The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (2 page)

The elder Grossbart is rumored to have died wealthier than a king in the desert country to the south, where the tombs surpass
the grandest castle of the Holy Roman Empire in both size and affluence. That is what the younger told his sons, but it is
doubtful there was even the most shriveled kernel of truth in his ramblings. The Brothers firmly believed their dad had joined
their grandfather in Gyptland, leaving them to rot with their alcoholic and abusive mother. Had they known he actually wound
up as crow-bait without a coin in his coffer it is doubtful they would have altered the track of their lives, although they
may have cursed his name less—or more, it is difficult to say.

An uncle of dubious legitimacy and motivation rescued them from their demented mother and took them under his wing during
their formative man-boy years. Whatever his relation to the lads, his beard was undeniably long, and he was as fervent as
any Grossbart before him to crack open crypts and pilfer what sullen rewards they offered. After a number of too-close shaves
with local authorities he absconded in the night with all their possessions, leaving the destitute Brothers to wander back
to their mother, intent on stealing whatever the wizened old drunk had not lost or spent over the intervening years.

The shack where they were born had aged worse than they, the mossy roof having joined the floor while they were ransacking
churchyards along the Danube with their uncle. The moldy structure housed only a badger, which the Grossbarts dined on after
suffering only mild injures from the sleepy beast’s claws. Inquiring at the manor house’s stable, they learned their mother
had expired over the winter and lay with all the rest in the barrow at the end of town. Spitting on the mound in the torrential
rain, the Brothers Grossbart vowed they would rest in the grand tombs of the Infidel or not at all.

Possessing only their wide-brimmed hats, rank clothes, and tools, but cheered by the pauper’s grave in which their miserable
matriarch rotted, they made ready to journey south. Such an expedition required more supplies than a pair of prybars and a
small piece of metal that might have once been a coin, so they set off to settle an old score. The mud pulled at their shoes
in a vain attempt to slow their malicious course.

The yeoman Heinrich had grown turnips a short distance outside the town’s wall his entire life, the hard lot of his station
compounded by the difficult crop and the substandard hedge around his field. When they were boys the Brothers often purloined
the unripe vegetation until the night Heinrich lay in wait for them. Not content to use a switch or his hands, the rightly
furious farmer thrashed them both with his shovel. Manfried’s smashed-in nose never returned to its normal shape and Hegel’s
indented left buttock forever bore the shame of the spade.

Ever since the boys had disappeared Heinrich had enjoyed fertility both in his soil and the bed he shared with his wife and
children. Two young daughters joined their elder sister and brother, the aging farmer looking forward to having more hands
to put to use. Heinrich even saved enough to purchase a healthy horse to replace their nag, and had almost reimbursed his
friend Egon for the cart he had built them.

The Brothers Grossbart tramped across the field toward the dark house, the rain blotting out whatever moonlight hid above
the clouds. Their eyes had long grown accustomed to the night, however, and they could see that the farmer now had a small
barn beside his home. They spit simultaneously on his door, and exchanging grins, set to beating the wood.

“Fire!” yelled Manfried.

“Fire!” repeated Hegel.

“Town’s aflame, Heinrich!”

“Heinrich, bring able hands!”

In his haste to lend aid to his neighbors Heinrich stumbled out of bed without appreciating the drumming of rain upon his
roof and flung open the door. The sputtering rushlight in his hand illuminated not concerned citizens but the scar-cratered
visages of the Brothers Grossbart. Heinrich recognized them at once, and with a yelp dropped his light and made to slam the
door.

The Grossbarts were too quick and dragged him into the rain. The farmer struck at Hegel but Manfried kicked the back of Heinrich’s
knee before Heinrich landed a blow. Heinrich twisted as he fell and attempted to snatch Manfried when Hegel delivered a sound
punch to the yeoman’s neck. Heinrich thrashed in the mud while the two worked him over, but just as he despaired, bleeding
from mouth and nose, his wife Gertie emerged from the house with their woodax.

