The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (47 page)

“What!?” Hegel shook his head. “Now I know you’s makin up lies cause any man a learnin’ll tell you straight a scorpion ain’t
no reptile, it’s a worm.”

“What worms you seen what have eyes and arms, huh?”

“Sides from you?”

The debate raged for some time, eventually deteriorating into a physical exchange. Hegel was happy to be alive and kicking
his brother, and Manfried felt the same. When they took their shifts each thought of irrefutable points to make in the argument
that qualified as such only in the loosest sense, considering they shared roughly the same opinion on this, as in most matters.

When all below fell silent below deck Al-Gassur lit a tallow in the storeroom. By its scant light he cut Barousse’s bonds,
and in a moment the captain had wrested the knife away and pinned Al-Gassur to the floor. The Arab’s misery that his suspicions
regarding Barousse’s intentions had been proven true became compounded by stark fear as Barousse began acting even stranger.

His face hovering above Al-Gassur’s, Barousse used the knife to slice open his own cheeks and brow, carving deep gashes that
leaked blood into the Arab’s open mouth. Then the captain held the knife to the Arab’s throat and began licking Al-Gassur’s
face, sucking on the ends of his mustache and prying open locked eyelids with a meaty tongue. Al-Gassur gasped when the salty
appendage wriggled under and pressed against his eyeball, the jelly coming off on the rough tongue. Only the blade nicking
his neck prevented the Arab from screaming; he was well aware that if he so much as coughed he would slit his own throat.

Suddenly as the bizarre and lascivious assault had begun it ended, and Barousse reared to his feet. Al-Gassur cowered, begging
his brother to forgive whatever trespasses he had inadvertently committed. Instead Barousse wildly cut through his own clothing
with such vigor that in moments he stood nude before Al-Gassur, his old wounds and fresh cuts gleaming black in the candlelight.
One hand gripping the knife, he seized Al-Gassur’s hand with the other and yanked him upright. He hugged the Arab, who shivered
at the wet embrace, his filthy clothes now glistening with fresh blood.

“In my travels I met a traveler,” Barousse whispered, releasing Al-Gassur and rushing to the scattered boxes. “I was a traveler,
and he was a traveler, and for a short time we traveled together. Traveling. Travel, travel, the only life worth living. I
had a wife, and two young boys but still I traveled, if you understand.”

“I under—”

“Traveling is best done with other travelers. The sea forces you among men, but not all are travelers at heart. The man, like
me, was more than a man who travels because he can, but a traveler who travels because he must.”

“I too have traveled. I must confess—”

“He told me.” Barousse opened a box of jewelry and threw it against the wall, scattering a fortune along the floor. “I did
not ask, just as you did not ask, but he told me, as I tell you.”

Al-Gassur remained silent, watching the captain ransack the other boxes until he found the one containing his clothes, the
last chest Sir Jean had made to discharge before he slipped, banged his head, and realized the ship had also calmed. Barousse
began chortling with laughter, tears and rivulets of blood pooling around his bare knees. Al-Gassur brought the tallow closer
while Barousse began tossing fur-trimmed tunics and boots around the room.

“He knew I could not be fully happy, for I traveled despite my hard-fought wealth, my beloved family, my comfortable station.
I think that is why, it must be why. Yet I wonder, often, often, especially after they died and I banished her, I wondered.
You will fear the sea and her but more than that you will fear returning her, you will regret everything, as I regretted everything.
Yet in the end, you will be as happy as I!” Barousse shook with laughter, his naked body matted with dried blood and waste.

“East is their home. You travel to where ships are known to have sunk, spits of stone far out to sea, desolate island cliffs,
hidden reefs that rape ships bellies, you go alone. I left my ship and all my men, and rowed close to a desolate island farther
east than I had ever gone, past Cyprus, to the very brink of the Holy Land. There must be no moon, not even a shaving, when
the sea is lit only by stars and your fear, and there you wait with a sturdy net.”

