The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (17 page)

Ennio cursed them as he tramped toward the monastery gates. The tolling of their iron made him wince. Fifty paces from the
door to the abbey grounds, Ennio saw the wooden gate swing inward. No wind followed yet the stink again permeated the calm
air and he paused, peering into the black hole in the wall.

A man floated out of the doorway, his naked skin glowing in the moonlight. From the waist down a bestial form propelled him,
snorting menacingly, and Ennio stumbled back through the graveyard, begging his unwilling voice to cry out for the Brothers
Grossbart.

Heinrich stumbled through the snow, his frostbitten feet gone from cold to numb to searing. Of course they had not stumbled
across any free-roaming horses, and of course Egon had turned back upon delivering Heinrich to the frost-blasted boulders
where the road entered the mountains proper. Heinrich’s memory of his friend’s hopeless face had faded as if their parting
had been years instead of days before. Egon had begged him to turn back, winter coming on far too quickly to risk the mountain
passes, but Heinrich would not relent.

Stalactites of frozen sweat, tears, and snot swayed from the yeoman’s mustache but he willed himself forward, even as he realized
the setting sun likely heralded his demise. He had to catch them before he froze. He had to.

The storm grew rather than abated, and the hazy orb lighting his way grew less distinct as it slipped lower between the peaks
on his right. He had enough of the turnips he so despised to feed himself for another week but without wood for his tinder
he held out little hope, even with his blankets. Yet Providence had brought him this far, and his continuous prayers that
the villains would appear on the road ahead did not fail, even if they were growing less particular in their destination.

Then, through the shroud of snow and twilight, he made out a shadow sitting on a boulder. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, he staggered
toward it and drew his long dagger. Considering they had left him to suffer in solitude perhaps it was intended he only murder
one of them, placing the other in Heinrich’s own miserable and solitary state. Heinrich tried to charge but his legs refused
to do more than shuffle over the icy stones.

Then he stopped, vision blurring with grief, and he fell to his knees. The figure had turned and he could no longer delude
himself, for the swaddled old woman certainly bore no resemblance to either Grossbart. His exhausted wits did not consider
why she would be sitting on a rock so far from anything save a frigid death; all he cared about was his own failure. The sun
dipped behind the mountains, and Heinrich somehow found the strength to stand and march onward.

“Ho,” the crone said as he brushed past her, “there’s nothing for leagues save the dens of wolves, and even those will be
occupied on such a night. Why not abandon the road and help an old lady to her hovel?”

Heinrich swayed drunkenly but his grief-addled mind refused to allow the intrusion of logic. If he pressed on through the
growing dark he would spy their campfire and take them unawares. Only a little farther, surely.

“No?” The woman sighed. “Then that’s another old wife dead due to Grossbartery, and with the little ones in my belly, why,
two innocent souls beside.”

Heinrich stopped, the snow settling on his pack. “What?”

“You heard,” she cackled, her laughter like ice splintering underfoot on a frozen river. “You heard, Heinrich Yeoman, digger
of turnips, just as you heard your little ones roasting alive in the house you built them.”

Heinrich brandished his knife and stumbled back toward the woman, feverish with hatred and confusion.

“Help an old lady home,” she repeated. “If you wish to see those Grossbarts suffer and beg, there’s no other way. They are
too far ahead to catch on foot, and every moment they spread a wider trail between you and they. But there are ways to find
them, Heinrich, ways I know well.”

Heinrich stood before her, sweat freezing the dagger to his palm. His teeth rattled, her eyes black specks on a leathery face,
and he knew at once she was either witch or spirit. Dejected beyond reason, he attempted to recall the parish priest’s insistences
that God alone could punish the Grossbarts, and nodded to her. A lifetime of holy terror had convinced him that without a
final confession, Hell might be the only place he could again lay eyes on Gertie, his girls, and poor Brennen.

She rose with the help of a cane and together they began trudging up the road. Heinrich lasted less than a mile before his
legs went and he collapsed in the thickening snow. He heard her cooing in the darkness, and something so cold it burned pressed
against his lips. He had been Brennen’s age the last time he had drunk directly from a cow’s udder but his gums remembered
the method to coax out milk, and with the first drop he felt heat returning to his limbs. His hand went to her flabby breast
and squeezed, frigid as what it was, his slurping mixing with her rising moans; a nearby bear retreated up the slope in search
of less sinister prey.

“Enough,” she said, stroking his snow-dusted hair, “that’s not for you.”

Heinrich whimpered when she tore her withered teat away, and he regained his legs in pursuit. Her scowl made him reconsider,
and together they began walking once more. Unnaturally invigorated, he followed her off the road and down the mountainside,
her hunched shoulders all he could make out in the swirling blizzard. That night they threaded through crevasses treacherous
in sunlit summer and scaled sheer sheets of rock without incident, arriving in her wooded vale just before dawn.

The Brothers heaved into each other and the prybar did its job. The slab of a door scraped and groaned, the hinges resisting.
Another thrust and they had it, dust indistinguishable from the swirling snow. Manfried tried to light the pig-fat candle
stolen from Heinrich’s house while Hegel opened the door fully. Then Ennio appeared from behind a mound, gasping and gibbering.

