The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (41 page)

Long-festering frustration partially sated, Heinrich addressed the praying man he mistakenly took to be a priest. “Remove
your robes.”

The man continued to pray, his voice cracking.

“Remove them!” Heinrich barked.

Still the leader prayed. Heinrich swiped the scourge under-handed so it whipped beneath the man’s neck, wrapping around his
throat and chin. Yanked backward, the man choked and spluttered as he landed on his rear, his eyes still closed, his lips
resuming the prayer as soon as the scourge slackened.

“Pray for them!” Heinrich shouted. “Pray for my family!”

Dragging the lash free in a welter of blood, Heinrich dropped his dagger and brought the weapon back down with both hands.
Heinrich’s delight grew with each wet smack of the scourge, the pleasurable warmth in his guts recalling the sensation of
eating a bowl of Gertie’s stew, or watching Brennen pull his first turnip. He remembered how pleasant his wife had smelled
after they made love, how Brennen laughed and clapped when his mother made shadows on the wall, how his littlest girls would
kiss him on his cheeks simultaneously. Inside Heinrich the demon continued to plead for the man’s life, a whisper trickling
through his mind like the fluids dribbling down his victim’s face, but Heinrich would not heed the council. It was not enough
that those who wounded themselves to stop the plague become hosts themselves. They were servants of a God so cruel He would
absolve the Grossbarts, and so they must be punished as only Heinrich and his lads could.

After a time Heinrich realized the man had expired and he whipped an exposed skull, embedded strips of scalp, hair, and gore
dulling the scourge’s impact. The skeletal face now resembled those of his boys who sat watching him, gnawing on flagellant
bones. Glancing at the carnage, Heinrich now saw only Gertie bleeding to death from an ax wound, Brennen’s gurgling throat,
the blackened husks of his daughters, and the four children they had buried before, some still from Gertie’s womb, others
living a year or five before being stolen by God. He heard the screams of his little girls, smelled the stink of gravedirt
and his burning home. His face hard, he spit in the dead leader’s gaping mouth.

“Let us be demons, then!” Heinrich screamed. “Let us be the pestilence upon those that would abide such cruelties as this!
Let us riot and rampage upon the servants of that devil in the sky who deceives the whole world into His worship! Vengeance
is our name and deed! Vengeance for every murdered child, for every raped woman, for every soul who toils only to see all
they have loved and wrought wither and sicken, suffer and die! No absolution! No confession! No last rites! Grossbarts, we
come for you!”

Magnus and Brennen howled from every mouth and wept to see their master weep. The scourge bit into Heinrich’s back with every
oath but his tears were not for his own anguish, they were shed for every innocent who held false hope for some final apology,
some explanation. As he threw down the barbed whip and fell to his knees, the terrified boys hastened to lick his wounds and
whimper their devotion.

By dusk they had removed the bodies from the road, the twins devouring a mind-boggling amount of flesh before lounging in
the shade, their stomachs distended, every tongue lolling. Heinrich had meticulously cleaned the scourge in the stream and
donned the leader’s soiled robes. His ablutions complete, the moon dangled low over the thickets as they again sought their
bearded quarry.

Below deck, the forecastle housed a table, a few chairs, and several water and beer barrels. A narrow hall staggered around
the masts to the back of the ship, with two rows of bunks depressed into the walls on either side. At the end of the hall
a storeroom contained nets, food, and everything else, and there the captain and his lady established themselves. With two
people occupying a sleeping space where fifteen would fit, there were not enough bunks for the crew and the Grossbarts’ party;
they traded off the beds with the men toiling above. They, of course, being everyone except the Grossbarts, who were quickly
avoided by the crew due to the twins’ tendency to jab anyone foolish enough to disturb their sleep.

