by Cory Barclay
The investigator motioned for Tomas, and the soldier nodded and stepped forward. He unsheathed his sword, nudged the door open, and then Heinrich and Georg came to his side.
Tomas’ mouth dropped open.
“Dear God,” Georg stammered.
Martin Acterberg stood at the end of the room with a bloody knife in his hand. He faced the men with a wild, crazed look in his eyes. “He stole my love from me,” the boy said through clenched teeth.
Karl Achterberg was at the boy’s feet, surrounded by a pool of his own blood.
PART II
The Devil’s Instrument
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DIETER
Father Dieter Nicolaus sat at a small table, hunched over a German translation of the New Testament. In one hand, he clutched the wooden amulet Sybil had given him, while his other hand traced over the text of the Gospels. The hearth next to his table was dark, the windows of his lodging were shuttered. A single flickering candle on his table was the only light in the cold room.
He eyed the amulet in his hand, feeling the rough edges of the two crosses, and smiled.
He heard a sound, and his gaze shot over to the front door of the room as it creaked opened.
Sybil’s face poked into the doorway.
Dieter smiled again and waved his hand at the girl. “Come in, come in.”
Sybil tiptoed into the room, quietly closed the door behind her, and crept across the length of the living room. She sat in a chair next to Dieter.
Dieter first noticed her clothes: a dark blue gown and woolen overcoat. But he frowned when he noticed her eyes darting around, a worried look on her face.
“What troubles you, my dear?”
“I’ll admit,” Sybil said, whispering, “I don’t like meeting here.” She cast her eyes downward, and Dieter followed them to the floorboards in the center of the room. The dried blood of Karl Achterberg still stained the floor.
A week had passed since Bertrude Achterberg’s confession and arrest, and Karl Achterberg’s death at the hands of his son. The house had been vacant since. The events gave the room an eerie, ominous feel, especially in the dead of night.
Still, Dieter and Sybil had met at the house nearly every night since Karl’s death and Martin’s arrest. The priest taught the girl to read and write by poring through the Bible.
Dieter felt guilty for making Sybil uneasy. “It’s the only place I could think of that’s close enough to your estate so that we don’t alert attention, my child.” He placed a hand on her slender shoulder.
“Please, call me Beele, Father.”
“Then call me Dieter.”
Sybil’s eyes were big and frightened when she faced him. “I know it’s a good hideaway, being outside of town . . . but people died here. The werewolf lived in this house!”
Dieter gently squeezed Sybil’s arm. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Beele. I don’t believe Bertrude Achterberg is capable of being the beast that everyone in Bedburg fears.”
“But isn’t this house cursed?” Sybil asked.
“Some might believe that, depending on their superstitions. But if we’re seen sneaking out at night together, that could be a much worse omen for us. I would hate to see anything happen to you.”
Sybil’s gaze went back to the floor, and Dieter thought he saw her blushing.
“Besides,” the priest continued, “this house will be blessed soon, and all will be forgiven and forgotten.”
Sybil lifted her head. Dieter was smiling. “Do you really believe that,” she asked. “What will happen to this house?”
“Well, the estate will go to the church. Bishop Solomon will absolve this place of past sins, and, if we’re lucky, this place will become a house of worship.”
“Hopefully after the blood is removed . . .”
Dieter’s smile turned into a frown. He paused for a moment, said, “Come now,” and moved his hand from Sybil’s arm. “Let’s continue where we left off,” he said, and looked down at the Bible.
“All right, but I fear I don’t have much time.”
Dieter craned his neck to the side. “Does your father know you’re here?”
“Of course not . . . but he left home earlier than usual. He might come back earlier, too.”
Dieter nodded firmly. “Then let’s get on with it.” He looked far off, past Sybil, into the darkness behind her. “Tomorrow is an early start for me as well.”
She must have noticed his distant stare. “What’s tomorrow?”
