Witchy Winter

by D. J. Butler

  At the door stood eight armed men in black coats, and two in purple.

  “This is a good room,” he said, still nodding. “I have one like it at home. I keep my extra wives there.”

  “You do?” Nathaniel asked.

  “No. Really, I let a herd of deer run in it. All my wives live in the same wiigiwaam.”

  “I can’t tell when you’re lying.”

  “Neither can I, God-Has-Given. Neither can I.”

  Nathaniel shook his head in confusion and rubbed his protruding ear. Ma’iingan felt a twinge of guilt for teasing the young man, but he couldn’t help himself. Deadpan leg-pulling helped him deal with the sensation that he had entered a horrible realm, a place where only foul spirits and lost souls could possibly go, and he didn’t really know the way back.

  The old man on the chair was a lost soul. The chair was the sole furnishing on a low, raised platform at the end of the hall opposite the doors. It was heavy and solid-backed, and it had been turned around to face away from the doors and into the room’s corner. The old man crouched on the chair, his bare toes curled in the tattered remains of what had once been an upholstered seat. He wore only a single garment, a filthy gray and brown rag that covered him from wrists to ankles, with a sagging hole out of which protruded the old man’s bony neck. The old man gripped the top of the chair back with the filthy fingers of one hand, his elbows jutting out at right angles left and right, the gray stained fabric hanging down like the obscene loose skin of an aging turkey, stripped of its feathers. In his other hand, he clutched a small wooden box. He stared one direction and then the other, swinging his head sharply back and forth, and his lips moved in a constant motion that might have been produced by sucking on his teeth or clucking like a hen. Greasy hair sprouted in irregular patches from a flaking scalp and fell down to his neck, to his shoulders, and in some spots, farther.

  “That’s the earl,” Ma’iingan said. It wasn’t a question.

  “He’s mad,” Nathaniel said.

  “How do you know?” Ma’iingan asked.

  Behind the earl stood a dark-bearded man in a black cloak and eyepatch. He leaned on a spear gnawed into intricate rune-patterns, such as Ma’iingan had seen used by the vitkis of Chicago.

  “That’s Old One Eye,” Nathaniel said, following Ma’iingan’s gaze. “He was at the…he was there when it happened.”

  “Henh, I remember,” Ma’iingan said. “He isn’t Anama’e, Christian. He’s the most important priest of the non-Christian priests in this part of the Turtle Kingdom, na?”

  Nathaniel nodded. “He’s the Chief Godi of the College of Godar.”

  “Godi,” Ma’iingan agreed, “this is the word. And why won’t he allow the earl to burn a log?”

  “It’s a sign that he thinks the earl is mad. A madman shouldn’t be burning Yule logs, any more than a child.”

  “The earl is mad.”

  “Yes. But it’s disrespectful of the Chief Godi to notice.”

  Ma’iingan considered this. “You mean it takes away the earl’s power.”

  “Yes,” Nathaniel said.

  The room was full of people standing in defensive clumps. A snakelike path wound from the door to the open floor before the earl and his perch, and in the open space stood the young man named George. The earl’s son. He held a book under his arm, and he stood with his back straight and his head held high. He cut an impressive figure, in a Zhaaganaashii way; he’d have looked good as a statue.

  Nathaniel and Ma’iingan stood near the door, at Ma’iingan’s urging. As the Ojibwe looked at George and wondered where this scene was leading, Landon Chapel entered the room with a clatter of hard leather shoe soles. He wasn’t at liberty; a hinged and pierced wooden bar across his shoulders kept his hands raised to the height of his neck, and two men with rifles accompanied him, also wearing purple coats. From up close, Ma’iingan saw that the coats were frayed and old, fading like Nathaniel’s coat.

  They marched him up the snaking path and hurled him to his knees in front of the earl.

  The earl opened his mouth wider and made a cooing sound, like a pigeon.

  Ma’iingan turned to Nathaniel to make a wisecrack and discovered the young Zhaaganaashii had left him—

  and was now drifting up the crooked aisle toward the earl.

