The Grotesques (22 page)

“You cannot win, Romain.” Again the hologram breathed fire. The lion creature rolled under the flame, crashing onto the floor amidst the clang of tools. Its threat removed, Genord turned his malicious eyes on her. “We shall see how you enjoy eternity as a grotesque, Miss Jerome.” With that, he strode from the room.

She was trembling inside, still could not move. With exaggerated care, Romain examined the spot the flame had struck and applied a little more sludge. The lion beast pawed at a bat that had flown through the shattered door.

“Good,” Romain said when he was done. “Ella alive.” He shuffled away but was back in a matter of moments, flicking the bat away from her frozen face as she whimpered like a coward. “Quiet.” He held up a cracked mirror. It reflected broken fragments of a grotesque. Romain stroked her cheek. Her heart fluttered when the reflection of his finger ran down its face. He raised a hand to her head and his fingers closed around something solid. Were those
horns
?

Ella felt her sanity slipping away in the torrent of a raging river where the only shelter from her black nightmare was the bonfire on a marshy shore.

AS THE SUN
burned the clouds orange, Genord sauntered along the bank of the Seine and watched the bonfires burst into life.

“Come tussle,” Romain called, cartwheeling past. Genord ignored him. The gathering dark was lifting the veil. He could feel the air thrum with power.
His
power, if the snide whispers of Rouen were right. He wove away from the stink of gutted fish, paying no heed to those that turned from their fires to spit where he trod.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with ’im,” a crone murmured. She placed her hand on her young companion’s arm. “Was real concerned, his father was. Tried to push him back in the womb.”

Genord clenched his fists, turned, and bent to pick up a rock. His hand never connected. With a warning cry, Romain pummelled into him, using his greater bulk to topple them both to the ground. Genord rolled them over, punched his brother in the chest, stood, and flicked his fair hair from his eyes. Little Jeac, more ragged than they, dropped his bundle of wood and stared.

“Jeac, come wrestle,” Romain invited, one hand over his chest though he hadn’t even complained about his hurt, the loser.

The squirt remained where he was and shook his head.

“What’s the matter, Jeac?” Genord asked, his voice rumbling with threat.

“Me old man says I’m not to play with you today.” The younger boy began collecting his fallen branches.

“Why?” Romain asked, rolling onto his stomach so he could see his friend.

Jeac squirmed. Genord kicked his dimwit brother in the side, but the witless lump ignored the provocation. “Well, he’s not here, is he?” Genord said.

“S’pose not.” Jeac looked at the ground and fidgeted.

Genord grabbed him by the grubby shirt. The branches all tumbled down. “So fight,” he ordered, smiling as the boy cowered in his shadow.

“Let him alone,” Romain said.

“Fight me,” Genord persisted, shaking the stench of fear out of him.

“Oh, Genord,” Romain whined.

Genord held up a hand to silence his brother. “If what his father says is true, he won’t get close to me. If what he says is false, he can wrestle me. Either way, he can try.” He slapped the boy across the chin, heard Romain’s sharp intake of breath, and turned his head to glare at his brother. It didn’t need a learned man’s brains to guess Jeac would take the opportunity to claw. Genord whipped his fist back and drove it into Jeac, knocking him to the ground before the puny fingers could rake his arm. Laughing, he kicked the boy. And kicked him and kicked him. Venting his anger felt so
good
.

“Stop,” Romain yelled, flinging himself at his brother. They toppled off Jeac, who had started crying, just like a baby. Genord tussled, this time in earnest. He broke away from Romain, no easy feat given his brother’s robust stature, and grabbed Jeac. His face was swelling so fine.

“What did you do that for?” Romain glowered.

“You don’t hear the innuendo,” Genord said. “Because it’s not about you.”

“Oh, you’re imagining things again. And stop using big words.”

“Oh no I’m not.” He shook Jeac. “Tell him. Tell him what your father said.”