Dieter sighed. He’d hoped to avoid dark topics with the girl he felt so dearly for. “Tomorrow is Bertrude Achterberg’s execution, Beele. As a priest, I must speak to the people and the condemned before she is . . . well . . . it is going to be a gruesome affair. Please do not come, Beele. My heart would shatter.”
Sybil stayed quiet for a long time. Then she startled Dieter by lunging and wrapping her arms around him. “That’s horrible,” she said.
She rested her head on the curve of Dieter’s neck. He could feel tears running from her eyes down his shoulder, and her warm breath against his neck.
Dieter shuddered, felt his throat go tight, and the hairs on his neck stood on edge.
Sybil tilted her head back to look at his face. “Are you all right? Are you cold?”
Dieter shook his head fervently, but struggled to speak. He was not cold, but the opposite—his body tingled with fire. “N-no, no,” he finally stammered.
Sybil ran a hand from the small of his back up toward his shoulder blades.
“P-please,” Dieter said weakly.
Sybil ignored his protest and massaged his back for what seemed like eons. “You’ll be fine tomorrow,” she said after finishing her massage. She moved her hand away from his back, but then leaned close to him and planted a wet kiss on the side of his cheek. “For good luck,” she said, grinning.
Dieter’s mind went dizzy and his cheeks turned cherry-red. He hurried to face his Bible, and flipped rapidly through the pages as if he were looking for a specific page.
Sybil chuckled.
“R-right,” the priest said, trying to calm his racing heart. “Let’s get on with it.”
The next morning, a spitting rain woke the quiet town. Dieter stared at the stained-glass doors of the church, looking at his reflection in the windows. His eyes seemed sunken, the edges wrinkled by crow’s feet. He sighed, knowing he looked nothing like an exuberant, youthful twenty-year-old.
He’d walked Sybil home the night before, gotten hardly any sleep, and spent hours praying, readying himself for this day. He was tired—physically and spiritually. His mind was conflicted and confined, both for the vitriol he was forced to preach to support his faith, and for the heartache he felt toward Sybil Griswold.
They were becoming close—too close for a Catholic priest and a beautiful young woman. But he couldn’t stop his wandering mind, body, and soul. His years of training did little to prepare him for an actual encounter with such an alluring girl. The words he recited about resilience, chastity, obedience . . . they were just that. Words.
He tried to believe and live his life by those words, wholeheartedly, but they did nothing to prepare him for when he was in Sybil’s presence.
“Father?”
Dieter shook his head, snapped into reality, and turned to face the somber nun, Sister Salome.
“The bishop would like to see you in his chambers.”
Dieter nodded and then whisked past her, down the aisle. He hurried into the hallway and veered toward the bishop’s oak doors.
The doors swung open, and Bishop Solomon stood in front of Dieter, hands clasped behind his back. His thin, white hair looked as though it could be plucked from his round head.
The bishop was frowning and studying Dieter’s face. He groaned and said, “How are you doing, Father Nicolaus? You do not look well.”
“I am fine, Your Grace. A bit tired, but that is all.” Dieter took a moment to stare at the wrinkled face of his superior, an
d came to the same conclusion. The bishop did not look well—not sickly, but angry.
“And yourself, Your Grace?”
Bishop Solomon waved a hand in Dieter’s face and shuffled into his room. He retreated to his oversized desk, and opted to sit on one of the edges of the desk, rather than his chair. “I am dismayed at losing my favorite altar boy. Martin Achterberg was a fine young man. It’s a shame his mother was an instrument of the Devil. Martin had promise.”
“An instrument of the Devil, Your Grace? Do you truly believe that?” Dieter immediately regretted speaking so fast and questioning the bishop’s words.
The bishop shot Dieter a dismissive glance. “Someone who could commit such horrid atrocities? Truly, I do believe that, Dieter. Have you not seen the same confession that I have? It reads like a vile transcript from the lips of Satan himself.”
Dieter stayed quiet for a moment, hoping to skirt the subject altogether. “What will become of the boy, Your Grace?”
