Jesse Bullington - The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

“They’re eating her?” Barousse laughed and cried.

“Our wife,” Al-Gassur moaned, pressing the fishy pulp against his cheek.

“My bride.”

“How shall we avenge her?”

“With their blood,” Barousse wept, “with their bones and souls.”

“She is gone,” Al-Gassur lamented, “gone, gone, gone.”

“But you shall have another.” Barousse’s sob melted into a cackle. “You’ll bring another up, and she’ll be yours, while I swim with mine through what estates the kelp grants us. More than their Mary, more than my Mathilde.”

“What do you mean?”

“Release me, brother.” Barousse became perfectly calm. “Cut my bonds, and I’ll show you.”

Deranged as he had become, Al-Gassur still balked at the request. Stalling, he said, “The Grossbarts will return, I am sure of it. Better we wait until the sun is gone and they shun this room.”

“Avenge us when I go, brother, and you’ll be rewarded.” Barousse closed his eyes and hummed a tune they both knew well, though his simple human instrument failed to capture its essence.

Above, the men had discovered where the meat had come from when Lucian peered into the hold. After he recovered from fainting he crawled away from Hegel, gibbering every prayer he knew. Raphael was likewise disgusted and swore he would die before putting such vileness in his mouth, Martyn encouraging his denial of witch flesh as a source of sustenance. Rodrigo smiled at their indignation, not at all surprised by this newest sin but unwilling to partake. He climbed a mast while they murmured their disapproval out of range of Grossbart ears.

Of all the men, excluding the risen Hegel, Rodrigo had suffered the worst injuries the day before. The patch of exposed skull on his scalp, his punctured hand, and his masticated ear still bothered him less than the decline of his captain, the only family he had left. Sitting on the crossbeam beside Sir Jean’s wilting head he looked to the sea, wondering how he could go on if Barousse died.

The day meandered by, the men’s despair countered by the Grossbarts’ optimism. Surely the sandy lands of gold lay behind the next cloudbank, and even late into the afternoon they watched the horizon expectantly, positive that any moment a shore would appear. It did not, and while the winds were stronger at night the men were exhausted and again went to bed hungry in their bunks. That Al-Gassur seemed fit as ever did not sway any but the Grossbarts to sample her flesh.

The Grossbarts ate copiously, arguing whether their meal tasted good or not. Manfried found it gamier than most aquatic meat, while Hegel thought it especially fishy. His dislike of four-legged beasts in no way impinged on his enjoyment of their seared flesh and organs.

“Odd,” Hegel said after they had eaten, “we’s seen us what now, three witches and three monsters?”

“You’s calculatin improper,” Manfried belched.

“How’s that?”

“One monster, that mantiloup or what have you, the witch what served’em-”

“He served her,” Hegel interjected.

“Moot. Then we got that witch come with the pig. And he got a demon in’em, so that’s one more a each.”

“That’s where you’s off, cause the man’s a witch, the demon in’em’s a demon, and that pig makes three.”

“Three what? No, shut it. That pig was a pig was a pig. A pig what got a demon in it after we kilt the witch.” Manfried shook his head at his brother’s obtuseness.

“How you know it weren’t his servant, or the Devil?”

“I don’t, same as you, so in the absence a evidence we’s gonna assume it was simple swine got possessed by a demon.”

“If it was Old Scratch he wouldn’t well let some mecky demon in’em.” Hegel reasoned. “Would a come at us himself.”

“See, that’s bein sensible.” Manfried was impressed. “So that’s two witches and two monsters, and she what we just et makes three.”

“Three what?”

“Hmmm,” grumbled Manfried. “Witches? Witches.”

“Witches, in my voluminous experience as a tutor in Praha, do not have goddamn fish parts stead a legs.” Hegel made a big to-do of straightening his beard and sniffing his knobby nose.

“Hmm.”

“Monsters, on the other hand, have all kinds a weird animal parts. What makes’em monsters, after all.”

“Witches might have tails,” Manfried said after another bite. “Just not ones that big.”

“Granted, maybe a little cow tail or cat thing or what, might even have seven tits like a bitch, but this mess-” Hegel squeezed the greasy meat between his fingers. “No sir. But then a monster don’t cast charms and such in my knowledge, so I figure she counts for both.”

“Eatin a monster’s no sin,” Manfried philosophized, “but eatin a witch is, cause they’s more or less mannish, so long’s we stay south a the navel we’s safe.”

“The truth, unadulterated by rhetoric. Don’t taste too bad, neither, if I’s to be honest.”

“But that broaches another curiosity,” said Manfried. “We can agree a demon’s different from other monsters, requirin, as the cardinal told us on the mountains, a body, preferably a witch, to ride round in like we’s on this boat.”

“Cause like us, it might float for a little while fore sinkin below without somethin solid to rest on,” Hegel agreed.

“The good Virgin must a given you some extra brains while you was dead. Any rate, demons different from monsters. Look nuthin like anythin I ever seen.”

“Yeah?”

“Whereas the monsters we seen, namely our dinner and that mantiloup, they look like people what got beast parts,” said Manfried.

“Fish ain’t a beast, we’s been over that,” Hegel pointed out.

“By my fuckin faith, Hegel, you know what I mean! Part eel or snake or fish and part woman and part beast and part man is still closer to the same thing then that demon was to anythin, man or beast. Or fish.”

“Yeah?”

“So why’s monsters always a mix a man and critter?”

“In our experience, that’s indeed been the case,” Hegel mused. “Operatin, as we now do, on the assumption that what we’s et is monster stead a witch.”

“Right enough! I ain’t et no damn witch! Only the top part is witch, what we’s munchin is pure monster.”

“Suppose so. But I harbor doubts as to whether that thing in the mountains had a witch’s head and a monster-cat’s body. Seemed what might a been a man become a monster.”

“So it’s possible monsters is just men, be they heretics or witches, get turned into somethin.” Manfried bit his lip, staring at the pile of uneaten meat.

“Or monsters might be beasts that change partly into men. Or women.”

“That’s pushin reason a little hard,” Manfried argued. “I don’t believe it’s possible she was a fish what turned into a woman.”

“But she didn’t speak. Fish don’t speak.”

“And they don’t sing, neither. Sides, plenty a monsters I heard bout ain’t nuthin like men or women, just pure monster.”

“Like what?” Hegel demanded.

“Like dragons and unicorns and such.”

“But we ain’t never seen’em, so they might be nuthin more than tales.”

“Not necessarily,” said Manfried.

“No, but hearin bout somethin don’t make it real. I know Mary’s real cause I seen Her, and I know demons’ real cause I seen one a them, and I know weird fuckin fish witches is-”

“I follow, I follow,” Manfried groused. “But we knew witches was real fore we ever saw one, and sure enough, we was right on their account.”

“Yeah,” Hegel allowed.

“So monsters, in our experience, is part man and part beast, although the possibility exists they might be parts a other things all mixed together, like a basilisk. Part chicken and part dragon.”