by Sean Little
Clarke and Shaw walked to the gates. Andrei was waiting at the portcullis. He had dressed in his best clothes, and his thick mop of unruly, wiry hair had been tamed as best he could with grease. When Andrei saw them, he broke into a wide, crooked-toothed smile.
“Oh, Ms. Shaw. Mr. Clarke! We were so worried about you! Lord Bobbins said you were not dead, and we tried to believe him, but given the circumstances, it was difficult.”
“He said we weren’t dead?” said Shaw. “That doesn’t sound like him.”
“His exact words were, ‘Ms. Shaw is simply too unpleasant to die.’ And then he indicated that you weren’t welcome in Heaven, and Hell is afraid of you.”
Shaw smiled. “That sounds like him. Let us in, please.” Andrei opened the portcullis enough to let them duck under, and then he closed it again, much to the disappointment of the crowd.
The castle had been readied for as big a production as Bobbins could make it. There was a simple stage erected just past the barbican, a throne-like chair in the center. There were wide garlands of red-white-and-blue fabric draped over the front of the stage. A pole in the center-rear of the stage had the same garlands coming down from it to the corners of the stage. There was even a makeshift lectern on the stage.
“This guy doesn’t half-ass anything, does he?” said Clarke with a low whistle.
“Not if he can help it, no.”
The main keep doors opened and Sandsworth stepped into the bailey. He carried a small bronze coronet. He cleared his throat and blew a clear, simple fanfare on the instrument. The sound hung in the air and the people outside the portcullis fell silent. Then, Sandsworth played a more intricate march. Andrei raised the portcullis, and the people gave a loud cheer and began to filter into the bailey.
When the majority of the people filled the area in front of the stage, Sandsworth played a new tune, something that sounded almost like God Save the Queen, but was different enough that it wouldn’t confuse anyone. Bobbins had his own entrance song, thought Clarke. That amused him. He’d seen men put on the coat-and-tails and do the dog-and-pony shows for people, but he’d never seen a man that had his own song of entry.
The large double-doors of the keep swung open, and Lord Bobbins stood in the middle of the open space striking a regal pose to create a noble tableau. He wore a bright red battle coat, adorned with gold buttons, medals, ribbons, and golden cords hanging from gold epaulets. This coat was complemented with bright navy blue trousers that ended just above his shoe-tops. He wore white spats with gold buttons at the side. His handlebar mustache was curled perfectly. His hair was combed into place with oils, but it was not overly done. A monocle on a golden chain was stuck in his right eye. He held his pose, stiff-backed and with an arm crooked to the center of his chest until Sandsworth finished the song on the coronet. Then, with the roar of the crowd’s approval, Lord Bobbins made his first public appearance as primar of Cărbunasatul.
Bobbins took the stage as though born to it, ascending the steps with grace and ease. He drank in the adoration of the crowd. He saluted them. He waved. He mugged when appropriate. Then, he took his place at the lectern. Clearly, this was a man well versed in the overt showmanship of politics.
“People of Cărbunasatul,” he called, his voice rising over theirs. “It gives me great joy to accept your decree that I assume the role of primar for your lovely, lovely village. I come bearing tidings from Her Royal Majesty, Queen Victoria, and assure you that Her Majesty looks forward to visiting this town one day soon.” Bobbins raised his arms and the people of the crowd cheered wildly. Bobbins smiled toothily.
“Five bucks says nobody in this crowd speaks English,” said Clarke.
“I wouldn’t take that bet,” said Shaw.
Bobbins lowered his arms and the crowd quieted. He continued his speech. “Now, I am aware of the struggles you have had of late. Never fear! I have brought the most fearsome hunter from America, Mr. Nicodemus Clarke, to deal with this beast for you. I vow that Cărbunasatul will be safe again soon. That is my number one priority.” When he raised his arms again, the crowd cheered again. Clarke wondered if Andrei or Csupo had coached them to do so.
“We have only to look to a prosperous future, my friends. England and Romania—together, we move into the future!” concluded Bobbins. He raised his arms and there was another roar from the crowd.