The captain must have located his quarry, for he stopped rooting and leaned back, a thick black coat held in his shaking hand.
He delicately ran the knife up and down it, prodding until the Arab heard a faint metallic jingle. Then the knife sank in
and Barousse sank down, sliding his hand into the hole with the gentle air of a midwife assisting a small woman’s first child
into the world. Al-Gassur’s candle reflected off something, and he peered over Barousse’s shoulder.

“If you search it out you can find cable thin as rope but far stronger. You noose it over the end, and drop it into the sea.
Ensure it is a ship’s length long, to reach her depths. Then you wait, but not long. When you feel the tugging haul it up,
slowly and gently as the first time you made love to your wife. You will hear the splashing beside your boat and then you
must cast the net, and carefully, for one chance is all a man is allowed. Haul it on board quick, but do not look or all is
lost! Above all, do not look until you have found a beach or rock where you can drag the net, and only then! And that, dear
brother, is worth all sacrifices you have made and all tragedies you will suffer, the first sight of her! Only then will you
return to your ship and the world of men, bringing what you have earned.”

Al-Gassur held out his trembling hands and took the artifact. The sides of the small bottle were twisted and warped, and rather
than having a stopper the neck ended in a smooth glass circle. A strange object sat in the bottom, a lump wrapped in sealskin,
and the awed Arab saw that it exceeded the neck of the bottle in size. Either the bottle had been blown around it, or it had
somehow grown after being sealed inside. Most curious of all, the glass felt warm to the touch, and pressing it to his cheek,
Al-Gassur thought it pulsed like the chest of a small animal.

“Always conceal it, from moon and sun and man alike. Here, with roof above and floor below and walls on all sides, here it
is dangerous enough.” Barousse ripped a piece from the coat and covered the bottle in Al-Gassur’s palm. “Never let it see
the open sky, even when you put it to use, keep it wrapped in cloth and let the sea strip it of its mantle. Now that you have
seen it, never risk it again, never!”

“Brother, I will never have faith in any but you.” Al-Gassur bowed.

“I love to see the trembling of the tiny birds,” Barousse whispered in a strange accent, and before Al-Gassur could question
his meaning warm liquid splashed the Arab’s face.

“I’ll see you rest with her, brother,” Al-Gassur vowed, the room tinted burgundy from the blood in his eyes. Barousse flopped
forward, the knife buried to the hilt in his bare chest. A fevered smile contrasted with the horror in his foggy eyes, and
his lips continued to move long into the night. And so Captain Alexius Barousse left the world of men and Grossbarts, leaving
his legacy in the hands of those who still praised his name.

In the days that followed Heinrich’s donning of the flagellant’s robes, the boys remained obediently silent but would abduct
any solitary travelers from the road and bring them before their stepfather, who would lecture the near-catatonic victims
before allowing the twins to eat. With each gobbled victim the demon raged and worried at Heinrich to spare the potential
converts but still the man overpowered his fiend. Heinrich’s fever never slackened, imbuing his limbs with an unwholesome
vigor instead of weakening him, and without even noticing he lapsed into cannibalism when Brennen offered him the pinkest
parts of the unfortunates they seized. The demoniac could no longer bear the sun, making the twins dig him deep burrows when
no caves or thickets could be located. Worry plagued Heinrich, who had never seen a map but whose belly compelled him southward.

The night after they passed a town half-ruined by fire, his boys raced ahead toward a campfire beside a small river. They
were in grasslands now, which afforded them few places to hide during the day, and Heinrich would have forbidden their investigation
had he not held out hope for discovering the Grossbarts before they eloped by ship. The customary shrieks were quickly silenced,
and as he waited by the riverbank Heinrich’s excitement waned, suspecting as he did that a Grossbart may curse and shout but
will not shriek even if his genitals are gnawed by piglets.

The twins splashed through the current and deposited their charges before Heinrich, his disappointment sweetening at seeing
their white vestments. Priests were better than nothing, but before he could launch into his diatribe they had rolled over,
revealing their papal masks. Snatching them off, he peered into the unfocused, rolling eyes of the young men.

