by Ricky Fry
Nancy couldn’t help but laugh.
SIXTEEN
It wasn’t Bogdan who betrayed the priest, but a traveling merchant on his way through the village.
“That’s an awful lot of graves,” he said, as he peddled his wares to a somber crowd. “You’re not the only ones.”
“Yes,” said one of the men. “It’s happening all over the countryside.”
“Not exactly,” said the merchant. “Some of the villages have been spared.”
They pushed in close around him and demanded to know more. “Tell us,” they said. “Who has been spared?”
By the time Bogdan caught word of what was happening it was too late. The crowd had transformed into an angry mob. There was nothing he could do to stop them as they gathered on the steps of the wooden church, pounding on the door with clenched fists.
“Priest!” Some of the men waved pitchforks and sickles in the air. “Why have you not told us of the others—that those who continued the ceremony have escaped the terrible fate which has befallen us?”
The priest tried to calm them. “Please, my children. You must understand. Whatever trespass I’ve committed against you was for good reason.”
Bogdan thought they might kill him. He should say something, he thought from his place at the back of the crowd. But what was there to say? It was only when one of the men stepped forward and took the horrified priest by his neck that Bogdan emerged and stood before them.
“You are my friends,” he said. “You are my family. Please, listen to what the priest has to say. He has loved many of us since we were only children, and would never conspire with an agent of the Devil against us.”
“You knew?” It was the wife of one of the men who’d spoken first. “We trusted you. We believed in you.”
“I never asked you to believe in me. I was only a boy sent to die, who somehow lived.”
“Let’s not forget,” said the priest, who’d managed to free himself from the man’s grip. “Bogdan offered himself not once, but twice, and still returned to us alive and well. Surely this is a sign from God. He has a plan, you must believe, if only we might remain patient and allow our Lord in Heaven to conduct his divine work.”
The people were not as easily convinced by the priest as Bogdan had been. They wanted little of his ancient Bible stories. The only thing they understood was that the people around them, people they knew and loved, were falling like the trees fell in the forest.
“Who would have been sacrificed?” A faceless voice called out from somewhere deep within the crowd. “Who was next in line for the ceremony?”
“Ilya,” said another voice. “It was Ilya’s time to die so that the rest of us might live.”
“Please!” The priest waved his arms in the air as he tried to regain control. It was useless. Whatever he said was drowned in a turbulent sea of voices.
Within minutes it was settled. The ceremony would resume without delay. That it was not the customary date, or that the priest refused to lead them, mattered not. The only thing that mattered, they decided together in the feverish way an angry mob often decides things, was that the boy would be sent to his death that very night.
Ilya kicked and screamed as they tore him away from the arms of his mother and father.
Torches were lit. Words were spoken. And then, when he’d been fastened to the tree with the same leather cords that had once bound Bogdan’s hands, he was left alone for the evil spirit.
Bogdan could only imagine what the terrified, gentle boy was thinking. The poor boy, who had lived his whole life beneath the specter of death, and who’d been spared from the same fate as the others by Bogdan’s twice-over survival, had full knowledge his end was near, yet no time in which to prepare himself for the violence that would come. It was a terrible way to die.
“It’s awful,” he said.
Svyatoslav nodded in agreement as he lit his pipe. “I’d give myself in his place if such a thing could be done. But what would the evil spirit want with my dusty old sack of bones?”
Earlier in the day, the priest had disappeared into the church and had not been seen again. Bogdan and Svyatoslav had tried once more to stop the murderous mob. But their desperate pleas and protests fell upon deafened ears. He was no longer Bogdan the Great, just the man who had betrayed them.
Worse yet had been the boy’s mother, who’d begged him not to let them proceed. She had to be carried back to the house by Ilya’s father, tears washing down her face. It made him sick now, those sorrowful cries which played in his head. There would be no salvation, no miracles, no happy ending. There was nothing left to do but wait.
The mother’s cries had been bad enough, but it was young Ilya’s torturous wails of horror that kept him awake throughout the night. The boy would not offer himself quietly. Bogdan could only toss and turn in his empty bed before wandering back out into the cool summer night.
More than once, he thought to save the boy, but the villagers kept close watch, the biggest and boldest among them following closely behind as he paced from one end of the village to the other.
“Don’t make trouble,” they’d said. It would only serve to delay Ilya’s grisly end, for they would come to sacrifice the boy one way or another.
Who were they to speak to him in such a way? They were nothing more than cowardly farmers, who until now had been content to let others die in their place while they tended to their sheep and crops.
Perhaps, he thought, Svyatoslav could slip past them and reach the boy. But it was of no use. A visit to the house of his closest friend would not go unnoticed—and even if they were successful in setting the boy free, what then? Where would they take him? And what would stop the villagers, who had tasted blood and would not rest until more had been spilled, from sacrificing another?
He was never more in need of the priest. The old man had shut himself away, too disheartened by the events of the day to attend to the world of men. Surely, thought Bogdan, he would be deep in prayer. But he was desperate for the man’s counsel.
