The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (25 page)

Martyn laughed. “But stories of Prester John’s kingdom date back decades, centuries!”

“Grossbarts been goin south since Moses was a pup.” Manfried glared at the priest. “I told you he weren’t no John nor Preston
nor what, so shut your fuckin mouth fore I hang you up like a scarecrow for them hill-dogs!”

After a desperate pause—wherein both brothers subtly fingered the handles of their weapons, even Hegel unwilling to allow
anyone but himself and his brother to disparage their kinfolk—Martyn spoke:

“Well, pardon my fucking mouth!” and then all three were again hooting with unnatural laughter.

Late in the night the sweetest music either brother had ever heard swam out of the wagon, and then Martyn awoke raving and
attacked the nearby trees with his fists. Neither brother intervened but instead broke out bottles and heartily enjoyed the
spectacle. Only Manfried noticed when the music abated, and he covertly peeled the ice from his cheeks. In the morning he
shamefully realized he had not checked if she still sat in the wagon since the day before.

Martyn had excused himself to clean his habit and Hegel snored beside the coals, allowing Manfried to stride guilelessly to
the rear of the wagon. He rapped twice on the frame, then clambered inside, closing the flap behind him. Inside he could see
only shadows of shadows but heard her breathing and smelled her musky-sweet sweat, an aroma that made him hungry.

“Uh.” He swallowed. “That’s a fine way a singin you got.”

Her clothes rustled and he thought he made out her teeth glittering in the dark. His own sweat stinging his eyes, he suddenly
felt uncomfortably hot. Bracing himself, he leaned in until he felt her breath on his cheek, a cool draft in the sweltering
wagon.

“Could you… if you… uh, sing it again?” Manfried felt a fool. “Please?”

Her breath came faster and cooler, a vaguely familiar scent tickling his nose hairs. Then Hegel bellowed beside the wagon
and she drew back deeper into the darkness. Anger consumed Manfried and he burst out of the wagon, startling Hegel and the
returned Martyn. Under their curious look his rage dissipated and he mumbled about getting an early move on. Hitching up the
horses, he did not notice Martyn pressing Hegel aside.

“Does he often slip into the interior when you sleep?” Martyn asked.

“Mind your mind,” Hegel retorted. “Priest shouldn’t think such impureness.”

“A man must tame himself before endeavoring to tame another. For the sake of his soul, we should be vigilant.”

“For the sake a your teeth, I’d be a touch more vigilant a lip. That’s all I’ll say, save my brother’s purer than you or I.”
Hegel sullenly climbed onto the bench.

Martyn made the sign of the cross before the wagon and followed after. They broke bread and the bread broke them, that day
and those that followed blurring into a harrowing passage not only through the mountains but also deeper, less explored regions.
The Fire of Saint Anthony branded their brains, and only fortune spared their extremities from the toxic rye—except for a
toe of Martyn’s, which fell out of his boot when he removed it to examine the uncomfortable tingling. For two days solid Hegel
confused Martyn with the Virgin Herself, usually frightening the priest but occasionally convincing him that he was indeed
the Bride of God.

If not for the sensible horses they would have become lost, but to Hegel’s chagrin they refused to advance over the precipices
or up the streambeds he led them to. Cursing them, he screamed until lights flared up around them but their tusks and legions
of legs frightened him dreadfully, dampening his enthusiasm to engage the equines in combat. Mary told him many secrets as
they traveled, things that made him froth with anger and cry in despair. Her uncanny resemblance to Nicolette the witch ceased
to upset him after the first day, although it kept his thoughts chaste throughout the ordeal.

Manfried once mistook the falling snow for gold and would have tumbled to his death in pursuit had Martyn not convinced him
it was a diabolical trap, adder-spit dyed yellow to fool the honest. Manfried crawled under a blanket for several hours to
keep the poison from his flesh. When Hegel addressed the priest as the Virgin, Manfried briefly shared his brother’s delusion
before realizing her to be an imposter, the genuine Mary resting inside the wagon. The things She whispered to him were perhaps
the only possible words to make a Grossbart blush. At night, when none truly slept but rolled and raved beside a fire which
might have existed only in their minds, Manfried crept under the wagon and prayed until he went hoarse.