  “Wiinuk!” He shuffled after the boy, realized now that the path was crooked because the crowd of Zhaaganaashii stood as they did not to form ranks, but to avoid the worst filth on the floor. Ma’iingan tiptoed among slimy puddles whose acid tang suggested they were full of not-quite-evaporated urine, gnawed bones, and clods that might be raw earth or might be feces, rolled into balls by being kicked across the sagging wooden floor.

  He gagged as he caught up to Nathaniel.

  Suddenly, Old One Eye opened his mouth and bellowed. “This court is not proper!”

  “Your Holiness treads on thin ice,” George Isham growled.

  “I am not the one who risks falling into frozen waters, Isham!” Old One Eye barked. “You are not the earl, and a madman has no right to summon the Thing and make rulings of law.”

  George’s face was steely and he gestured about the room. “Does this appear to you be to a regularly convened Thing?”

  “That is my point,” Old One Eye rumbled. “Where is Parks? Where are Byrd and Pruitt and Marshall? This is a farce!”

  “My Lord Earl!” George called to the earl, ignoring the godi. He faced the crowd, and they faced forward, looking back and forth between vulture father and peacock son. “As supreme chivalric arbiter of Johnsland, a case comes before you for knavery, and for violating the code duello.”

  Ma’iingan had no idea what half the words meant, but they seemed to be an appeal to the madman’s wisdom.

  “Play at your court, then!” Old One Eye harrumphed. “It is only play!” He left, and the eight men in black coats fell in behind him.

  The earl straightened his knees, rising two feet higher, and flapped his elbows like wings as he settled.

  The crowd applauded, a faint smattering that ended in embarrassed silence.

  The earl said something, but it was soft enough that Ma’iingan couldn’t hear.

  “My lord, I beg you to hear the evidence first!” George chuckled.

  The earl repeated his phrase, and George ignored it.

  “My lord, I offer my own eyewitness testimony. Landon Chapel, here before you as prisoner, did before myself and other witnesses, shoot and kill Charles Johnston Lee.”

  “Lee?” It was the first intelligible syllable Ma’iingan had heard from the Earl’s mouth. He gripped his little wooden box with both hands. “William Lee?”

  “Charles Lee,” George said slowly. “The son.”

  “Lee!” the earl cried. His voice had a sharp note in it, like a bird of prey’s. He spat on the floor, and then the lines of his face slumped into sorrow. “Lee…and the body?”

  “We have buried him,” George said. “He was a soldier.”

  “We’re all soldiers,” the earl answered. It sounded like the cry of a distant bird.

  “The facts are these,” George said. He still faced the crowd, and his raised one hand to the square. It was a theatrical gesture; Ma’iingan thought he was inviting the crowd to confirm or deny his testimony. “A duel had been agreed between the two men and was about to commence. Armed in preparation for the duel and on the field of honor, but before paces had been counted off and out of order, Landon Chapel shot Charles Lee dead without warning.”

  “Hang ’em!” the earl shrieked, flapping his arms again and rising so quickly he actually jumped off the seat, knocking a slat out of the chair when he landed on it. “Murderers hang! He killed my son!”

  “Charles Lee,” George said patiently. “He killed Charles Lee.”

  “Lee.” The earl’s head slumped.

  Landon fell forward onto his face in the filth, weeping. “Please don’t do this, George,” the boy begged.

  Ma’iingan took a close look a
t the Zhaaganaashii surrounding him. Other than George, they were all dressed in frayed clothing, old and stained. Their beards and hair were ragged, their shoes had visible holes. These couldn’t be the notables of this Zhaaganaashii land—they were poor servants of a madman who had perhaps once been great, or at least sane. And they were standing here as the unwilling audience to a cruel act of humiliation.

  He could kill the Zhaaganaashii George, and escape before anyone could stop him. Part of Ma’iingan wanted to do that, not because Landon Chapel was a worthy prisoner to rescue, but because George was a bully.

  But Ma’iingan hadn’t come to Johnsland to stop bullies. He leaned closer to Nathaniel and whispered, “Let’s go, God-Has-Given.”

