The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart

by Jesse Bullington

  Yes please. As I say, it doesn’t help like it used to. But it helps. Better, better.

  Elise is screaming in the garden, and I run to her, and I see, I see, that filthy, oh Christ, his mask is off and he’s got his decaying face pressed to hers, the mask is at his feet and his skin is falling off. I beat him with my walking stick, I hit, I hit, and he fell apart like a rotten roast, chunks of meat and bone and he just fell apart but it was too late. I saw it enter her, oh Hell, I see, I see…

  How long have I-Never mind, I’d rather not-Yes, very much so. Better, better. Benedictines, definitely. More? Ugh. First a touch more of this, if it’s all the same.

  It had her. That demon had her, and only her eyes were her own, and it told me with her unforgettable voice what it would have her do, and I could not move, I was paralyzed with grief. And it laughed with her laugh, and told me all was my fault for abandoning my brothers and then leading her back to it. It thanked me with her angelic voice! Then it told me if I would give my soul and my flesh it would leave her with no harm done to her spirit or body, if only I would let it inside me. It said a monk would be good sport!

  In blackest suffering only His Light penetrates, and it found me then, moments before the demon surely would have had me, and by my own volition. I adored her that much, Grossbarts, that had I, I would, I, I-

  I did not. Instead, He inspired me. A demon that demands I offer my soul before taking my body is a demon which cannot take my soul unless it is given, regardless of what vengeance it wreaks upon my corporeal self! And if a fallen monk is still thus protected, what of an unblemished, edelweiss-pure soul such as Elise’s? I began to laugh and it strode closer in her flesh, eager to hear my answer, sure that madness had convinced me. Instead I swung my cane and knocked them into the fire and it pulled me in after, and if I wore a hairshirt then as I do now then we both would be lost.

  I managed to douse myself in the snow, although my chest and belly are forever scarred from the blaze. She and it screamed in concert, but in her boiling eyes I still saw nothing but love through the pain. They ran toward the same drift as I but I mercilessly beat them back with my cane, and when she went silent and its blackening shadow tried to slip out I burst its skin with my smoldering cane, and heard it shriek my name as it seemingly expired.

  Thank you, very kind. Actually, this one is about empty, do you-Excellent, thank you, thank you.

  No. No, oh, but were it thus! What I took to be a death rattle was instead a cry of triumph, for behind me a traveler on horseback had ridden into the courtyard. Even as he retched atop his steed from the noxious mist billowing off her melting corpse the faintest, deflating visage of the thing shot toward me but balked at my flaming stick and instead fell upon this new arrival.

  Was he an emissary from a nearby town or brother monastery or a soldier returning from a campaign or a merchant bringing alms? I know not, and I never even saw his face, but that awful night I heard him gag and scream as it slipped inside him, his horse galloping away of its own accord with the unfortunate rider astride it. I knew it had escaped me, but I also knew His Purifying Flame could be its undoing if only there were not other vulnerable victims to be had. Why did it not simply enter my body? Was it my cane which had caught fire and barred its way, or my deep faith that it could not harm me? Had I some immunity of a physical nature to its loathsome pox? I know little more now than I did then, except that my life has revolved around ferreting out that demon and its vile kin wherever they spread their pest.

  What’s that? Of course, of course. I re-donned my habit then and there and took the vows which I had so eagerly shirked before, again He my only witness, and the only witness that matters. Unlike in my youth, these vows were meant with every fiber of my soul, I wept and wept, my tears sizzling on her smoking remains, and swore I would earn my place by her side as well as Hers in the eternal. I knew He wanted me to do more than even my order would allow, which is why I have become a priest instead of a simple brother. I have spent every moment from that until this searching, searching, for any clue at all! These last few years have actually been more fruitful if more perilous, for instances of the pest are far less common, guiding me ever closer to the victory which it seems you have taken from me. Better, though, for if I had been there only He knows what jeopardy I might have put my soul into, so deeply did I seek vengeance. And there were others between it and me, lesser powers, furry worms hiding inside the demoniacs, and these I ruthlessly suppressed and drove back, but always that one, that powerful malignancy, who prefers to receive rather than steal his steeds, meaning the man harboring it who I pursued through this range was either necromancer or diabolist, warlock or murderer. At the least a heretic, at the very least.

  I will not bore you with the struggles I went through in that fair city of Avignon, where lush trees and ornate towers rub each other in grim parody of the state our beloved Church has fallen into. The Holy Office, that very institution meant to hunt it out, admits that heresies exist but questions the legitimacy of witches and warlocks, some even doubting the corporeality of demons! What folly is this? They tell me only women are susceptible, and the victim must always sin to let them enter. They exchange winks and tell me demons reside in the bowels, not the humours, and application of the cross will banish them and save the demoniac. Falsehoods implanted by the very evil we must uproot! We above all others are impressed with this deplorable duty, and yet they do not listen to me, one of theirs who has faced one of Lucifer’s! But always, always, I remember her face and the words she spoke before leaving my side forever: we must have faith. God will deliver us.

  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-” Hege
l 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?”