A knock at the door broke his meditations and he barked at the person to enter. Watchman Keisler stepped into the room clutching a heavy canvass bag. Keisler was dark and sober and followed orders to the letter. For these reasons, the Bishop had anointed him captain of the watch.
The bottom of the canvas bag was dark and wet. A single drop fell to the floor, splattering red onto the scuffed hardwood.
The Bishop 's gaze fell to the blood on his floor then up to Watchman Keisler. “Is that it?”
“Yes, sir.” Keisler raised the satchel a few inches. “It's heavy.”
“Good. Then let's get this over with.”
They quit the house and marched west, away from the main part of the village. The Bishop led the way through the green stalks of timothy, dangling a hoop of iron keys in his hand. Looking back over his shoulder, he said “Where's the rest of it?”
“In the ice shed behind your quarters.”
“Good. Has anyone come asking about their...remnants?”
“Frau Lindstum did. She was quite upset too.”
“I'll speak with her.”
The field rose on an incline and the two men crested the rise to the plateau of a graveyard. Trudging through the tombstones, they drew up before a building of mortared fieldstone. The Bishop unlocked the iron gate and let Keisler enter. Before them was the vault to the masoleum, on the left stood the passage to the Penance hole and its sole occupant. Keisler struck a match to light the lantern and their shadows flitted over the rows of votive candles. Moving past the vault, Keisler stopped before a trapdoor in the floor. Brushing aside the withered flower petals, he hauled the trapdoor open by its ring. Wooden steps led down into darkness, each one groaning under their boots as they descended.
Watchman Keisler almost fell with the heavy satchel and the Bishop held his arm as he gingered the last steps to an uneven floor of hewn earth. The walls were sheer rock, the ceiling held aloft by beams like an old mining shaft. Keisler readjusted his grip on the bag and followed his Bishop down the passageway.
The stench, already nosed from the top of the narrow stairs, intensified until both men covered their snouts with their hands. The low guttural noises coming from further on bounced off the stone walls all around them and then the passage opened up into a vast darkness. The floor before them fell away in a sheer drop and the stench burned their eyes.
The watchman let the bag fall to the ground as the Bishop hung the lantern on a peg and lit another lamp on the opposite side of the doorway. The added light did nothing to push back the darkness. The space was cavernous, a chasm plunging away before them and down in the darkness something shuffled with unearthly clamor.
The Bishop flung open the heavy sack and then turned to Keisler. “Do we know whom this belongs to?”
“Lundstrom, sir.”
The Bishop reached into the bag and lifted out something wet and dripping. As mutilated and broken as it was, it was still recognizable as an arm. Three of the fingers were missing from the hand and the Bishop wondered whether the pieces were still inside the satchel or lost altogether.
The noise coming from down in the pit grew louder as the smell of blood drifted up from the satchel. A cacophony of snarling and popping teeth grew louder as the Bishop dangled the limb over the edge.
“A Pentecost gift for your black soul.” He dropped the limb into the pit.
The obscene noise from the pit grew louder. The Bishop stood and kicked the satchel over the edge and turned for the archway.
Locking the mausoleum, the Bishop and his watchman trudged back through the weed blown cemetery without another word. A voice in the night caught their ears and they looked up to see watchman Hess running towards them, the shins of his trousers damp from the dewy weeds.
“Bishop,” he panted as he drew up. “Come. There's trouble.”
The Bishop scowled. There was blood on his hands and all he wanted right now was to scrub them clean. “What is it now?”
“The girl,” Hess spat, hands on his knees. “The English girl. She's a witch.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She's doing something to the injured. They claim she's curing them.”
The Bishop's sullied hands clenched into tight fists. “Where is she?”
~
The silver was provided by the stricken man's wife, a silver thimble given to her by her grandmother. It was a keepsake more than a tool, kept hidden away in her sewing kit. After leading Amy to her husband's bedside, Frau Goerzner pressed it into her hand and pleaded with her in a rapidfire tongue. Amy looked to Silas for help.
