"The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bullington Jesse)

XIV. The Monotonous Road

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.

“Despite the stench, they seem uninfected,” Martyn said nasally. “Avoid eating or drinking out of them until they return to normal.”

“Why’s that?” asked Hegel, scratching his blistered scalp.

“Cause they been polluted by a demon, fathead.”

“Er, yes. It is amazing, though. As I told you, all who have touched the malignancy have become host to it, yet you two were spared. Did you pray to Saint Roch?” At seeing their blank stare, Martyn explained, “Saint Roch is not yet, er, officially canonized, so your unfamiliarity is forgivable. I happen to possess one of his finger bones, to use as a weapon against Devil and devils alike. You may not know him but he certainly watches over you! I have never met any who survived the pest without invoking his name!”

“Til now!” Hegel tried to pass on his swagger through the reins to the brainless horses.

“Ain’t the first time, mightn’t be the last.” Manfried pushed the tarp aside and crawled into the wagon for more beer and a surreptitious glimpse. Neither brother felt the need for saints, having been in Mary’s good graces from childhood.

“Eh? You mean you’ve seen such evil before?” Martyn twisted around to watch Manfried.

“He’s referrin to us catchin the pest when we was young, and givin better than we got,” Hegel explained.

“You mean you survived the Great Mortality?”

“With aplomb.” Manfried almost kicked the priest in regaining his seat.

“Amazing,” said Martyn.

“Miraculous is more like it.”

“Mind the company, Manfried.”

“No, Hegel,” Martyn said before Manfried could return fire, “it is miraculous. Not one man in a thousand survives the Great Mortality once it has taken hold. I have never personally witnessed such a recovery but have heard tales. The Virgin has truly been merciful to you.”

“Couldn’t say it better, Friar.” Manfried chugged victoriously.

“Between weathering the pest and besting an agent of the Archfiend, you are truly soldiers of the Lord!”

“Soldiers a Mary, you mean,” Manfried corrected, and Hegel did not argue.

“Well, I suppose it could be seen as such.”

“Drink up, Martyn.” Manfried passed him the refilled bottle. “Now you’s heard our tale, nuthin left but to shrivel the time’s best we fuckin can.”

“What is this fuck?” Martyn asked.

“What?” Hegel said.

“Who?” Manfried said.

“Fuck,” Martyn repeated, “fucking, fuck, fucker-the word you like so much. A slur?”

“Oh, the word fuck!” Manfried laughed. “Yeah, a slur, right enough. Village not too far from our birth-home’s called Fuckin.”

“Why did they name it after a slur?” asked Martyn.

“Oft have I mused the same question,” said Hegel.

“You have?” Manfried grinned at his brother’s folly. “Hardly surprisin. Nah, Martyn, it’s like this. Fuckin’s a town filled with men what are assholes, but assholes so mecky it don’t serve to just call’em assholes or mecky assholes or even Maryless mecky assholes, gotta get somethin stronger by way a differentiatin, to say nuthin a brevity. Hence, we call someone so mecky they might’s well been from Fuckin a fucker or a fuckwit or anythin else related to bein from Fuckin. Yeah?”

“I suppose.” Martyn shrugged. “Why are these, these Fuckers, so maligned? Are they pagans?”

“We was in Fuckin tryin to-” Hegel began but caught his brother’s eye and piped down.

“Yes?” Martyn pressed.

“We was in Fuckin and the fuckers what lived there done fucked us, which is to say, tried to do us like we was the sort a no-account fuckers what might live in their mecky town. So we fucked them back and fucked off.” Manfried was growing exasperated.

“But why-” Martyn started.

“Fuckin Hell, Martyn!” Manfried lost his temper. “It’s a fuckin turn a phrase, same’s shit, piss, ass, you name it, only worse, cause even if there was a village named Shit it’d be a sight better than Fuckin and the shitters what’d live there would be a right more decent set a souls! Means you ain’t fuckin round, means you got somethin serious to convey or you wouldn’t bring up the fuckin place! Use it to talk bout nasties and nastiness, as in that fuckin demon tried fuckin us over but got himself fucked in the bargain!”

There was a long silence on the bench before Hegel cleared his throat. “Or the act a fornication. Bein a mecky deed, the term may be applied there as well.”

“Fuckin right.” Manfried nodded.

Martyn was indeed convinced this Fucking must be a profane place, even if the invocation of its name varied incomprehensibly depending on circumstance. After another lull the priest remembered they had more pressing matters than creative profanities to discuss, and asked, “But what happened after you conquered our adversary? Where were all the townsfolk and monks?”