If Manfried’s nose had not been so flat the blade would have cleaved it open as she slipped in the mire. Hegel tackled her,
the two rolling in the mud while her husband groaned and Manfried retrieved the ax. Gertie bit Hegel’s face and clawed his
ear but then Hegel saw his brother raise the ax and he rolled free as the blade plummeted into her back. Through the muddy
film coating his face Heinrich watched his wife kick and piss herself, the rain slowing to a drizzle as she bled out in the
muck.

Neither brother had ever killed a person before, but neither felt the slightest remorse for the heinous crime. Heinrich crawled
to Gertie, Hegel went to the barn, and Manfried entered the house of children’s tears. Hegel latched up the horse, threw Heinrich’s
shovel and a convenient sack of turnips into the bed of the cart, and led it around front.

Inside the darkened house Heinrich’s eldest daughter lunged at Manfried with a knife but he intercepted her charge with the
ax. Despite his charitable decision to knock her with the blunt end of the ax head, the metal crumpled in her skull and she
collapsed. The two babes cried in the bed, the only son cowering by his fallen sister. Spying a hog-fat tallow beside the
small stack of rushlights, Manfried tucked the rare candle into his pocket and lit one of the lard-coated reeds on the hearth
coals, inspecting the interior.

Stripping the blankets off the bed and babes, he tossed the rushlights, the few knives he found, and the tubers roasting on
the hearth into the pilfered cloth and tied the bundle with cord. He blew out the rushlight, pocketed it, and stepped over
the weeping lad. The horse and cart waited, but his brother and Heinrich were nowhere to be seen.

Manfried tossed the blankets into the cart and peered about, his eyes rapidly readjusting to the drizzly night. He saw Heinrich
fifty paces off, slipping as he ran from the silently pursuing Hegel. Hegel dived at his quarry’s legs and missed, falling
on his face in the mud as Heinrich broke away toward town.

Cupping his hands, Manfried bellowed, “Got the young ones here, Heinrich! Come on back! You run and they’s dead!”

Heinrich continued a few paces before slowing to a walk on the periphery of Manfried’s vision. Hegel righted himself and scowled
at the farmer but knew better than to risk spooking him with further pursuit. Hurrying back to his brother, Hegel muttered
in Manfried’s cavernous ear as Heinrich trudged back toward the farm.

“Gotta be consequences,” Hegel murmured. “Gotta be.”

“He’d have the whole town on us,” his brother agreed. “Just not right, after his wife tried to murder us.” Manfried touched
his long-healed nose.

“We was just settlin accounts, no call for her bringin axes into it.” Hegel rubbed his scarred posterior.

Heinrich approached the Brothers, only registering their words on an instinctual level. Every good farmer loves his son even
more than his wife, and he knew the Grossbarts would slaughter young Brennen without hesitation. Heinrich broke into a maniacal
grin, thinking of how on the morrow the town would rally around his loss, track these dogs down, and hang them from the gibbet.

The yeoman gave Hegel the hard-eye but Hegel gave it right back, then the Grossbart punched Heinrich in the nose. The farmer’s
head swam as he felt himself trussed up like a rebellious sow, the rope biting his ankles and wrists. Heinrich dimly saw Manfried
go back into the house, then snapped fully awake when the doorway lit up. Manfried had shifted some of the coals onto the
straw bed, the cries of the little girls amplifying as the whole cot ignited. Manfried reappeared with the near-catatonic
Brennen in one hand and a turnip in the other.

“Didn’t have to be this way,” said Manfried. “You’s forced our hands.”

“Did us wrong twice over,” Hegel concurred.

“Please.” Heinrich’s bloodshot eyes shifted wildly between the doorway and his son. “I’m sorry, lads, honest. Let him free,
and spare the little ones.” The babes screeched all the louder. “In God’s name, have mercy!”

“Mercy’s a proper virtue,” said Hegel, rubbing the wooden image of the Virgin he had retrieved from a cord around Gertie’s
neck. “Show’em mercy, brother.”