Being of the clergy Martyn had a monstrous appetite but it could not contest with that of the Grossbarts, the result being
he consumed less bread and could function somewhat like a normal man. While he did not match their hunger, however, his imagination
had fed on many tracts over the years and so his visions compensated in wildness what they occasionally lacked in vibrancy.
For the demon-hunting holy man their travel led over mountains of ash and through clouds of sulfur, steam and venom raining
upon them, the wails of the damned giving them no respite. His beloved Elise remained absent but Saint Roch harried their
wagon, his moldering corpse demanding the return of his stolen finger. Martyn hurled the relic into the snow, shrieking his
remorse for his own graveyard indiscretion. His speech drifted among the dialects and tongues he had learned, along with a
few hybrids of his own devising. A test, he moaned to the lost souls riding beside him, a final test before the glory. Although
it meant his damnation, he did not correct the fallen seraphim beside him when the radiant creature addressed him as Mary,
Mother of God. He knew himself to be Mary Magdalene, and was ashamed.

Unlike natural dreams, these horrors did not vanish instantly upon their waking but tormented them day and night, subtly fading
in intensity until their absence maddened the trio more than their presence had. Stopping the horses late in the third afternoon
of their psychosis, Hegel stumbled down to simultaneously vomit and shit while his brother unhitched the horses for the first
time in days. The miserable creatures were famished and blistered, the expression of their huge eyes launching the Brothers
into another giggling fit. Martyn stayed on the bench, praying and weeping until the Grossbarts started a fire.

The next morn they realized they had left the peaks behind in favor of gentler slopes and would probably not die in the mountains
after all. After again reprimanding himself and again checking on the lady who again smiled sweetly at him and batted her
eyes, Manfried again readied the horses. Unlike the previous day’s gloom and silence, the Brothers and Martyn enjoyed the
rough road and biting wind and gruel-turned stomachs.

Nothing could dampen their souls at the first sight of something other than the boundless succession of snowy rocks that had
enclosed the Brothers for weeks. They dipped through forested valleys and over grassy meadows, and had they been the frivolous
sort songs would surely have been sung; instead they talked of honor, faith, and the gift of prophecy. Had Martyn not shared
the bread, he would have thought them heretics of the worst sort.

“Further proof? What further proof you need?” asked Hegel, amazed his sanctimonious brother doubted the truth.

“Could be somethin else, devilry or spells,” grumbled Manfried. The idea that his licentious hallucinations might come to
pass bothered him in all sorts of ways.

“That
is
possible,” admitted Martyn. “The Deceiver might well have given us such visions for the express purpose of fooling us into
thinking we were touched by the divine.”

“But could even he impersonate Mary so well?” demanded Hegel. “I seen Her Face and heard Her Council. Why would the Devil
take Her Guise only to tell me I was servin Her proper? Wouldn’t he rather I changed my ways?”

“Witchery can make you see all kinds a niceness ain’t really present,” said Manfried, unconsciously grinding salt into his
brother’s spiritual wounds.

“But Hegel’s point is valid,” Martyn insisted. “Why would the Devil urge us to be truer of faith?”

“That’s just what I was sayin,” Manfried countered, “bout askin too many questions.”

“Exactly! Take it on faith’s what you’s always sayin, brother.”

“Yeah, and I’ll take them horrors on faith as proof a evil spite and nuthin more.”

“Manfried, if the Lord wanted us to know without questioning there would
be
no faith,” said Martyn.

“Priest—”

“Father Martyn, please.”

“Martyn—”

“
Father
Martyn.”

“
Priest
Martyn,” the annoyed Manfried continued, “questionin is fine and good so long as one keeps it all in perspective. Got nuthin
to gain, spiritual or other, by assumin we was blessed with sights from Heaven.”

“True enough,” Martyn confessed.

“But Manfried.” Hegel tugged his beard nervously. “There’s some other, er, proof.”

“You best not be talkin bout what I suspect.”

“Yeah, you’s probably right.” Hegel felt relieved not to address it after all.

“What’s this? Come now, Hegel, I am a priest, there is no fear to speak your mind.”

“I—” started Hegel.

“Don’t.” Manfried scowled.

“Oh, shove it.” Hegel scowled right back. “He ain’t gonna put me on a pyre for tellin the truth bout somethin ain’t my fault
to begin with.”

“Never know.” Manfried glowered at Martyn.