“In the monastery, in the condition you’d expect from your own experiences.” Hegel shivered at the memory.

“We burnt them, too,” Manfried hiccupped. “Don’t worry on that account.”

Martyn sighed. “Then my quest has ended without my presence. But do not think me proud, for I acknowledge you and I are but His Instruments, and His Will has been done. I am solaced that I had tracked it true, and had you not arrived I would have soon after.”

“Her Will. And that’s assumin you didn’t freeze, or get et by wolves, or fall into any number a other gruesome ways. Speculatin gets you nuthin but sore, mark me,” Manfried philosophized.

“And she,” Martyn nodded behind them, “has been with you even before this?”

“She-” Hegel began.

“Has and is,” Manfried interjected, “our ward. We’s takin her south to Venetia for a sea captain.”

“Which captain?”

“Bar Goose. Queer name, I’ll allow,” said Hegel, saving his brother the embarrassment of having forgotten their future patron’s name.

“For what purpose is your anonymous ward traveling through the mountains in the cruel of winter? I did not think any wagons braved such high roads this late.”

“To get to that captain, like I just told you,” said Manfried.

“No, no, I mean, what was she doing out here to begin with? A foreign bride? A relative?”

“There you go, speculatin. You question why the sun come up and down like it’s wont?” Manfried went on. “Why cow taste better than horse, and pig better than either? How bout why you’s priest stead a Pope?”

“Manfried!” Hegel’s horror mingled with his usual glee at hearing his brother make others look foolish.

“I ain’t finished. Got us a holy man obsessed with unravelin the design stead a servin it like everythin from eel to emperor does. Why’s we born if we’s gonna die? Why’s there a Hell if Mary loves us all? If we’s slaves to divine plannin, why in fuck’s free will an issue? What sort a test got a pre-seen outcome, then a feigned surprise when some cunts fuck up?”

Martyn’s entire body matched the crimson rims of his eyes, which jutted out of their puffy settings. He stared while Manfried took another swig, a faint whining coming from the priest’s pursed lips. Just when Martyn seemed about to damn them both-Hegel unsure if the noise he kept bottled up was apology or laughter-Manfried finished his speech.

“That’s the kind a rot priests been talkin where we come from. Only talk to themselves, mind you, but word always trickles down, specially when you’s proud as princes and twice’s stupid. You’d think livin as they do, chosen people and all, they’d have more sense than to question a good thing. Heresy is what it is, and worse yet, cowardice. Cryin and carryin on, why, why, why?! I’ll tell you, Martyn, I’ll tell you honest: kind a maggot askin them questions’ too scared to have faith, and that’s how he’s worse than a simple heretic. Ain’t enough his family died, he gotta know why. Why me, why them, why, why, why? Cause you’s a cunt, that’s why. Cause Her Will is inscrutable, and what’s more, none a our fuckin trade. We truck in the flesh, and doin as She commands, showin mercy and acceptin fate for just that stead a raisin them questions what would get you burnt quick you wasn’t wearin robes. Gotta believe in a world without answers, a fate without explanation or apology, or you’s the cuntiest a the cunts and you’s gonna get your precious answer in the fires below!”

The wheels squeaked and the wagon bounced. Hegel sweated, wondering if their load would soon lighten. His brother usually restrained himself around clergy as there were so many hidden heretics infiltrating the Church but this man had shown remarkable charity, what with not being sore about getting shot. Manfried spoke the gospel, though, and if this priest took offense it was proof of his cowardice.

“Amen,” Martyn breathed. “You speak well, Manfried, although I might advise rearranging the order of your points in the future, as most company will not listen so attentively and discern your meaning for what it is. And forgive me if I, through my awkwardness of speech, have implied I do anything but agree wholeheartedly with you. My simple, and admittedly rude, curiosity bested me, but only for a moment.”

“Amen, indeed,” chortled Hegel, sliding his hand off the pommel of the dagger under his cloak.

“Well, it ain’t nuthin,” Manfried muttered, delighted his diatribe had pleased the priest. “Just the truth, unfettered by that fancy and meaningless talk so pleases the countryfolk.”

“As I told you,” Martyn said after sipping the bottle, “although perhaps not clearly enough, it is precisely that sort of double-speak that has divided Christian from Christian to such grave extent that the Pope no longer sits in his proper place but must dwell in the recently tamed wilds of Avignon, and why I was scorned by some of my brethren for embarking on my journey. They would rather accuse each other of heresy than battle real evil made flesh.”