“Sound words indeed,” Manfried conceded, setting the boy gently on his heels facing his father.

“Yes,” Heinrich gasped, tears eroding the mud on the proud farmer’s cheeks, “the girls, please, let them go!”

“They’s already on their way,” said Manfried, watching smoke curl out of the roof as he slit the boy’s throat. If Hegel found
this judgment harsh he did not say. Night robbed the blood of its sacramental coloring, black liquid spurting onto Heinrich’s
face. Brennen pitched forward, confused eyes breaking his father’s heart, lips moving soundlessly in the mud.

“Bless Mary,” Hegel intoned, kissing the pinched necklace.

“And bless us, too,” Manfried finished, taking a bite from the warm tuber.

The babes in the burning house had gone silent when the Grossbarts pulled out of the yard, Hegel atop the horse and Manfried
settling into the cart. They had shoved a turnip into Heinrich’s mouth, depriving him of even his prayers. Turning onto the
path leading south into the mountains, the rain had stopped as the Brothers casually made their escape.

Dawn found the smoldering carcass of Heinrich’s house sending plumes of smoke heavenward, summoning the village’s able-bodied
men. An hour later most had regained the nerve they had lost at seeing the carnage. Despite his protests Heinrich went into
the village to warm his bones and belly if not his soul while the half dozen men who comprised the local jury rode south.
They had borrowed horses of varying worth and food to last two days, and the manor lord’s assistant Gunter fetched his three
best hounds. Gunter also convinced his lord of the necessity of borrowing several crossbows and a sword, and the others gathered
any weapons they could lay their hands on, though all agreed the fugitives should be brought back alive so Heinrich could
watch them hang.

Gunter knew well the Grossbart name, and cursed himself for not suspecting trouble when they had arrived at the manor house
the night before. He comforted himself with the knowledge that no good man could predict such evil. Still, he had a wife and
three sons of his own, and although he did not count Heinrich amongst his closest friends no man deserved such a loss. He
would send his boys to help Heinrich next planting but knew it was a piss-poor substitute for one’s own kin.

They rode as fast as the nags allowed, making good time over field and foothill. The wind chilled the jury but the sun burned
off the dismal clouds and dried the mud, where the cart tracks collaborated with the dogs to assure them of their course.
Even if the killers fled without resting Gunter knew they could still be overtaken by sundown. He prayed they would surrender
at seeing the superior force but he doubted it. These were Grossbarts, after all.

Being Grossbarts, Hegel and Manfried knew better than to stop, instead driving the horse close to breaking before stopping
near dawn. Even had they wanted to continue the trail disappeared among the dark trees and remained invisible until cockcrow.
They had reached the thick forest that separated the mountains proper from the rolling hills of their childhood home, and
Manfried found a stream to water the frothy horse. He wiped it down while his brother slept and generously offered it a turnip.
Turning its long nose up, it instead munched what grass grew on the edge of the wood before also closing its eyes.

Manfried roused them both after the sun appeared, and his brother hitched the horse while he whittled a beard comb from an
alder branch. Soon they were winding up a rocky path ill-suited for a farmer’s cart. Each tugged and scratched his beard as
they slowly proceeded, both minds occupied on a single matter.

“Chance they went east,” Hegel said after a few hours.

“Nah,” Manfried said, stopping the cart to remove a fallen branch from the trail. “They’ll figure us to cut south, what with
the scarcity a other towns round here.”

“So they must be comin on now,” grunted Hegel.

“If that bastard didn’t get freed earlier, suppose someone must a found’em by now. Probably hollered all night. Had I cut
his throat, too, he couldn’t a yelled for help.”

“Yeah, but then there’d be no one left to learn the lesson, and he had a fat turnip to chew through.”

“True enough,” Manfried conceded.

“So they’s definitely on to us.”

“Yeah,” said Manfried, “and with just horses, they’ll catch us by shut-in.”