  Nathaniel shook his head mutely and continued to watch the farce trial.

  “Please!” a voice called from the back of the room.

  Ma’iingan turned with Nathaniel to see the newcomer. She was a young woman, dressed again like a servant, and she was pregnant.

  “Please!” she cried again. “George, don’t do this! Please spare him.”

  “Jenny Farewell.” The cruel smile that had been playing about George’s face disappeared instantly, his lips falling into a hard, flat line. “You have nothing to do with this trial.”

  “I don’t.” The girl came forward, her gait cautious with the tenderness of pregnancy. “But I have something to do with you, my lord.”

  Half the wicked smile returned. “I can’t imagine what you could possibly mean, Jenny.”

  Rough masculine chuckles crossed the great hall one way and back.

  The girl’s face showed her wound. Ma’iingan reconsidered the possibility of simply killing George and running, dragging Nathaniel behind him. Nathaniel was still intent on the trial, though, so he shook off the impulse.

  “I ask you to spare Landon Chapel,” Jenny asked. She stood near Nathaniel now, and she knelt as she asked for mercy. Nathaniel helped her, holding her hand and forearm as she levered herself down. “I beg you to end this misery. Release him, he only wants your approval. He’ll do anything, no matter how stupid, for your friendship.”

  “My friendship?” George frowned. “And what else of mine does he want?”

  “Nothing!” Landon sobbed from the floor. “Please!”

  “Nothing,” Jenny agreed softly.

  “Jenny.” George advanced on the serving girl, his voice chiding. “What are you not telling me?”

  “Nothing, my lord. Please.” The girl raised a brave face, with tears on both cheeks. “You are so generous and good. Please, spare Landon Chapel.”

  George stood before her, staring down into her tear-filled eyes. “Jenny,” he said, his voice wheedling and sticky, “whose child are you carrying?”

  Jenny swallowed. “My lord knows whose child I carry. Please, my lord. For the love I believe you bear me.”

  “Oh, Jenny.” George shook his head slowly. “I bear you no love. How could I? How could the future Earl of Johnsland love a whore?”

  “Whore!” the present Earl of Johnsland shouted, rising and flapping his wings. “Whore! Murderer! Hang ’em!”

  “No!” Nathaniel hurled himself into the space between the young people begging for clemency.

  Ma’iingan caught at his elbow and missed. “Wiinuk!”

  “Nathaniel.” George’s smile broadened. “This is a court of chivalry. You don’t belong here.”

  “He belongs!” the earl crowed, and then crouched, hiding himself behind the back of the chair. “Shh. Secret.”

  George frowned, then snorted a tiny laugh. “My lord the earl admits you to the court of chivalry, it seems. What would you, then? Do you have testimony to bear?”

  Ma’iingan put his hand on the head of his tomahawk. If Nathaniel was so foolish as to contradict George in front of all these servants, what would the older boy do?

  Nathaniel shook his head, then slowly settled down onto his knees. “I only want to ask for mercy.”

  “For yourself? But what have you done, my urchin foundling?”

  “Secret!” the earl squawked.

  “For everyone,” Nathaniel said. “I hope for mercy for everyone. You are a great lord, and great lords can afford to show mercy.”

  “A great lord, am I?” George grinned. “Do you know how to show respect to a great lord?”

  Nathaniel hesitated, then removed his tricorner hat, clutching to his head as he bowed.

  George snickered. “How very Franklinesque of you, Nathaniel. No, to show respect to a great lord—as to the Caliph, or the Queen of England, for instance, or to the Inca—one lies flat on one’s belly.”

  Nathaniel hesitated again, staring at the floor. If he refused to lie on his belly in the filth, what then?

  “Did someone want mercy?” George asked. “I don’t see the evidence of it, myself.”

  “Death!” Nathaniel yelped, slapping his outsized ear. Then he threw himself down, flat onto the floor. Landon joined him, face pressed onto the filthy wood by the heavy bar across his shoulders, and Jenny followed.

  Ma’iingan wanted to kill George. He hid the feeling behind a relaxed smile, and took his hand away from his fighting axe.