Clarke was impressed with Bobbins’ confidence. He seemed like a man with a vision and plan for the vision, and he was a willing ambassador.
After Bobbins finished his speech, he stood next to the large chair on the stage and one-by-one met with his new constituents, shaking hands, giving hugs to elderly women, and kissing babies as behooves any good politician. Vasile stood next to him acting as interpreter and aide. Csupo stood at the bottom of the stairs to the stage acting as gatekeeper, allowing families to pass only when the previous family had left the stage.
Most of the people were concerned about the werewolf and the visions they’d been having, and that came across in their dialogs with Bobbins. Clarke eavesdropped on Vasile’s translations.
“We can’t go outside and work the fields!”
“My children are scared to sleep at night!”
“Our town is dying!”
“Help us!”
As a good primar should, Bobbins nodded to their concerns, empathized with their fears, and tried to reassure them. The people were able to vent their fears and frustrations, and thus lighten their hearts. When people left the stage, they felt listened to and cared for, and the feeling of unease in the air lessened slightly with each kind word from Bobbins and each hug. It was as if the strange little man in the red coat had his own brand of magic.
Shaw watched Bobbins greeting the townsfolk until she was satisfied that no one in the crowd meant him any harm. She and Clarke returned to the interior of the keep. “Take off your shirt,” said Shaw when they got inside.
“That’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think? You haven’t even bought me dinner or met my parents.”
“I want to see how you’re healing. We didn’t have any supplies at the inn. I bet those cuts are infected.”
Clarke shed his coat and took off his blood-soaked shirt. He removed the bandage carefully. Parts of it clung to the forming scabs, and when he pulled the linen away it caused cracks that bled afresh. Clarke’s chest was burning at this point. The infection was festering and the skin around the wounds was a bright scarlet.
Shaw’s face couldn’t hide her concern and disgust. Her nose wrinkled and her mouth pulled into a tight line. “Oh, that’s not good. God knows what was on that thing’s claws. You could have a serious infection.”
“I’ve had serious infections before,” said Clarke. “I always pull through.”
“What happens when you get an infection and don’t pull through?”
“First time for everything, I guess.” Clarke gave her a cheesy grin.
Shaw narrowed her eyes at him. “Lie on the table. I need to tend to those. Put a towel down first and lie on that.”
Clarke did as instructed. Shaw disappeared up the stairs. When she returned, she had a small, wooden box under her arm. She took a hot pot of water off a hanger over the hearth with a thick cloth to protect her hand from burns. She poured some of the water in a bowl. Steam rose off it in thick wisps. She opened the box and inside was half a dozen jars of creams and ointments. She selected one and set it aside. Then, she got a thick, rough cloth from the kitchen and soaked it in the bowl of hot water.
“Are you a soft boy underneath that tough exterior?”
“Not in the least,” said Clarke. “I’ve been trying to become one, though.”
“I’m not going to lie,” she said. “This will hurt like blue blazes.”
Before Clarke could utter a reply, she took the cloth soaked in steaming water and began to scrub at Clarke’s wounds. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. The abrasive cloth did its job and scoured off the scabs that had formed. I
n seconds, his chest was bleeding freely again, soaking the towel beneath him. Clarke gritted his teeth and struggled through. He was no fan of pain, but machismo in the presence of a beautiful woman demanded he take it like a man. Had she not been there, Clarke may have allowed himself to scream like a newborn bunny.
When the wounds were cleaned well with the rag, Clarke poured steaming water across them. The pain made Clarke’s vision go wobbly and speckled with black streaks. It felt as though she was burning away his very soul. He clenched his fists and tightened his core, fighting through the flames.
Shaw patted down the wounds with a clean, dry cloth, soaking up blood as she did. Then, she scooped liberal amounts of a thick, sticky unguent from the glass jar with her fingers, spreading it over the cuts. The stuff acted like an anesthetic balm and numbed the pain on contact. Clarke let out his breath in a long, wavering sigh. Shaw bandaged the cut with a heavy linen pad and tied it to Clarke’s chest.
“Feel better?”
“Much,” said Clarke.
“You did well. I’ve seen men pass out from that.”
