Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart - By Jesse Bullington Page 0,68
bottle and all three had a drink. They surveyed the road ahead, the same sparse mountains and stunted trees buried by winter.
“My dear horse gave out not far from here, and I took of his body what I could carry,” said Martyn. “Perhaps the wolves have left us some of what I could not.”
“Don’t wager on a dog leavin nuthin for a man,” Hegel said with the air of imparted wisdom.
“Well, Brothers.” Martyn looked back and forth, scrunched between the two. “Last night I shared my burdens, perhaps now you might share yours?”
“Ain’t really got any,” said Manfried.
“Surely, we all have burdens, and in my experience the spiritual weigh heavier than those imposed on our physical backs. How came you to find me on the road, and where are you going, and where have you been?”
“That’s Mary’s business more than ours, and certainly yours.” Manfried took another swig.
“Suit yourselves,” said Martyn. “But in the name of your salvation, you will tell me what transpired with the abomination you say you killed.”
“Not much to tell.” Hegel relieved his brother of the bottle. “Seen a demon, killed a demon.”
“Easy as that?”
“Easier.” Manfried snatched back the beer.
“Tell me. Please.”
“Right,” said Hegel, and gave a somewhat accurate account of their adventure in Rouseberg. Manfried chimed in only when he deemed it necessary to censor his brother where sensitive matters involving graveyards were concerned.
“Incredible. But you say you laid hands upon the demon?”
“Yeah, when it was crawlin in Ennio’s craw. Slipped through, though.” Hegel had hoped this failure would not be scrutinized. “Mecky fucker was tryin to get its touch on the whole time.”
“Legs busted off, leaked all on us. But we done our all for the poor foreign bastard.” Manfried frowned at the empty bottle.
“Let me see.” Martyn swallowed anxiously. “Let me see your skin, where you touched it.”
Shrugging in tandem, they each showed the palm scalded by the demon’s ichors. At first reluctant to touch them, Martyn began prodding and squeezing, then leaned in and sniffed. He recoiled and waved their hands away.
“Despite the stench, they seem uninfected,” Martyn said nasally. “Avoid eating or drinking out of them until they return to normal.”
“Why’s that?” asked Hegel, scratching his blistered scalp.
“Cause they been polluted by a demon, fathead.”
“Er, yes. It is amazing, though. As I told you, all who have touched the malignancy have become host to it, yet you two were spared. Did you pray to Saint Roch?” At seeing their blank stare, Martyn explained, “Saint Roch is not yet, er, officially canonized, so your unfamiliarity is forgivable. I happen to possess one of his finger bones, to use as a weapon against Devil and devils alike. You may not know him but he certainly watches over you! I have never met any who survived the pest without invoking his name!”
“Til now!” Hegel tried to pass on his swagger through the reins to the brainless horses.
“Ain’t the first time, mightn’t be the last.” Manfried pushed the tarp aside and crawled into the wagon for more beer and a surreptitious glimpse. Neither brother felt the need for saints, having been in Mary’s good graces from childhood.
“Eh? You mean you’ve seen such evil before?” Martyn twisted around to watch Manfried.
“He’s referrin to us catchin the pest when we was young, and givin better than we got,” Hegel explained.
“You mean you survived the Great Mortality?”
“With aplomb.” Manfried almost kicked the priest in regaining his seat.
“Amazing,” said Martyn.
“Miraculous is more like it.”
“Mind the company, Manfried.”
“No, Hegel,” Martyn said before Manfried could return fire, “it is miraculous. Not one man in a thousand survives the Great Mortality once it has taken hold. I have never personally witnessed such a recovery but have heard tales. The Virgin has truly been merciful to you.”
“Couldn’t say it better, Friar.” Manfried chugged victoriously.
“Between weathering the pest and besting an agent of the Archfiend, you are truly soldiers of the Lord!”
“Soldiers a Mary, you mean,” Manfried corrected, and Hegel did not argue.
“Well, I suppose it could be seen as such.”
“Drink up, Martyn.” Manfried passed him the refilled bottle. “Now you’s heard our tale, nuthin left but to shrivel the time’s best we fuckin can.”
“What is this fuck?” Martyn asked.
“What?” Hegel said.
“Who?” Manfried said.
“Fuck,” Martyn repeated, “fucking, fuck, fucker—the word you like so much. A slur?”
“Oh, the word fuck!” Manfried laughed. “Yeah, a slur, right enough. Village not too far from our birth-home’s called Fuckin.”
“Why did they name it after a slur?” asked Martyn.