“She's begging you to save the father of her four children,” he translated.
She did what was asked, making a small incision and slipping the silver under the man's flesh. The wife prattled on and Amy stepped away as the woman cleaned and dressed the wound. Of the four children standing vigil around the bed, the eldest boy turned to her and thanked her in English.
“Here.” Silas pulled her away to the window. Holding a linen in his hand, he nodded at the basin of water on the dresser. “You can wash your hands.”
Rinsing her hands in the cold water, she said “They don't need me to do this. Just show them how to do it.”
“We can't. It's a sin to cut into another's flesh.”
“Even to save them? What does the doctor do?”
“He heals without cutting.” He watched her frown then looked down at his shoes. “You think we're backwards, don't you?”
“I just don't understand. Don't you ever…” She shrugged the thought aside.
“What?”
“Do you ever question it? This way of life?”
“It's all I've ever known.” He held the linen out. “Give me your hands.”
She looked skeptical for a moment before lifting her dripping hands from the basin. He folded the towel over them and patted her hands dry. “Do you ever question your way of life?” he asked.
“All the time.”
His fingers clenched over hers through the thin material. “And what do you do about it?”
Amy paused. “Nothing.”
“Well. Maybe you and I are not so different after all.”
She saw a hint of a grin crease his lips. For some reason, she expected him to wink but he did not.
She was nudged from the side as another person crowded into the bedroom. Silas noted the newcomers and how they whispered amongst themselves, their eyes darting from the man in the sickbed and back to Amy.
His grin fell away. “Word is spreading about what you've done. More plain folk are going to come to you for help.”
“I have to find Lara.”
“She's in the penance hole. We can't get her out of there.”
She flung the towel onto the dresser. “Then I need to get out of here.”
“All right. Let's go now.” He took her hand and slipped through the crowd towards the door. “Put the cloak back on. Where's the bonnet?”
“I’m not putting that back on.” She draped the cloak over her shoulder and pulled the hood over, shading her eyes. “Move.”
They pushed through the hallway towards the stairs. His hand squeezed tight over hers as if afraid he would lose her. She bumped up against him when Silas stopped cold at the top of the stairs.
The Bishop stood at the landing, flanked by two of his watchmen.
Amy shrank away as Silas moved to hide her. The Bishop flew up two steps at a time, elbowing Silas aside as he strode towards the bedroom. Everyone cowed and flinched at his booming voice, berating them all in German. Four people ran from the room and thundered down the stairs.
Amy peaked over Silas's shoulder to see the Bishop tear the hat from his head and haze the family from the bed like cattle. The children scurried away but the wife refused to leave. Watchman Keisler tore her from her husband's side and pushed her onto her knees as the Bishop paced the floorboards, his deep voice echoing off the thin wooden walls.
She leaned closer to Sil
as's ear. “What's he saying?”
“He's telling them to pray for their sins and weak spirit. For letting their weakness lead them to witchcraft.”
The Bishop fumed and railed before turning to the man laying peacefully in the bed and flinging the sheet back. Tearing the dressing away, he dug his finger and thumb into the wound until blood seeped down the man's belly to stain the sheets. The Bishop grunted triumphantly and held his hand high, the bloodied thimble pinched between his fingers. He flung it out the open window.
The horror was immediate. The injured man started to quake in a fit and a long moan of anguish spilled from his throat. The wife rose to comfort him but Keisler pushed her back down. The Bishop barked orders at his men as he pinned the injured man down, struggling to contain the violent paroxysms.
Amy heard Silas gasp at the leader's words. She gripped his elbow harder. “What is it? What did he say?”
“He ordered his men to tie him down,” Silas whispered. “He said he would cure the man himself, here and now.”
“How?”
When he turned to look at her, his face was pale. “He's going to exorcise the demons from the man.”