  “What do you say, My Lord Earl-Magistrate?” George asked. “Do we show ’em mercy?”

  “Eh?” The earl peeped from behind his chair back. “Who?” Then, as if the question had triggered a mental connection, he hooted several times, like an owl, rapping his wooden box against his own forehead.

  “The whore and the foundlings,” George said, sneering. “Over Lee’s death.”

  “Lee!” The earl stood abruptly, almost falling off the chair. He spread his arms wide as if he might leap from the chair and soar. “Lee?”

  “Yes, Lee,” George said. “Damn me, father, you’d think you’d never heard the name before.”

  “Exile!” the earl squealed. “Send them away! Lee! The whore! All of them!”

  People in the crowd shifted from foot to foot.

  George sighed. “I’m not sure I can really do that, father. This is, after all, only a court of chivalry, and not a regularly convened Thing.”

  “You must!”

  “Could I have them whipped instead?”

  “The whore goes!” the earl called. “Lee goes!”

  “Lee is dead. Father, I do believe you are making even less sense than usual.”

  “Lee is dead?” An idiotic grin spread across the earl’s face, and then he chuckled. “As he deserved, as he deserved.”

  George harrumphed. “Here is My Lord Earl’s sentence, malefactors. First, the two thieves. Jenny!”

  Jenny’s answer was a muffled sob.

  Ma’iingan took a step closer to Nathaniel and put his hand on his fighting axe. He coiled his leg muscles, preparing to leap forward if his intervention became necessary.

  “Exile,” George said grimly. “You never had my heart, girl, but I see you had pretensions. They end now. Find your comfort where you can, but do not come again to the great house.”

  Jenny whimpered.

  “Nathaniel!”

  Nathaniel dragged himself back up to his knees, but kept his face downcast. He was smeared with filth. “My lord?”

  “You seem injured enough to me, boy. And you tried to speak up for Landon here, though God knows he’s never been your friend. I’ll do nothing to make you worse.”

  Ma’iingan exhaled slowly.

  George gestured to the two men with rifles who’d brought Landon in. Ma’iingan had taken them for soldiers, but now he saw them for what they were: farmers, with old rifles and small knives at their belts, better suited for paring fruit than for stabbing a man. They bent now and dragged Landon to his feet.

  “Release him,” George said. “Take him outside and whip him. Ten stripes.”

  The farmers nodded. One took a ring of keys from his pocket and began to unlock Landon.

  “George—” Landon began.

  “Shut up, Landon,” George said, cutting him off. “I
t’s better than you deserve. You killed Charles Lee in cold blood. You’re only lucky the man has no living family, or they’d come for you on the field of honor and I doubt you’d be so lucky this time. Frankly, if Old One Eye dragged you in front of the Thing, you’d be hanged. Maybe, just maybe, when he hears I’ve had you whipped, he’ll consider that the end of the matter.”

  “But you…you made me…”

  “I made you what?” George asked coldly. “Murder Charles Lee? I think not.”

  “The pig sty,” Landon gasped, one arm falling to his side from his imprisoning plank. “The moon woman.”

  George shook his head. “Really, Landon. You must learn to take a joke.”

  Landon’s other hand slipped from its restraint and fell to his side. He stared at George, mouth open.

  “Ten stripes,” George said to the farmers again. “Go ahead.”

  With a sudden roar, Landon grabbed the plank to which he’d been chained, ripping it from the farmers’ hands. Spinning, he swung the plank in a long arc—

  striking Nathaniel in the temple.

  Ma’iingan leaped forward, and found the farmers suddenly in his way. They wrestled Landon Chapel to the ground and then dragged him away, shrieking.

  Left behind, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, was the unconscious Nathaniel.

  “I mostly jest want to look at the pictures.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Look what you’ve done, Landon.” George tsked and shook his head, standing over the unconscious Nathaniel.

  Ma’iingan punched the earl’s son in the mouth.

  The young man went down like a buck with an arrow through the heart.

  And then Ma’iingan realized his mistake.