“Oh, I strongly considered it.”
Chef emerged from the kitchen at that moment. A look of utter horror crossed his face before he composed himself. In heavily accented broken English he asked, “Is not a barn for that? Why my table?”
“Sorry, Chef. Sometimes needs to as needs must,” said Shaw. “I will clean the table myself.”
Chef shook his head and returned to the kitchen. The sound of pots and pans being rattled and slammed in anger were clear. It made Clarke smile.
Bobbins returned from his meet-and-greet flushed from the day. Sandsworth was at his heel, two paces back and a pace to the right, as was his place.
Bobbins sat in a chair by the hearth, undoing his formal collar buttons as he did. Sandsworth brought him a snifter of brandy, and Bobbins drank it like a shot. He coughed and pounded his chest with a fist. “There’s the fire inside!” He handed the snifter back to Sandsworth, who immediately refilled it from a crystal decanter.
Bobbins smiled pleasantly at his bodyguard. “It is good to see you alive, Ms. Shaw. How was the cave? Did you find the werewolf?”
“Is it good to see me, or are you just happy to not have to interview new bodyguards?”
“Six of one, half-dozen of the other.”
Shaw smiled at her employer. She sat in a chair at the table and filled him in on the cave and the werewolf attack. She explained, or at least attempted to explain, the fear force. It’s hard to tell someone that you’ve witnessed magic without sounding slightly unbalanced.
Bobbins’ face remained inscrutable until she finished. Then, his eyebrows raised and his lips curled into a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. “This is exciting! I’ll bet you’re glad you came with us, aren’t you Mr. Clarke? Well—aside from that whole almost being killed by a werewolf thing.”
“I don’t need anyone’s help to almost get myself killed.” Clarke poured a snifter of brandy for himself. “I could have done that at home.”
“But all the same, when I can expedite matters I enjoy helping. What’s the next move for us?”
“Us?” said Shaw. “We. Mr. Clarke and myself. You stay here.”
“The hell I will,” said Bobbins. “I’m going Cărbunasatul in the morning. Ms. Shaw, you will accompany me. I suspect Mr. Clarke will tag along of his own accord.”
Clarke shrugged. “I suppose we should look at that mortuary. That’s the next place where something happened. I imagine the townsfolk probably haven’t touched the place out of fear.”
“I think the people need to see us showing no fear. If we show no fear, they will follow our lead,” said Bobbins. “That is what these people need now: Leadership that will not falter in the face of a challenge. I will go to the people. I will demand they erect their markets and proceed with business as usual. I will have lunch at their restaurants, drink their wine, and listen to their music. I will dance. I will sing. I will laugh and cry with them. I will praise their homes and animals, pat children on the head, and embrace their elderly. And, I will do all this in the streets without a gun at my hip to prove my fearlessness.”
“But we’ll have guns,” said Shaw.
“Oh, Sweet Juniper, yes. You’ll both be armed like you’re taking on Napoleon at Waterloo.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bobbins Goes to Town
Clarke retired to his room early in the evening. His appetite wasn’t much. The infection on his chest felt better, thanks to Shaw’s attentions, but it was still burning him up enough to make him feel weak and tired. He climbed the stairs to his assigned room and was pleased to find that one of the three Romanian helpers had taken out the old mattress and replaced it with a straw-tick filled with clean, fresh-smelling hay. The tick was covered with a pair of well-worn wool blankets and some clean sheets. Whoever cleaned the room had even given it a cursory sweep-and-mop. It helped kill some of the horrible smells that had been there the previous night.
Clarke blew out the candle he carried. He kicked off his boots and dropped his pants on the floor next to the bed. He flopped on the tick, stuffed his coat beneath his head like a pillow, and tugged the blankets over him in a haphazard way. He was asleep in seconds, worn out from the day and the fever.
Clarke awoke in the middle of the night. He went from sleeping to awake in the span of an instant. Eyes closed. Eyes open wide. The darkness of the cell was all-encompassing. His senses went into panic mode, heightening to an alarming point. From what little light crept in under the door from torchlight in the hall, he was able to see his room after a moment, after his eyes adjusted. He reached for the Colt that was still in the holster he’d dropped next to the bed. Something wasn’t quite right. He didn’t know what, or why—but something was wrong.