“Martin?” The bishop groaned again and stood from his desk. He shuffled around to his chair and plopped onto it. His eyes seemed suddenly distant and unfocused. “Well, he did kill his father. Poor boy—his fate is clearly not an ecclesiastical matter. I assume he will suffer the trials and tribulations of the menial courts.” He spoke with a bite in his tone, as if he didn’t approve of the altar boy’s providence, nor the competency of secular law.
“Anyway,” he continued, shaking his head and waving his hand. “Are you ready for today, my son?”
“Ready?”
The bishop nodded. “In the few years you’ve been here, you haven’t had to conduct a public ceremony of this nature. It can be quite trying on the spirit, but just know that God is always in your heart.”
Dieter opened his mouth to speak, but then checked himself. He cocked his head and hoped he wouldn’t regret what he was about to say.
“Is there something wrong?” Solomon asked.
“Well, Your Grace, it’s just . . . when you speak of Him always being in my heart, I do have a question that is a bit removed from Bertrude and Martin Achterberg, if you don’t mind.”
The bishop raised his eyebrows, and his forehead wrinkled. “Speak freely, my son. What is it you wish to ask?”
Dieter found that he was fidgeting, and he tried to speak as delicately as possible. “I was wondering, Your Grace, how one as holy as yourself—filled with God’s wisdom—could go so long to avoid any . . . earthly desires.”
Bishop Solomon chuckled, unexpectedly. But to Dieter, it did not seem to be a happy chuckle. “Is it repentance you seek, Dieter?”
Dieter shook his head and felt his face redden. “N-no, Your Grace. These are just some of the things I ponder throughout my day.”
The bishop cleared his throat. He leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands on the desk. “What are the three powers of the soul, my son?”
“Memory, intellect, and will,” Dieter rattled off without thinking.
Bishop Solomon nodded. “You have always had the memory to learn, and the intellect to question, Dieter. That is good.” He raised a finger. “But willpower . . . you must have the willpower, in your heart, to resist temptation. Eve was unable to, and look what happened to her.” The bishop chuckled, despite himself. “Temptation is a hallmark of a pious man, Dieter. But perseverance and obedience are hallmarks of a righteous man. Do you understand?
“The evangelical counsels decree that we must endure voluntary poverty, perpetual chastity, and entire obedience. It is your entire obedience to Him that allows you to resist temptation and remain perpetually chaste. Your obedience will help lead you to salvation, my son. That is why God is both our Lord and Savior, is it not?”
In Dieter’s eyes, the short speech came off as utterly contrived, scripted, and somewhat condescending. It was as if these were words the bishop told himself when he woke up each morning. Dieter wondered if the bishop had a single thought on the matter outside of Scripture.
Still, Dieter did not rebut. It’s best not to argue with my superior about the tenets of Christianity, he decided. Dieter had his own ideas—these were the same tenets that he grew up studying, after all. He just wished the bishop had a more human oration to help him overcome his conflicted mind.
While Dieter remained quiet and contemplative, Bishop Solomon’s eyes narrowed on the priest. “Now,” he said, “when you question my belief that Bertrude Achterberg is an instrument of Satan, do not forget that she broke no less than four Commandments.” His tone was darker than before.
“I can see your mind is elsewhere this morning, so I’ll forgive your inane remarks,” the bishop continued. He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Nonetheless, this shows that you are not ready for such a spiritually trying occasion. So I’ve decided, just now, that I will speak to the public congregation this morning, and to the condemned woman. You are relieved of your duty—so go get some rest.”
Dieter’s mouth dropped open. He was speechless, and before he could respond in any way, the bishop looked down at a stack of papers on his desk, and said, “Is there anything else you wish to ask me, my son?”
Dieter’s shoulders slumped. “No, Your Grace.”
“Then you’re dismissed,” Solomon said. The bishop looked up from his stack of papers. “And I think, in the future, that you should come to your own conclusions when regarding canonical tenets, especially when you learned those tenets as a child.”