When the Brothers stirred late the following afternoon they saw one of the young sailors from before and the lummox Merli
sleeping on the bunks opposite them. Extrication proved especially difficult for Manfried, who had gone to sleep with his
shoulders still plated in iron. Even their toes and fingernails were sore from the previous day’s exertions but they awoke
laughing at the memory of their triumph. They staggered to the open room and guzzled water, paying no mind to the half-naked
Sir Jean or his shadow, Raphael.

“Where’s the rest?” Hegel asked after dunking his face in the water barrel and leaving a sheen on the surface.

“Aboveward.” Raphael nodded to the ladder. “Taking sunny, salty air. Captain with them, want to council at you.”

“Speakin ain’t your strong suit, is it?” Manfried leered.

“Truly honest, mine ownself prefer the tongue all men speak.” Raphael rattled his loaded crossbow at Sir Jean, making him
flinch.

“True words,” Hegel agreed, and they went above.

Crawling into the blinding square of light, they crouched like beasts freed after too long in a cage. When their eyes adjusted
the Grossbarts reeled from more than the rocking of the ship. On all sides lay water, vast hills and valleys of the stuff,
glowing in the sun without a hint of land to be found. Both felt extremely queasy and took small pulls from their skins, and
when Manfried spilled his drink refitting the stopper, Hegel noted with interest that his brother’s apparently held water
for a change.

Two masts towered over them and the country-born Brothers knew only that the ship exceeded any barge they had seen, and was
therefore enormous. Men seemed to be everywhere but there were actually only three sailors at work besides the sour Giuseppe
and good-tempered Angelino, the relatively small size of the vessel forcing the men to circumvent the Brothers numerous times
during their slow advance to the stern. Climbing the stairs to the raised section in the rear, they found Barousse talking
with Angelino, and both men hailed them.

“Well met and mornin to the both a yous, too,” Hegel greeted them.

“Yeah,” said Manfried, his eyes casting about for the Arab.

“Feel that?” Barousse inhaled, his stained bandages fluttering like pennants. “The breath of the sea is the breath of God.
Small wonder our ancestors worshipped her.”

At this Manfried caught sight of the woman through the sails, her back to him astride the figurehead at the front of the ship.
“Gotta get below,” he muttered.

“Hold, Manfried,” Barousse said. “With my men deserted or dead we’ve only enough hands to keep us on course for half of every
day, and the wind blows better at night. I’d hoped to reach our conquest sooner, and with your help, along with the rest,
we can double our speed.”

“Later, then,” Manfried said dismissively. “Fetch me when the moon’s up, this glare’s no good for my eyes.”

“We’ll send up the others prompt, though.” Hegel hurried after his brother and addressed him in their private tongue. “The
captain seems much improved for bein on the water and speaks wise in the whole, but I wonder at his choice a words.”

“How’s that?” Manfried ducked under a sail.

“Shit, I dunno, it just puts me off. Like sayin we’s gonna reach our conquest. All the words he could a used he said
our conquest
.”

“So?”

“Well, that could mean what or who we’s gonna conquer.”

“Course it does, thicky.”

“But couldn’t it also mean us bein conquered?
Our conquest
. Not the way I would a phrased it, not at all.”

“And you would a used some choice bit a French, or maybe Latinish? Keep in mind he might be Roman but he ain’t out the Holy
like us, so likely he don’t know no better words for the point he successfully made. To me, at least, not bein keen on pissin
bout every little detail!”

They reached the ladder, the woman just ahead over the prow, her arms entwined in the railing. Manfried clambered onto the
raised platform of the bow, telling himself he went up instead of down solely to avoid his brother. Hegel knew exactly what
his brother was about and followed him up.

“You gotta put that feedbag out your mind,” Hegel said softly, sensing the true reason for his brother’s sudden ire. “It won’t
bring you no good at all. You gotta look at somethin, look to Mary.”

“Now I reckon you’d best mind your own choice a words,” Manfried growled, facing Hegel. “
It
’
s
a
she
, same’s the Virgin.”

“
It
’
s
a damn witch,” Hegel snarled back. “Your eyes always been sharper than mine, when they get all smeared with cherry paste?”