After he splashed them with water and booted them several times they began to speak, Magnus and Brennen eagerly watching from
the shadows. The gibberish they spouted made no sense to Heinrich, who sighed and resigned himself to never knowing how they
came to be dressed in such a manner. After all, the yeoman-turned-prophet only recognized a pope’s attire from a triptych
he had seen long before and for all he knew most residents of the Papal States dressed that way.

Relieved to see an actual priest after being assaulted by devils, Paolo begged for mercy, explaining that only his desire
to see his father avenged persuaded him to don the baggy garb of a Road Pope. Vittorio saw the beasts skulking in the weeds
and knew at once this cruel-faced man could not be a priest, and so he tried to barter his friend’s soul in place of his.
Heinrich raised his flail, knowing his words would be lost on these foreign heretics, when Paolo cursed their name, bowing
his head and weeping.

“What name did you speak?” Heinrich demanded, unaware that the witch’s tongue knew all others, and he now addressed the lads
in Italian.

“The Grossbarts!” wailed Paolo, tearing at the mud, his mind broken. “Those goddamn bastard Grossbarts! They burned us, they
burned my father! They burned us! Bound and helpless, we could not get loose before!”

Unfortunately, while they understood him, Heinrich had not nibbled Nicolette’s ear and so all he comprehended was the name
Grossbart and the youth’s rage toward them. Seeing this gave the demoniac pause, however, and Vittorio joined in cursing them,
his hatred genuine as they had murdered his cousin Giovanni—known to his victims as Clement.

“Quit your barking!” commanded Heinrich, and the young men resumed their terrified prostrations, moaning and scratching at
their faces in shock. “I only wish to know if you hate the Grossbarts more than you love the Virgin or your souls or the Great
Demon of Heaven.”

The two nodded vigorously, begging for mercy. Paolo tried to explain that before being set upon by monsters they had been
journeying south in pursuit of the Grossbarts but Heinrich silenced him with a gentle flick of his scourge. He told them to
merely shake their heads or nod, for he recognized that they understood his words. They nearly snapped their necks so vigorously
did they assent.

“Then you will be spared,” Heinrich said, and the twins wailed in disappointment until Heinrich commanded they be silent.
“Put your masks back into place and swear to uphold my will in our quest to undo the Brothers Grossbart!”

They swore and nodded, clumsily refitting their masks with hands bruised raw from the teeth of the twins. Turning to his boys,
Heinrich insisted they do nothing to harm their disciples, but to ensure they did not flee he assigned Magnus to mind Vittorio
and Brennen to Paolo. The brothers jumped back into sight, bringing on another fit of tears and convulsions from the would-be
Road Popes.

That night they took the sacrament of human flesh Heinrich offered, never suspecting the two abominations understood every
word they whispered even if their master did not. Vittorio’s fear that they would have to kiss certain parts of the demons’
anatomies proved unfounded, although that was little succor. Escorting the novices back to their fire to retrieve their packs
and weapons, Heinrich asked the lads if they knew which direction would take them to the sandy wastes of the Arab.

Being a barber of deserved reputation, Paolo’s father had known and passed on everything he understood of the profession and,
unlike many of his trade, he had acknowledged that many advances had returned from the Crusades along with relics and other,
more physical rewards. Whereas the average bumpkin might have pointed vaguely southward and picked his nose, Paolo motioned
east, nodding his head vigorously when Heinrich narrowed his eyes. The fellow again pointed east, then curved his arm south,
which seemed to please Heinrich.

They set off at once, the minds of the young popes irrevocably contaminated by the night’s horrid events. Without map or road
they braved the wilds, Heinrich demanding the twins carry him over even the smallest stream rather than dampening his toes.
Inexplicable impulses such as these beleaguered him and in the humid afternoons when sleep escaped him he would hear a soft,
slithering voice that did not belong to him or any of those present, a whisper goading him to perform stranger rites still.
Compromise was eventually brokered.