Dieter stood on the raised platform alongside Bishop Solomon, Lord Werner, and an out-of-town magistrate whom Dieter had never seen before. Dieter glanced to his left, at Bishop Solomon, and felt a pang of anger. He felt guilty for the contempt he felt toward the bishop, but that guilt quickly dissipated. As usual, the dour bishop had belittled him, and Dieter had had enough.
He tells me he welcomes my questions, to speak freely, and then chastises me like a toddler when I ask them, the priest thought. Questioning my teachings is supposed to be commendable, but how can I question them when I’m met with such patronizing responses? Dieter shook his head. Perhaps that’s the last time I ask the bishop for his opinion.
Dieter looked further down the line, to the magistrate. He was Baron Ludwig von Bergheim, a burgomaster and chief barrister for Bedburg and other nearby towns. He was a tall, serious-looking man with tight lips and a beaked nose. While Dieter, Bishop Solomon, and Lord Werner let the rain fall on their shoulders, the baron had a guard holding an umbrella over his head.
Dieter faced the crowd below the platform. The event was being held in the public square—usually the marketplace—and the crowd was quickly growing in number. No less than a hundred townsfolk had come to witness the day’s event, even with the rain drenching them.
Executions were the most entertaining events that most folk witnessed in their monotonous lives, and Dieter recognized many of the faces in the crowd. He sighed and frowned when his eyes passed over Sybil’s face toward the back of the congregation. She stood next to her father, and Peter had his thick arms wrapped across his chest.
A large wooden cross stood in the middle of the crowd, on a raised scaffold. The townsfolk made a circle around the cross and helped toss soggy kindling around it. A hooded executioner stood at one end of the platform.
Baron Bergheim stood forward and silenced the murmuring crowd. He produced and unraveled a scroll, and read off the charges that faced Bertrude Achterberg. He spoke sternly, enunciating every charge with a rolling finish—adultery, murder, blasphemy. Each new charge brought a loud hiss from the townsfolk.
After reading off the charges, the baron backed away, and Bishop Solomon walked forward to the edge of the platform. He raised his right hand high into the sky and, on cue, two guards started walking through the crowd. They came from the furthest end of the square, walking through at least eight rows of shouting townsfolk. Bertrude Achterberg shuffled along, in the middle of the two soldiers. Her tunic was filthy, her face distraught, and people threw lettuce, vegetables, and even rocks at he
r as she was led through the angry crowd.
Bertrude and the guards neared the wooden cross in the center of the square, and the woman fought back with every ounce of strength, squirming in the grasp of the guards. She wailed and writhed as she was led up the stairs and to the cross. Some of the people in the crowd started laughing at the spectacle.
The guards strapped her to the cross and bound her hands behind her back. People cheered as she screamed.
“Bertrude of the family Achterberg!” Bishop Solomon yelled. “I hold in my hand your signed confession!” He raised the parchment high over his head, and the crowd cheered even louder.
“This is a confession of a most loathsome nature, in which you knowingly carried out the evil deeds of Satan!”
The crowd booed and hissed.
The bishop’s voice became a screech, piercing through the rain and the raucous horde of people. “You have been charged as a murderer and sorceress, wherein you used Satan’s black magic to lure and devour an innocent girl! You’ve been charged as a succubus—a wretched adulterer—wherein you broke your Heavenly vows and forced your beguiling wit on the husband of another woman!”
If that was in the confession . . . I never saw it, Dieter thought, scratching his head.
“And, perhaps worst of all, you have been charged as a witch, a seductress who used your own son and indoctrinated him into your evil ways, forcing the innocent boy into murdering his own father!”
Of course, Dieter thought, nodding slowly. The bishop’s using his fancy for Martin to proclaim the boy’s innocence, even during his own mother’s execution. Perhaps this is why the bishop wanted to give the speech in the first place.
“It isn’t true! None of it is true!” Bertrude wailed. “I killed no one! I seduced no one!”
But the people weren’t listening. The bloodthirst of the crowd was absolute and unrelenting. Nothing could sway the mass opinion that she was evil—a true instrument of the Devil.
