Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart - By Jesse Bullington Page 0,72
giggling. They did not realize they had stopped until all wore an extra hat of powder, and then started moving again only to spite the lazy horses.
None was sure if they truly entered a wood until they sat around the biggest fire they had kindled since leaving the tavern, and the pine-bough canopy, after dumping its pale payload on their first blaze, kept further snow from drifting onto them. Wolves howled and they howled back, Martyn loudest of all. Of a sudden mind to impress upon Martyn the seriousness of their crusade, Manfried told the priest of their ancestral duty to deny the Infidel anything a Grossbart might covet.
“Prester John,” Martyn said incredulously, “is your grandfather?”
“Ain’t got no kin name a John,” said Manfried.
“But you say he is Christian king dwelling beyond the lands of the Arab?”
“Truth be told,” said Hegel, “we dunno if he’s king or just kingly rich, nor where he lays his beard. We’s yet to make his acquaintance.”
“We’s gonna find out soon enough, mind you, and show him up besides,” said Manfried. “Get us enough loot to make our granddad look like a dirt-handed turnip digger.”
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