“Cowardice is oft hid under the moniker a common sense,” said Hegel, and the others nodded in agreement.

“And you are correct,” Martyn continued, “shamed though I am to admit it, that there are many in the Church for whom the Will of God no longer suffices, and they damage not only their own salvation but also the sanctity of the entire institution by focusing more on the questions than the answers.”

“What with all them different orders traipsin bout, can’t tell one from another,” Hegel put in, Manfried winded and content to drink and listen.

“That is not so much of a problem as when the divisions become intolerable.” Martyn belched. “The fiend I hunted is indicative of this. I found little support in pursuing a demon that I had seen. Sad times when thwarting corporeal evil sent from the Devil to work his mischief is less imperative than investigating rumors of heresy, when the righteous are not even in their city. I found an ally in Jean de la Roquetaillade, a Franciscan gifted with prophecy, but he was imprisoned for preaching the truth-that the End Times have arrived. I met with him in his cell every time I journeyed to Avignon, further proof, further proof! Concern for the souls of man has been supplanted by a desire for power. I prayed that my quest might bring the Church back together, but before leaving Avignon the last time I found myself a pariah and a laughingstock to those who disgrace His Name through act and word, some whispering I was a secret Waldensian! They denied me an audience with Lord Clement, then again with Lord Innocent, and when I recently returned to implore Lord Urban the same curt dismissal awaited me.”

“Tragic,” said Hegel.

“Tell me, brothers, have you heard of the trial of Formosus?”

Manfried yawned. Hegel blinked.

“Pope Formosus’s desecration is most topical, so I will advise you on what befell him and let you two pious wanderers decide for yourself. Several centuries past, Formosus served man and God as all true popes do, but even then political machinations were at work, and shortly after his death they exhumed him.”

The Grossbarts perked up, such business being their specialty. Hegel forced himself to mind the road while Manfried pried the beer away from Martyn. The priest managed another swig before relinquishing it.

“They accused him of heresy.” Martyn’s eyes bubbled over but his voice did not quake. “Led by Stephen the Sixth, er, the Seventh, those heretics had him disinterred from his holy resting place and held a trial. With his corpse! His soul long seated in Heaven had the humiliation of watching over while they poked his bones and charged him with blasphemy, devil worship, and every other vile falsehood their wicked minds could imagine. Obviously he was unable to defend his remains, and those criminals hacked off the hand which bore the papal ring and stripped him of his vestments. Then they dragged him through the streets, hurled him into the river, fished him out, and scattered his disgraced bones with those of the Jews.”

“Shameful,” said Hegel.

“A travesty never to be forgot,” said Manfried.

“I often fancied if I were to become Pope, I would petition for the name Formosus,” Martyn mused.

“Hey now.” Manfried lightly elbowed him. “Ain’t someone forgettin their place at the table?”

“What? Never! I simply, er, as Augustine said-”

“Easy on, Martyn.” Manfried laughed. “Just meckin up your words. Cowardice is questionin your fate, courage and honor is strugglin to change it.”

“But fate is immovable,” said Martyn.

“Usually, yeah, but Her Will is for us to struggle and persevere, and part a that is to know the difference twixt what you’s tricked into thinkin fate is and what it actually be.”

Martyn squinted at Manfried. “Tricked?”

“I reckon it’s somethin like this,” Hegel piped in. “You think your fate’s to struggle gainst heresy back in Roma or Avignon or wherever, but your real fate’s to chase a demon up into these hills. So you follow your fate, even though all the rest tries to tell you fate says to stay put.”

“Is that what I meant?” Neither brother was sure if Manfried was genuinely asking or being contrary.

“Perceived fate and actual fate. Free will. Heresy. Cowardice.” Martyn slumped forward and vomited all over their feet. Manfried kept him from falling under the wheels and winked at his brother. This priest did not seem a bad sort.

“What kind a priest you reckon he is?” Hegel asked his more worldly kin in their private dialect.

“The superior kind.” Manfried shrugged. “From his tale I speculate he’s one a them Dominicans. Probable, given his prattlin on matters heretical.”

“Oh.” Hegel quieted, not wanting to sound foolish by asking more.

“Not exact on how he come to be priest in the eyes a men other than the Holy Fucker above,” Manfried ruminated. “Can’t picture no cardinal nor bishop nor whoever thinkin he’d be fit.”