He’d just arrived at the steps of the church, a pair of suspicious eyes still trailing behind him, when the boy stopped screaming. Had he simply tired and given up, or had the evil spirit come to accept the village’s offer?
Bogdan wasn’t going to wait any longer to find out. He ran, the men who had been assigned to watch him in close pursuit, to the old tree where the deadly chain of events were first set in motion—the night he himself had been offered up to the beast.
Young Ilya was still lashed to the tree, his head slumped to one side. Thin lines of blood ran from the boy’s ears and eyes and open mouth. Bogdan listened for a breath and heard nothing.
Ilya was dead.
He was tender with the knife as he cut the boy down, supporting his limp body and lowering him gently to the earth. He leaned in close and kissed him on the forehead. He wanted to feel anger, to curse the villagers for what they had done, but it would only dishonor the life of a sweet and gentle boy, who in his short years among them, was known for his innocent smile and the love he’d had for his mother.
Daylight had just begun to break when he took the boy’s body in his arms and carried him to the place in the center of the village where they’d built a makeshift funeral pyre. Ilya’s mother, supported by her husband, was the first to arrive. She sobbed again, heavy tears falling to the dirt, as she wiped the blood from the boy’s face and ran her fingers through his blonde hair. “He was so beautiful,” she said. “I pray he is with our Lord God in Heaven.”
“I’m sorry,” said Bogdan. He knew it was not enough. There were no words which might cure the pain a mother felt at the loss of her child. He was only glad his own dear mother, who’d only recently retired with his father to the village where she’d been born, was not there to share in the grieving woman’s agony.
As the the sun broke over the horizon, more villagers came to assemble at the place where Bogdan had brought young Ilya’s body to its final rest. They spoke
in hushed tones and thanked God the spirit had accepted their offering. Things would go back to normal, they whispered. They had only done what they should have done from the very beginning. The only shame, they said, was that the others had to die first.
Bogdan loathed them. He stood on the edge of the clearing and watched them deliver bold assurances that they had in fact done the right thing. But he knew the priest was right. It was they who had traded their faith in God for a deal with the Devil. He decided in that moment he would take his son and leave the village. There had to be a place, he imagined, where people would not sacrifice their neighbor out of fear.
“Fools!” A voice washed over the crowd and silenced them. It was the priest, who had finally emerged from the sanctuary of the church. His hair and robes were disheveled. He had the look of a man who had not slept. “The Devil rejoices, for while you might live this day and the next, he has claimed your very souls for all eternity.”
His speech was met with boos and jeers. What did they care for the ramblings of a tired old priest? He had betrayed them, they said, along with the man who would forever be remembered as Bogdan the Terrible.
Someone lit a torch. The boy’s body was lifted above their heads and tossed upon the pyre. A roaring fire erupted, and the people cheered. They would celebrate with a great feast, for surely now the evil spirit had been appeased.
Their joyous mood was soon shattered by a single scream. It had come from a house at the far end of the village, and was joined not long after by another. Then another. The crowd panicked—the flames of Ilya’s funeral pyre were reflected in their wide eyes like the fires of Hell.
“My husband!” A woman stumbled from one of the nearby houses and collapsed to the ground at the feet of the priest. “My poor husband is dead!”
He wasn’t the only one. By morning’s end, the number of dead totaled seven—three men and four boys—each discovered, like the others, cold and lifeless in their beds.
The sacrifice of young Ilya was in vain. The evil spirit had sent a message. He wouldn’t stop, not until every last one of them had perished.
SEVENTEEN
The old woman had turned out to be an excellent nanny. While Nancy was happy to have so much help with Nora, she’d grown bored at the days spent wasting away in the house. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought. She should be wining and dining with the women she’d once called friends, but her husband’s legal troubles had destroyed any hope she had of returning to the inner circles of Boston’s high society.
In the weeks and months since his arrest, more of his former clients had come forward to accuse him of stealing their life savings. With each new victim, the media coverage was renewed.
She’d gaped in horror the first time she saw her name printed beside his in the New York Times. There was even a photo of her at one of the charity banquets she’d once been so keen to attend. No doubt one of her former friends had been paid good money for it. The only positive was the black dress she’d worn—at least no one could accuse of her of being a slouch.
Her only choice was to pass most days in bed, a bottle of sleeping pills on the nightstand within easy reach. They were the only thing that gave her some comfort. Once, on a particularly fine afternoon, she finally worked up the courage to venture out into the garden, but the whirring rotors of a news helicopter flying overhead sent her scurrying back into the house.
Mr. Hardaway was poor company. He spent his days prepping for the trial with his good-for-nothing lawyer. He’d go into the study and close the door, and when he finally emerged late in the evenings, he’d trudge up to bed without saying a word.
If it wasn’t for Inez she’d be totally alone. They were taking coffee together in the kitchen when there was an unexpected knock on the front door.
“Don’t worry,” said the housekeeper. “I’ll take care of it.”
