of me as a confessor if you must.”

“Nah.” Hegel soured. “I ain’t confessin nuthin cause I ain’t done nuthin wrong.”

“Surely you’ve not been corrupted by the Beghards?” Martyn grew distressed.

“Ain’t let no beggars touch us!” Manfried again considered putting Martyn off the wagon.

“No, no,” said Martyn. “A group of heretics calling themselves Beg hards have been spreading heresy to the effect that all men exist in a state of grace, without the need for clergy and sacraments. I thought-”

“We’s dumb enough to get taken in by heresy?” Manfried demanded, although so far these Beghards did not sound very reproachable.

“Never!” Martyn said. “And besides, they advocate poverty, so surely-”

“Surely?” Manfried breathed in Martyn’s face.

“Surely.” Martyn licked his chapped lips. “Surely we could forget my folly and concentrate on this fine beverage instead?”

“Surely.” Manfried turned back to the horses.

A league of empty road passed before Hegel cracked: “Does it have to be a sin to be confessed?”

“If you hesitate to tell a priest you balk at admitting something to God, and He knows already, so the only sin is in obscuring the truth from me, His servant, who can do nothing but help you,” Martyn explained.

“Got you good.” Hegel sniggered at the dour Manfried.

“So what was it, Hegel?” Martyn asked.

“Yeah, what was it?” Manfried said.

“I, uh, that is,” Hegel’s nerve slackened as he glanced from eager priest to cross brother, “sometimes, I get, well, spooked bout things.”

Manfried chortled. “That how you’s gonna put it?”

“How’d you put it?” snapped Hegel.

“Got the Witches’ Sight,” Manfried explained. “Touched in the head.”

“Ain’t like that!” Hegel protested.

“Witches’ Sight, Hegel?” Martyn asked, again dreadfully uncomfortable to be seated between the two.

“More like, I dunno, a feelin I get. When somethin don’t wash.” Hegel fumbled with the words like an unrepentant heretic trying to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

“A feeling, Hegel?” said Martyn.

“Like my soul knows somethin’s gonna happen fore it does, and when it does happen, my soul’s always right.”

“You mean you have an uncanny intuition?” Martyn asked. “Have you done anything to be granted this ability?”

“Prays like the rest a us.” Manfried would be damned before allowing anyone, man or priest, to imply anything unsavory about his brother. “He gets his hunches same as us, only his is always right on mark, always just in time, and often enough to be called somethin other than hunches. A boon from Mary.”

“Well,” Martyn said. “Well.”

“Wells make me think a shadowy holes,” Manfried said, giving the hard-eye to Martyn.

“Ain’t the beneficial nature proof enough the portents, mine and ours, is granted from on high?” Hegel insisted, looking to Martyn for encouragement.

“It certainly adds something to the discussion,” Martyn stalled.

“Yeah, but what?” Manfried demanded.

“Er.” Martyn brightened. “Yes. That is, I think you should see this as a gift from God. The ways of the Almighty are inscrutable, and as Manfried has pointed out, over-scrutinizing the cause when the result is beneficial does none of us any good. Likewise with our visions. Time will learn us if they were prophecy or simple nightmares, and then we will know and all our debate will have been for naught.”

“Whatever they was, they weren’t no nightmares,” Manfried said with a shiver. “Those only get you in your sleep.”

“We were awful weary them last few days,” Hegel pointed out. “Besides, ain’t nuthin come from arguin, like you always say.”

They let the matter rest, each and all feeling more anxious about the matter than before. The road began switchbacking even more sharply as they descended to the foothills, and between sun and beer they felt warmer than they had in weeks. The following day they left the wood and began crossing the vast hills of the southern city-states.

The road stayed fairly level but at midday forked, leading them to stop the horses and curse long after Martyn begged them to desist. Then the heavy cloth hanging behind the bench parted and the woman leaned out between Martyn and Manfried. She wore a purple veil over her face and her dress seemed pristine for having been on her person as long as their sweaty attire had been on theirs. She sniffed twice, fluttering her veil, and pointed to the left-hand fork. Even Manfried found this disquieting, but they set off again, traveling late into the dusk before breaking in a grassy field beside the road.

The weather struck them as balmy even when the wind rushed over them, and the vast hills coated in underbrush were but ant-mounds to the Brothers. They drank and ate and set off at dawn, and followed that pattern for several more days. Twice they crossed other roads that might have led them astray but she always appeared and counseled them on their course. Small towns appeared, then larger villages, and at one of these they spent a night, arguing and bartering with various functionaries until a consensus was reached.