Manfried thought about punching Hegel’s fat nose until it smeared some cherry paste of its own, but before he raised his hand
a stronger impulse reared up in his mind like an angered eel. Manfried suddenly wanted to shove Hegel over the railing and
into the sea, but the desire passed as soon as it came. Manfried felt light-headed and slowly turned to look.

She sat where she had before, waves jetting up spray across her front, only now she watched him. Her delicate lips were pursed
but her eyes shimmered and she smiled softly, her hair lathered around her chest and neck.

“I’ll do you fore I touch him!” Manfried shouted at her, scrambling down the stairs and then the ladder, his chest burning.

Hegel remained above, puzzling over his brother’s outburst at the woman and glaring at her. She returned his stink-eye, her
ruddy mouth twisted into a sneer. He made as if to strike her but she did not give him the satisfaction of even twitching
her nose.

“I’s onto you,” Hegel hissed, “you damn witch.”

Quitting the platform and gaining the ladder, Hegel reeled as he suddenly pictured his brother pitching over the side of the
boat with the woman in his arms. He imagined them spiraling down through the depths and could see himself distorted through
the water, looking on helplessly from the ship. Then they sank past the light, and in the dark the woman began to change into
something else, her skin distorting in his brother’s arms.

“You alright?” Rodrigo asked from below, and limply clinging to the ladder, Hegel vomited all over him.

Al-Gassur, Sir Jean, and Raphael laughed heartily at Rodrigo’s expense, the young man shuddering with revulsion as he waited
for Hegel to descend so he could climb above deck. Rodrigo knew better than to waste fresh water, even in such unpleasant
circumstances. Hegel dropped the last few feet and staggered to an unoccupied chair while Rodrigo went up.

Manfried returned from his bunk with a loaf of bread, half a cheese wheel, and three sausages. He wordlessly ripped the bread
and cheese in two, handing the smaller pieces and one of the sausages to Hegel before sitting in another chair. Here the Grossbarts
experienced their first taste of the monotony unique to long sea voyages. They sent the smaller sleeping sailor, the Arab,
Sir Jean, and Raphael above to help sail, and two sailors soon replaced them in the room. After these two guzzled some beer
and conversed in Italian, they went to the bunks. The sun set and finally the Grossbarts deigned to speak to one another.

“Where’s Martyn?” asked Hegel.

“Cardinal’s lyin in a bunk, jabberin at the wall as he’s wont.” Manfried rose and took some beer. “Think he might a gone from
unorthodox to unhinged.”

After another long pause, Hegel cleared his throat. “What I said earlier—”

“Already forgotten.” The twin forces of alcohol and denial had finally convinced Manfried the impulse to murder his brother
had been some variety of seasickness. The last thing he wanted was Hegel prattling his old line.

“Remember, then, and fast. I had me a vision.”

“A vision a what?” Manfried snorted. “A grain bag with an adder in it? I already seen that vision mine ownself. Ah Hell, that
crumb Raphael’s got me talkin stupid now.”

“Don’t you make light a me!” Hegel lowered his voice and leaned in. “Always had somethin different, you know well’s me, Hell,
you’s the one who told me it was Mary’s blessin. Well, this weren’t no feelin nor sensation nor what have, this was a damn
vision. I seen it!”

“Seen what?” Manfried continued while Hegel stared at his own puke-flecked boots. “Seen what, O great oracle? Got somethin
worth tellin then tell or don’t give me no grief bout visions a Mary.”

“Weren’t no vision a Mary,” Hegel snapped, “was you. You and her. Sinkin to the bottom a the sea. Worse yet, it was by your
own will, jumpin overboard with her all up ons like she was a bag a riches.”

“Shut your mouth,” Manfried whispered, but Hegel would not be denied.

“And when yous went under where the sun don’t reach she started turnin into somethin else, somethin strange. What she really
is under that pretty skin, I imagine.”