Romain frowned. Genord waited while his brother came to the predictable decision to side with his twin. “Did your father say bad things about my brother?” Romain asked. He had never been bright. Too long in the womb is what the town folks said. “He’s my brother, Jeac. You’ve got to tell me.”

“Let the boy go.” A bent old man leaning on a crooked stick had stopped to watch them.

“He’s a demon,” the old crone of a midwife said.

Romain laughed, then broke off when staring faces grim as night gathered around. “Nah. He’s just Genord.”

Genord released the snivelling boy. He stepped proud, right up to the hag while the brat ran off. “Tell him.”

“He was born afore the new day broke. He was born on Samhain,” she said.

“Nah.” Romain shook his head. “That’s not true. We were born thirteen years past on the morrow.”

“Not that one.” She twitched the left side of her face and ambled off.

“It’s not true!” Romain called after her as the others dispersed. The old man was the last to leave. Genord gifted him a smirk as the wise eyes ran up and down his lean body. Then he walked in the other direction, out to the furthest fires where the sacrificial lambs bleated.

“It’s not true,” his loyal brother repeated as he caught up.

“Have you thought about why Father never lets us join the celebrations at Samhain?”

“It’s because he favours the new religion.”

“He celebrates Beltane, Lammas, and Midsummer. He celebrates solstice and equinox.” Genord shook his head as comprehension dawned on Romain’s dumb face. “Father knows the power of the dead is at my call. He knows I am destined for great things.” He smiled at Romain’s worried face. “The spirits follow me through the night. They whisper in my dreams.”

Romain fell to his knees and cuddled a tethered lamb. He really was a bigger baby than Jeac. “Genord, you’re joshing me, aren’t you?”

“It’s the night of the dead.” He pulled his knife from his belt.

“What are you going to do?”

He wrenched the lamb from Romain and drew the knife across its throat. Hot blood spurted, falling dark against the quarter moon’s silvery glint as his sacrifice fell to its knees and collapsed on its side. There was power in its fearful death. It coursed in the blood which bathed him. Power, too, in the blue spirit which drifted from the corpse. Power destined to be his. He strode to a chicken, picked it up, and wrung its neck. He blinked as he watched the blue spirit strut and peck its way into the air. He picked up a rock, pulled a hare from a wicker cage and bashed in its head. His breath quickened when its spirit hopped to the treetops.

“Can you see them?” Genord whispered, staring as they wandered across the sky. But his brother was gawking at the mangled bodies. He pushed the idiot. “You’re not watching.”

“You killed them. Why’d you kill them?” His snivelling fool of a brother backed away.

Genord presented the knife hilt first. “Don’t you want to share in my power?”

Romain’s eyes opened wide. He managed a furious shake of his head. Genord turned back to the fire. Red spirits undulated in its flames. He picked up the twitching hare and tossed it in, watched the fire singe its fur, smelt the sickening stench of burned flesh. He reached his fingers to the flame and willed the elementals to him. They tingled along his arm, into his heart, through his blood. Such power. He laughed. Years he had waited for the strength to call them when all it required was a sacrifice. He picked up the chicken and threw it in, gathering the fire unto him. The old crone was looking at him with the fear he deserved. She opened her mouth. He would hear no more of her torment. He threw the elementals at her. They streamed from his arm across her body, lighting her with their flames. The shrieking woman waved fiery arms and rolled in the dirt like the pig she was. Genord laughed.

The rock hit him square in the chest, and he toppled over. When he raised his head, Hubin was astride him, delivering blow after punishing blow until his nose bled and his eye puffed and the pain almost had him screaming out for his father to stop. Almost. He would never give Hubin that satisfaction.

“It should have been the other way around,” their father said as he straightened. He laid a vicious kick into Genord’s hip.

Genord lifted his chin and stared at his detestable sire with his one good eye.

The old man with the crooked stick laid a hand on Hubin’s shoulder. “Get up.” The stick prodded Genord in the chest. “Leave. You are no longer welcome here.”