“But you said yourself he seems a the finer stuff,” Hegel pointed out.

“Yeah, but definitions vary.”

Even buried beneath snow the road remained obvious by the indentation, but they could no longer make it out more than thirty feet in front of the lead horses. Martyn shifted in and out of consciousness between the Grossbarts, ranting on matters Manfried assured his brother would amount to blasphemy in lesser company. This amused them, and they goaded him on as he never disparaged the Virgin, only bishops and priests and monks and orders of monks and nobles and serfs and yeomen and even horses.

They never found his fallen steed but they did not encounter any wolves, either. That night Manfried slept through the darkness, with Martyn filling in for him to make penance for his earlier embarrassment. Knowing the oats would keep longer than the furry bread, they abstained from porridge and cut the moldy taste of the loaves with moldier cheese. The spoiled rye had the odd effect of bringing them vivid dreams, dreams that often arrived before they even drifted off.

Unaware of the source of their visions, all three continued to munch the stuff through the next day, which brought on wilder talks and images. Many times Hegel could not see the horses let alone the road but he kept that to himself, and the beasts trod on without event. The snowy peaks undulated around them, and Manfried and Martyn fiercely debated what this presaged. The snow appeared to rise from the ground instead of fall to it, and each man at times fell into giggling. They did not realize they had stopped until all wore an extra hat of powder, and then started moving again only to spite the lazy horses.

None was sure if they truly entered a wood until they sat around the biggest fire they had kindled since leaving the tavern, and the pine-bough canopy, after dumping its pale payload on their first blaze, kept further snow from drifting onto them. Wolves howled and they howled back, Martyn loudest of all. Of a sudden mind to impress upon Martyn the seriousness of their crusade, Manfried told the priest of their ancestral duty to deny the Infidel anything a Grossbart might covet.

“Prester John,” Martyn said incredulously, “is your grandfather?”

“Ain’t got no kin name a John,” said Manfried.

“But you say he is Christian king dwelling beyond the lands of the Arab?”

“Truth be told,” said Hegel, “we dunno if he’s king or just kingly rich, nor where he lays his beard. We’s yet to make his acquaintance.”

“We’s gonna find out soon enough, mind you, and show him up besides,” said Manfried. “Get us enough loot to make our granddad look like a dirt-handed turnip digger.”

Martyn laughed. “But stories of Prester John’s kingdom date back decades, centuries!”

“Grossbarts been goin south since Moses was a pup.” Manfried glared at the priest. “I told you he weren’t no John nor Preston nor what, so shut your fuckin mouth fore I hang you up like a scarecrow for them hill-dogs!”

After a desperate pause-wherein both brothers subtly fingered the handles of their weapons, even Hegel unwilling to allow anyone but himself and his brother to disparage their kinfolk-Martyn spoke:

“Well, pardon my fucking mouth!” and then all three were again hooting with unnatural laughter.

Late in the night the sweetest music either brother had ever heard swam out of the wagon, and then Martyn awoke raving and attacked the nearby trees with his fists. Neither brother intervened but instead broke out bottles and heartily enjoyed the spectacle. Only Manfried noticed when the music abated, and he covertly peeled the ice from his cheeks. In the morning he shamefully realized he had not checked if she still sat in the wagon since the day before.

Martyn had excused himself to clean his habit and Hegel snored beside the coals, allowing Manfried to stride guilelessly to the rear of the wagon. He rapped twice on the frame, then clambered inside, closing the flap behind him. Inside he could see only shadows of shadows but heard her breathing and smelled her musky-sweet sweat, an aroma that made him hungry.

“Uh.” He swallowed. “That’s a fine way a singin you got.”

Her clothes rustled and he thought he made out her teeth glittering in the dark. His own sweat stinging his eyes, he suddenly felt uncomfortably hot. Bracing himself, he leaned in until he felt her breath on his cheek, a cool draft in the sweltering wagon.

“Could you… if you… uh, sing it again?” Manfried felt a fool. “Please?”

Her breath came faster and cooler, a vaguely familiar scent tickling his nose hairs. Then Hegel bellowed beside the wagon and she drew back deeper into the darkness. Anger consumed Manfried and he burst out of the wagon, startling Hegel and the returned Martyn. Under their curious look his rage dissipated and he mumbled about getting an early move on. Hitching up the horses, he did not notice Martyn pressing Hegel aside.

“Does he often slip into the interior when you sleep?” Martyn asked.