~
The noise was unbearable. The watchmen had driven everyone from the room so the Bishop could perform the rite of exorcism. Before being chased off, Silas caught a glimpse of the Bishop preparing himself. He had shrugged off his long jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, like a brawler getting ready to enter the ring.
Neighbors crowded into the parlor to comfort the family. Women fussed in the kitchen to make tea while the men stood idle, all pretending not to hear the terrible noises coming from the upstairs bedroom. The Bishop's voice boomed in fury and the stricken man alternated between cries of agony and snarls of rage. The house shook from the banging and crashing on the second floor, as if the two men were hurling one another into the walls.
For once, Amy was grateful that she did not understand their language. She did not want to know what the Bishop was bellowing about nor listen to the people in the room comforting the family at the table. The whole atmosphere felt like a funeral with mourners mumbling in hushed tones and it reminded her of her father. There had been no funeral, no wake of any kind then. She immediately wanted to leave.
“I have to get out of here,” she said. Without another word, they made for the door.
Silas's father appeared out of nowhere, his eyes dark with a cool anger. “You must take the girl back. Quickly, before the watchmen see her.”
“I can't,” Silas said. “I promised I would help her.”
The man's eyes darted coldly to Amy. “I don't care what you promised. You're putting our family at risk.”
“We are indebted to her,” Silas spat back. “All of us.”
“Use your brains. What will the Bishop do when he finds out?”
Silas wagged his chin at the awful sounds spilling from the bedroom. “Do you want him to perform that on Jacob?”
Amy watched the older man clench down his anger. His eyes were damp and he looked away to hide them. He didn’t seem like a bad man, Amy thought. Just caught in bad circumstances.
Something was suddenly wrong. She thought it was another noise but realized it was the lack of it. The room upstairs fell silent and then like a wave, the silence fell across the people assembled on the main floor. All eyes lifted to the bedroom door.
It swung open with a rusty creak and the Bishop emerged. He looked as if he had been assaulted and left for dead. His hair was plastered across his brow with sweat, his shirt torn and disheveled. He leaned over the railing and looked down on the assembled folk.
“It is finished,” he said. “The devil has been cast out. God has shown mercy on brother Georzen. He has been saved.”
Both watchmen stepped into the hallway, holding the stricken man between them. Goerzner's head lolled limply on his neck. The Bishop lifted his chin and the man's eyes opened. Exhausted but lucid, he mumbled a prayer of thanks and his bearers carried him back into the room.
The Bishop smeared a forearm across his brow before addressing the families again. “The Lord has granted us His mercy by showing us the way. Tomorrow, we will exorcise all of the injured and sick. With God's clemency, we will save their souls from this evil.”
Amy looked to Silas but the young man's jaw was slung open in silence.
30
“YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN this coming.” Griffin sat with his knees to his chest to keep warm. The stone walls of the silo were cool and the dampness had seeped into his bones. He glared at the woman across the room. “You should have predicted this would have happened.”
Tasha didn’t even bother to look at him. “I'm not a diviner, Griffin.”
“Maybe you should start,” he grumbled. “Next time we go out on a case, you can cut open a dead pigeon and read the future in its guts.”
“You want a haruspex for that. Not my field.”
“Whatever.”
Tasha rotated her neck. “Tell you what. If we get out of here, I'll recommend one. Cause I fucking quit.”
“Good,” he spat back. “You're dead weight anyway.”
Each party looked away from the other. Neither had spoken loud or bellowed. There was no need, given the acoustics of the stone construction. When the third voice spoke, it boomed over the round interior.
“Would you two shut the fuck up?”
Tasha and Griffin startled in the same beat, eyes darting to the pallet. Jay sat up rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Jay?”
“How you feeling, buddy?” Griffin patted his friend's back. “You gave us a hell of a scare.”
Jay looked up at them in a bewildered haze, his movements slow. “I need some water.”
Tasha brought the tin cup from the bucket and passed it to his shaky hands. “How do you feel? Are you in pain?”