Clarke fumbled for matches and lit the candle. The soft glow of the flame illuminated his room well and assured him that no one was there. Quickly, he tugged on his trousers and fastened the gun belt around his waist. He slipped into his boots.
Clarke crept down the stairs holding his Colt at rest, pointed to the ceiling but ready to be lowered. The keep was silent. The hallway was empty. The grand hall was silent, save for the muffled flames in the hearth. Clarke opened the doors in the front of the keep and stepped into the bailey.
A storm had blown in during the night. A bitter arctic wind swirled straw in the compound and blew through the parapets. At the heights of the castle, the wind was aggressive, threatening. It made the flags whip and crack. Below the line of the wall the wind was well blocked, but it still managed to make its presence known.
When Clarke walked into the bailey, the wind surged. The high-pitched shriek sounded like a steam whistle. Clarke shivered. He regretted leaving his coat in his cell. The wind died for a moment, but then surged again. It shuddered. It wailed. The hair on the back of Clarke’s neck prickled.
From overhead, whispered by unseen voices, Clarke heard his name. Nicodemus…
He tightened his grip on the Colt. His heart beat hard. He tried to remind himself of the fear force. He tried to remind himself that the fear wasn’t real. It had to come from somewhere.
Nicodemus…
The voice came stronger this time. He was certain he heard it. It wasn’t a trick of the wind. There was someone calling his name in the wind. It was breathy and airy, like wind, and high-pitched like a whine in the ear, but it was definitely there.
Clarke ran up the steps to the ramparts and peered over the edge into the darkness. He couldn’t see anything beyond the walls. The cloud cover snuffed out any light from above. Only the small fire in the bailey provided any light whatsoever. Beyond the walls was a pure, unyielding darkness.
The voice called his name again. Clarke began to get frustrated. He knew what this was: it was someone trying to play with his mind. He left the ramparts and walked to the barbican. He walked to the portcullis and peered into the field beyond. The bonfire cast a feeble light. He could see nothing.
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Clarke got a piece of wood to use as a torch, doused the end with kerosene, and touched the end to the flames of the bonfire. He walked back to the portcullis holding the torch aloft with his left hand, gun in his right.
Nicodemus…
He thrust the torch through one of the gaps in the crisscrossed iron bars. Hunkered in the grass twenty-five feet from the gates was a human shape that looked like someone crouching next to a campfire. From the form, it looked female. Slim, almost waif-like, with long, stringy black hair down its back. It wore a ratty, dirty white dress, or perhaps it was a nightgown of some sort. Clarke couldn’t tell. The figure appeared to be hugging its knees as it squatted, rocking back and forth slightly.
“Who goes there?” Clarke shouted.
If the figure heard him, it paid him no mind. It continued to rock. The stringy hair was caught by the winds and blown wild.
Nicodemus…
Clarke felt like someone was behind him. He whirled, but saw no one. He whirled back to the woman outside and she was now standing. Her shoulders shuddered like someone crying. The sound of sobbing came on the wind, quietly at first, but quickly becoming louder.
“I know you’re not real,” shouted Clarke. “You will not play on my kindness that way.”
The sobs intensified on the wind. They began to become peppered with loud wails.
“Go back to hell, demon!” shouted Clarke.
In a single, lightning-fast movement, the woman spun on her heel and lifted into the air as if she was being called to Heaven. Her arms flared to the sides and her dress flapped wildly in the winds. She lifted a dozen feet into the air, hovering before Clarke. In the light of the torch, he could see the grotesque masque of her face. Her mouth gaped open to an impossible degree. Her eyes were simply large, liquid black pools. Her expression was that of an absolutely tortured woman who had known only sadness. She seemed to take in a great breath of air, and then she began to keen a horrid, high-pitched wail. It ran through Clarke’s body like something physical, something with teeth. It set every hair on his head on edge and he lost all feeling in his legs. He fell backwards, landing hard on his rump.