“Mind your mind,” Hegel retorted. “Priest shouldn’t think such impureness.”

“A man must tame himself before endeavoring to tame another. For the sake of his soul, we should be vigilant.”

“For the sake a your teeth, I’d be a touch more vigilant a lip. That’s all I’ll say, save my brother’s purer than you or I.” Hegel sullenly climbed onto the bench.

Martyn made the sign of the cross before the wagon and followed after. They broke bread and the bread broke them, that day and those that followed blurring into a harrowing passage not only through the mountains but also deeper, less explored regions. The Fire of Saint Anthony branded their brains, and only fortune spared their extremities from the toxic rye-except for a toe of Martyn’s, which fell out of his boot when he removed it to examine the uncomfortable tingling. For two days solid Hegel confused Martyn with the Virgin Herself, usually frightening the priest but occasionally convincing him that he was indeed the Bride of God.

If not for the sensible horses they would have become lost, but to Hegel’s chagrin they refused to advance over the precipices or up the streambeds he led them to. Cursing them, he screamed until lights flared up around them but their tusks and legions of legs frightened him dreadfully, dampening his enthusiasm to engage the equines in combat. Mary told him many secrets as they traveled, things that made him froth with anger and cry in despair. Her uncanny resemblance to Nicolette the witch ceased to upset him after the first day, although it kept his thoughts chaste throughout the ordeal.

Manfried once mistook the falling snow for gold and would have tumbled to his death in pursuit had Martyn not convinced him it was a diabolical trap, adder-spit dyed yellow to fool the honest. Manfried crawled under a blanket for several hours to keep the poison from his flesh. When Hegel addressed the priest as the Virgin, Manfried briefly shared his brother’s delusion before realizing her to be an imposter, the genuine Mary resting inside the wagon. The things She whispered to him were perhaps the only possible words to make a Grossbart blush. At night, when none truly slept but rolled and raved beside a fire which might have existed only in their minds, Manfried crept under the wagon and prayed until he went hoarse.

Being of the clergy Martyn had a monstrous appetite but it could not contest with that of the Grossbarts, the result being he consumed less bread and could function somewhat like a normal man. While he did not match their hunger, however, his imagination had fed on many tracts over the years and so his visions compensated in wildness what they occasionally lacked in vibrancy. For the demon-hunting holy man their travel led over mountains of ash and through clouds of sulfur, steam and venom raining upon them, the wails of the damned giving them no respite. His beloved Elise remained absent but Saint Roch harried their wagon, his moldering corpse demanding the return of his stolen finger. Martyn hurled the relic into the snow, shrieking his remorse for his own graveyard indiscretion. His speech drifted among the dialects and tongues he had learned, along with a few hybrids of his own devising. A test, he moaned to the lost souls riding beside him, a final test before the glory. Although it meant his damnation, he did not correct the fallen seraphim beside him when the radiant creature addressed him as Mary, Mother of God. He knew himself to be Mary Magdalene, and was ashamed.

Unlike natural dreams, these horrors did not vanish instantly upon their waking but tormented them day and night, subtly fading in intensity until their absence maddened the trio more than their presence had. Stopping the horses late in the third afternoon of their psychosis, Hegel stumbled down to simultaneously vomit and shit while his brother unhitched the horses for the first time in days. The miserable creatures were famished and blistered, the expression of their huge eyes launching the Brothers into another giggling fit. Martyn stayed on the bench, praying and weeping until the Grossbarts started a fire.

The next morn they realized they had left the peaks behind in favor of gentler slopes and would probably not die in the mountains after all. After again reprimanding himself and again checking on the lady who again smiled sweetly at him and batted her eyes, Manfried again readied the horses. Unlike the previous day’s gloom and silence, the Brothers and Martyn enjoyed the rough road and biting wind and gruel-turned stomachs.

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 Beghards 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.

Of those living in the town the barber alone spoke their language worth a damn, and he traded them a modest heap of ancient, disfigured coins for their smallest grave-found ring. Even after they gave a few coins back to that same barber in exchange for being treated their purse still had a little jingle to it, so they purchased clean clothes, had their weapons banged straight by the smith, left their horses with the farrier, secured lodging, and, when the priest disappeared for a time, secured a small pouch of unseasonably early belladonna berries to crush and smear on blades or drop in food, depending on what the situation dictated. Manfried used reason and vague threats but could not coax the woman to leave the wagon, but otherwise they each achieved everything they intended that night and felt rejuvenated the next morning.