Water dribbled down his beard. “I feel kind of numb.”
“Maybe numb is good,” Griffin said. “You really got put through the ringer.”
Jay looked at Griffin and then Tasha. “What happened?”
Tasha studied the young man's face. “You don't remember?”
“Everything's kind of a blur.” Jay's eyes rolled slowly across the room, blinking in confusion. “What the hell is this?”
Tasha glanced quickly at Griffin before answering. “We're still in that village. With the Amish people. Do you remember?”
“Yeah but... What the hell kinda hospital do they run?” He tried to sit up straight but winced at the effort. His eyes went down to the bandages on his arm. “What the hell happened? That kid didn't hit me with the shotgun, did she?”
Tasha tried her best poker face but if it was anything like Griffin's, the truth was leaking out. Jay didn't remember the wolf or being attacked. He didn't know what had happened to him.
The cameraman's expression fell at seeing his friend's hesitation. “Dude, quit freaking me out. What is it?”
Tasha cursed their captors for taking her cigarettes. “Jay, you got hurt in the attack. That thing—”
The clang of iron rang through the cell. The door pushed open and three of the black clad watchmen strode in. The first one hazed Griffin and Tasha back while the other two snatched Jay by the arms and ferried him to the door.
“Hey, get offa me!” Jay struggled in their grip but his injuries sapped his strength. “Griffin!”
Griffin barked at the watchman. “Where are you taking him?”
The watchman's teeth flashed as he sneered in English. “To the Bishop.”
“Why?” Tasha said. “What does the Bishop want with him?”
“He is cursed.” The watchman turned and followed his companions out the door. “He is to be exorcised of his demons.”
Tasha felt her jaw give out. “Did he say exorcised?”
~
Under the cast of the pole star, two figures slipped from the Goerzner house and darted over the weed blown lot. Silas had stood slackjawed at the Bishop's w
ords when he felt a hand clamp his wrist and yank him to the door. The English girl pulled him away and they bolted from the house. Huddled low against a shed, they watched the path but no pursuers burst from the doors after them.
Silas leaned back against the barnboard. “Jacob won't survive an ordeal like that. What am I going to do?”
“You’re gonna help me find Lara.”
He shook his head. “That's too risky. You need to flee now. Come back with the English authorities to get your friends.”
“I can't leave Lara here. Where is she being held?”
“Amy, you'll get caught—”
She snatched him by the collar. “You promised you would help me. Show me where she is.”
His anger flared at being accosted so. No woman had ever laid a hand on him like that, not even his own mother but his anger blew off when he saw the desperation in her eyes. “This way.”
They kept to the shadows as they scurried from house to house. Word of the Bishop's decision was spreading fast as the mourners ran to tell the other families what was to become of their injured. Cries and wails drifted up from one house after another as news dominoed through the village.
Amy peered around the next corner. “Where is it?”
Silas pointed. “There.”
Amy followed his lead to where a tall structure rose up from the gravestones of the cemetery. Another stone silo with an iron gate set in its arched doorway, it towered up like an enormous termite mound. There was no way to approach it unseen. Amy scanned for stragglers and then sprinted off at a dead run.
“Wait!” Silas hissed but it was too late. Amy was halfway across the graveyard. He bolted after her.
They collided into the gate. Amy tugged on it but the door rattled in its frame, locked tight. Silas flattened his back against the wall and eyeballed the cemetery to see if they had been seen.
“Only the watchmen and the Bishop have keys to the penance hole,” he said. “We can't get her out.”
Amy knelt in the weeds to take a closer look at the lock. The iron block was big and rusted, the slot channeled for an archaic skeleton key. She patted her pockets down but remembered they had been emptied by her stone-faced captors. But there was the bonnet. Threaded into the back was a large pin meant to secure the hat into one's hair. It might work. Pressing it flat against the iron block, she bent the pin and then worked it into the lock.
Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3 Page 74