Nancy had grown tired of the interruptions. It was always some reporter with a camera in tow. None of them were interested in anything she had to say. They’d shout accusations and get their ten-second video clip for the evening news. She’d begged Byron to hire a security firm to post someone outside, but as she’d grown accustomed to hearing over the weeks and months leading up to the trial, there were no funds for such a frivolous expense. Inez, for her part, had been diligent in sending them away. They had no use for a video clip of the housekeeper.
Nancy listened from the kitchen as the no-nonsense woman closed the door in yet another reporter’s face. If she could, she would have given her a raise.
“I’m sorry,” she said, when Inez returned to the kitchen. “It’s not your job to handle media relations.”
Inez laughed. “It’s no trouble, Mrs. Hardaway.”
Nancy had always considered herself superior the other woman. She was the employer, after all, and the dispensing of paychecks brought with it a certain power. But her fall from grace had bestowed a sense of humility. There were moments when she admired Inez for her honesty and her unshakeable dedication to her own family. “Please,” she said, “it’s about time you started calling me Nancy.”
The housekeeper’s face knotted up as if she were solving a difficult puzzle. “You sure, Mrs. Hardaway?”
“Yes, Inez. I’m quite sure. You’re such a wonderful presence in our home. We can’t possibly do enough to thank you.”
“Okay, Nancy.” The name slipped between her lips with some degree of difficulty. “I appreciate your kind words. If only those reporters knew what a nice lady you were, maybe they’d stop bothering us.”
“They won’t stop—not until all of this is over. Even then, I’m not sure things will ever go back to normal.”
“Have faith, Nancy. Put your trust in God and let him lead the way. He’ll carry you out of this mess.”
God. She’d always secretly balked at the woman’s religious convictions. It seemed to her like nothing more than a folly for those too weak to make their own way in life. She’d always gotten along just fine, she told herself often, without any help from God. But maybe Inez was right. Besides, with Byron’s trial starting soon, she was going to need all the help she could get.
It was an awful affair. Day after day she passed through a set of metal detectors, sour-faced court officers waving her down with a wand like a common criminal whenever she forgot to remove some piece of jewelry. Then there was the courtroom itself, with the judge presiding over everything like some kind of feudal lord.
She tried to smile at him once. It would do good to make a positive impression on the man who held her husband’s fate—and by extension her own fate—in his hands. But the black-robed man was entirely without expression, a general look of disdain for her husband and the details of his trial the only exception.
She was in enemy territory. All around her, crowded into the long rows of wooden benches, were the families of those who had been fleeced. She caught their sideways looks—their eyes burning into the back of her head. Every torturous minute in that room passed like an eternity.
The jury selection came first and lasted a full two days. Potential jurors were questioned by the prosecutor and Mr. Bennett about their backgrounds, their families, and whatever knowledge they might have about the case.
“I hope he burns in hell,” said a rough looking man who spoke of hardworking families and the retirement savings which had been lost to her husband’s scheming. “It’s people like you,” he said, addressing her husband directly, “who get rich on the backs of people like me.”
While the prosecution had been keen to see the angry man selected to the jury, Mr. Bennett made quick work of having him dismissed. Still, there was only so much damage control the beady-eyed lawyer could do.
There were very few who hadn’t heard at least something about the case, a handful of odd types and modern day recluses, who would eventually form the committee of twelve that would decide her husband’s innocence or guilt.
The whole thing seemed rather improbable, and yet there she was at
the center—the balance of everything coming down to the will of a dozen strangers. She remembered something Inez had said about leaving judgement to God. It was beginning to make a lot of sense.
On the third day, the trial was set to begin. They’d arrived early so Nancy could take up a position directly behind Byron, who sat alongside his lawyer at the same table where he’d sat during the preliminary hearing. She fidgeted on the hard wooden bench and stood when the room was called to order.
The prosecutor, a tall, grey-haired man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit, was first to give his opening statement.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentleman of the jury, as I stand before you today I’m filled with disappointment.” He let each word hang for dramatic effect like a bad actor in a second-rate theater performance. “While the facts of this case are clear, there will be no winner. The victims of this well-planned and carefully orchestrated crime have, in many cases, lost their entire life savings. Can you imagine, everything they’ve worked so hard to achieve, decades of sacrifice and disciplined effort, lost in the blink of an eye to the greed of a single man?
“That man is Byron James Hardaway.” He pointed to her husband with a shaky finger. “Mr. Hardaway also stands to lose everything—his stolen money, his life of luxury, and even his very freedom. This is truly a sad day for everyone.
“But I must do my duty,” he said, turning to face the jury. “And you must do yours. Over the coming days and weeks, you will challenged with the complexities of a bold financial scheme designed only to mislead, misdirect, conceal, and steal from those who put their trust in the man now seated before you. It will not be easy, but I will do my best to present the government’s case with clarity and precision. I ask only one thing, that when the facts of this case have been presented, and the defendant’s crimes have been revealed, you, in your civic duty as the members of this jury, convict this man and send him away to prison. It’s only right. It’s what he deserves.”