Genord stood with an ease that set the jittery crowd murmuring. The old crone was lying beside the fire, black and still. Her blue spirit was hovering above, looking at him with no regret for the rumours she had spread. Death was not severe enough for her. Genord snatched at her lifeforce. The old man poked him hard and his hand fell short. “Now.”

“I will rule you all.” He walked to the trees and turned. Romain was a pathetic shivering blur. “Are you coming?”

Romain whimpered as Hubin pushed him. “Get home.”

“Romain?” Genord enquired.

“It should have been the other way around.” Hubin spat.

His stupid, loyal brother hesitated. Genord watched comprehension dawn beneath his knitted brows. So, he had finally come to understand the comment that had dogged Genord through the years. Plain, dull Romain, born in the safety of the sun’s light, should have been the golden child. Genord shrugged and moved into the forest.

“Wait,” his predictable twin called, running to his side.

They followed the muddy river, skirting the dark swamps with their irritating gnats. Genord watched the water elementals sluice along silvered ripples as the elementals of the air swung on the breeze. He reached a hand to draw them to him.

“What you doing?” Romain asked, jogging to keep up with Genord’s lighter frame. His light bump jolted Genord’s concentration.

“I can almost catch them.”

His brother squinted at the moonlight shimmering on the water. “Why?” It was a timid whisper.

Genord’s lip twitched. “To harness their power.”

“If I had their power, I would make sure Father caught enough fish to sell,” Romain said.

“You were only half born on Samhain. The other half of you came on the morrow. You could have half the power I do.” He strode on.

Romain performed a handstand, and succeeded in walking five steps. “Maybe I could have double, some from the spirits and some from this new God.”

Genord gripped Romain’s ankle and pulled him over, dropping onto Romain and pinning him by the shoulders. “Your power will never rival mine.”

“Sewer rats, Genord,” Romain whined. “You’re hurting me.”

“Just you remember it.” Satisfied Romain’s wriggling was capitulation, Genord climbed off and led the way.

“Look! A cave!” Romain pointed to the top of the slope.

Genord had seen it. Without a word, he climbed the cliff. Romain scrabbled after him, the pebbles he dislodged clattering into the river with a plop. The cave was dry and roomy and the back widened to one side, providing a sheltered niche. It would do. Clearing the floor of loose rocks, he lay down and watched his brother copy him.

Sunlight was streaming through the entrance when they woke. Genord eyed the river and clenched his fists. The elementals were closed to his sight. He picked up a rock and bashed a beetle crawling across a scraggly weed. A tiny blue spirit floated up. He closed his hand around it and felt a prick before it floated right through his hand. At least he still had the power of the dead. He must learn to harness it.

At the foot of the cave, the scrape of boots on rock drew his attention. Genord picked up a rock and waited for the figure to clamber over the edge.

“Hello,” a tonsured man greeted. He wore a belt of rope and a string of brown beads around his waist. “I found your footprints below. In truth, I have been looking for you boys.”

“Now you’ve found us.” Genord sat, crossed his legs, and stared out to the river willing the elementals to appear as he clutched the rock.

“I heard some nasty rumours circulating around Rouen,” the monk continued.

“They’re all true.”

The monk refused to be cowed by his glare. “Then you’ll be needing a place to stay. Come if you wish. My name is Brother Pierre.” He nodded at both boys and began the climb down. “There’s stew,” he added a moment after his head had disappeared. Romain whooped and clambered after him. A moment later, Genord deigned to follow the plodding monk through the woods.

His simple stone church and primitive wooden dwelling stood in isolation just beyond the edge of the woods on a plain that stretched to low hills. A pen housed chickens and a vegetable garden was freshly weeded.

“I find solitude brings me closer to God,” the monk remarked, opening the door of the church. He walked past four rough benches and knelt before a simple altar fashioned from a fallen log. Genord stared at the unadorned wooden cross that basked in the light of a small window on the stone wall behind it. It radiated power.