“Oh, come now,” said Martyn. “Think of me as a confessor if you must.”

“Nah.” Hegel soured. “I ain’t confessin nuthin cause I ain’t done nuthin wrong.”

“Surely you’ve not been corrupted by the Beghards?” Martyn grew distressed.

“Ain’t let no beggars touch us!” Manfried again considered putting Martyn off the wagon.

“No, no,” said Martyn. “A group of heretics calling themselves Beg
hards
have been spreading heresy to the effect that all men exist in a state of grace, without the need for clergy and sacraments.
I thought—”

“We’s dumb enough to get taken in by heresy?” Manfried demanded, although so far these Beghards did not sound very reproachable.

“Never!” Martyn said. “And besides, they advocate poverty, so surely—”

“Surely?” Manfried breathed in Martyn’s face.

“Surely.” Martyn licked his chapped lips. “Surely we could forget my folly and concentrate on this fine beverage instead?”

“Surely.” Manfried turned back to the horses.

A league of empty road passed before Hegel cracked: “Does it
have
to be a sin to be confessed?”

“If you hesitate to tell a priest you balk at admitting something to God, and He knows already, so the only sin is in obscuring
the truth from me, His servant, who can do nothing but help you,” Martyn explained.

“Got you good.” Hegel sniggered at the dour Manfried.

“So what was it, Hegel?” Martyn asked.

“Yeah, what was it?” Manfried said.

“I, uh, that is,” Hegel’s nerve slackened as he glanced from eager priest to cross brother, “sometimes, I get, well, spooked
bout things.”

Manfried chortled. “That how you’s gonna put it?”

“How’d you put it?” snapped Hegel.

“Got the Witches’ Sight,” Manfried explained. “Touched in the head.”

“Ain’t like that!” Hegel protested.

“Witches’ Sight, Hegel?” Martyn asked, again dreadfully uncomfortable to be seated between the two.

“More like, I dunno, a feelin I get. When somethin don’t wash.” Hegel fumbled with the words like an unrepentant heretic trying
to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

“A feeling, Hegel?” said Martyn.

“Like my soul knows somethin’s gonna happen fore it does, and when it does happen, my soul’s always right.”

“You mean you have an uncanny intuition?” Martyn asked. “Have you
done
anything to be granted this ability?”

“Prays like the rest a us.” Manfried would be damned before allowing anyone, man or priest, to imply anything unsavory about
his brother. “He gets his hunches same as us, only his is always right on mark, always just in time, and often enough to be
called somethin other than hunches. A boon from Mary.”

“Well,” Martyn said. “Well.”

“Wells make me think a shadowy holes,” Manfried said, giving the hard-eye to Martyn.

“Ain’t the beneficial nature proof enough the portents, mine and ours, is granted from on high?” Hegel insisted, looking to
Martyn for encouragement.

“It certainly adds something to the discussion,” Martyn stalled.

“Yeah, but what?” Manfried demanded.

“Er.” Martyn brightened. “Yes. That is, I think you should see this as a gift from God. The ways of the Almighty are inscrutable,
and as Manfried has pointed out, over-scrutinizing the cause when the result is beneficial does none of us any good. Likewise
with our visions. Time will learn us if they were prophecy or simple nightmares, and then we will know and all our debate
will have been for naught.”

“Whatever they was, they weren’t no nightmares,” Manfried said with a shiver. “Those only get you in your sleep.”

“We were awful weary them last few days,” Hegel pointed out. “Besides, ain’t nuthin come from arguin, like you always say.”

They let the matter rest, each and all feeling more anxious about the matter than before. The road began switchbacking even
more sharply as they descended to the foothills, and between sun and beer they felt warmer than they had in weeks. The following
day they left the wood and began crossing the vast hills of the southern city-states.

The road stayed fairly level but at midday forked, leading them to stop the horses and curse long after Martyn begged them
to desist. Then the heavy cloth hanging behind the bench parted and the woman leaned out between Martyn and Manfried. She
wore a purple veil over her face and her dress seemed pristine for having been on her person as long as their sweaty attire
had been on theirs. She sniffed twice, fluttering her veil, and pointed to the left-hand fork. Even Manfried found this disquieting,
but they set off again, traveling late into the dusk before breaking in a grassy field beside the road.