“What’re you—” Manfried stopped in mid-sentence.

Hegel’s testicles retracted into his body and he swooned, the fear he had smothered returning with terrible vigor. He slowly
turned to see the source of his foreboding. Ennio pawed at his legs and skittered past him into the tomb. A naked man astride
an enormous hog rode slowly toward them through the churchyard, his teeth sparkling.

The stink rode with him, stirring the stomachs of all present. Manfried scowled at the intruder and loosed his mace from its
ring on his belt. Hegel wobbled his head and his prybar, ready to follow his brother. Man and pig stopped between the frosty
heaps, four black eyes gleaming in the night. They stared at the Grossbarts and the Grossbarts stared back. Ennio whimpered
from the crypt’s interior.

“Greetings!” called the man.

“Yeah,” Manfried said. “What you want?”

“I want,” the man said slowly, “to know just who you are and what you intend by sneaking in here in the middle of the night
and opening that crypt.”

“We’s Grossbarts,” said Manfried. “What you think we want? And what you doin on that pig?”

“Why ain’t he wearin nuthin?” Hegel asked Manfried.

“You want to steal from the dead, I presume,” said the man. “I’m riding this beast as it suits me, and it always behooves
a prudent fellow to hold something in the lurch. Finally, I am nude as it is a tranquil night and the cool air helps my skin.”

“Full moon,” Hegel hissed, and Manfried nodded.

“Yeah, well, seein’s how you know the situation, you oughta know we’d prefer some privacy right now. And you’s gonna catch
a cool death you keep out here without no shirt.” Manfried knew how to deal with moonfruits.

“No hurries, no worries.” The pig sat down and the man stumbled off its back. He swayed in the snow, a constant cloud of steam
rising from him as though he smoldered.

“You are from the monastery?” Ennio asked, having come back to his senses. He stood in the doorway, keeping the Grossbarts
between him and the man. Hegel slowly bent and retrieved his loaded crossbow from the step behind his brother.

“Recently, yes.” The man tottered but kept his feet, slowly approaching them.

“And you know where the villagers are?” Ennio pressed.

“Certainly. They’re inside.” The pig rider suddenly succumbed to a coughing fit.

“And?” Ennio had a hand on Hegel’s shoulder but Hegel threw an elbow, reminding him not to come too close.

“And?” The man regained himself.

“Look you barmy bastard, he’s askin where everyone went and why, so either tell’em and piss off or just piss off.” Manfried
was known for many things but not for patience.

“I came out of the mountains,” the man said, as if that settled it.

“Amazin,” said Manfried. “That a fact? Wonder a wonders.”

“He was already with me, or I was with him, no matter. We came together, then.” The three men peered at the animal while the
lunatic continued. “We arrived, and they did welcome us, despite it all, and we were admitted. And when they had all joined
us, converting if you will, then we summoned the rest. A certain pattern of bell-tollings brought them running, with their
babes and dogs and wives and that was the end.” As he talked he staggered slowly toward them.

“That’s close as you’re gettin, less you wanna see what’s under the snow round here.” Manfried had traded mace for crossbow.

For the first time the man’s smile faltered. “Please, simply a blanket will save me. Will you let a weary traveler freeze?
A scrap of cloth, I beg.”

“Hey now,” said Hegel, “we’s bein charitable enough, lettin you get back on that beast and ride out the way you rode in. Monastery’s
close, warm your bones there.”

“What you mean,” Ennio called, voice raising, “
that was end
? Something is wrong, Grossbarts! Where are monks and villagers? What they convert to? What was ended?”

“I mean,” the man said, all good humour gone, “that was their end. They rest inside, where you will too.”

“He’s a witch!” Ennio screamed.

The man made to lunge but the Grossbarts hefted their bows demonstratively and he paused, poised to pounce.

“You a monk?” Hegel asked.

“No,” the man replied.

“Settles that, then.” Manfried shrugged, and they both shot.

One bolt struck the man’s swollen stomach and the other his neck. He silently pitched backward, blood geysering toward their
feet. He convulsed in the snow, the pig trotting over and snuffling at his wounds.

The Brothers and Ennio cautiously approached the twitching body, each holding a weapon. Hegel felt worse than before, his
bowels pinched. The man mumbled deliriously, pawing the pig’s snout. Ennio knelt beside him, but not too close.

“What’s he sayin?” Manfried asked, recognizing the ranting as the same tongue Ennio addressed the guards with.

“He begs not to abandon him,” Ennio said. “They’ve traveled far, and he has been obedient to his mas—” Ennio rolled away with
a squeal. “The pig, the pig!”

“What’re you on bout?” Manfried demanded.

“Porco is his master, the pig is Devil!” Ennio kicked away in the snow, desperate to avoid the hog.

“Hmmm.” Manfried had heard the Devil would take the form of a cat, but never a swine. Then again, he must come from the same
place as Ennio, so maybe the Devil worked different down in the Romish kingdoms. Worst case they would have bacon, Manfried
reasoned, and attacked the beast. It saw him coming and bolted.

Ennio got to his feet and joined the chase, Manfried and he pursuing the pig through the snow-draped cemetery. Hegel, however,
could not lift his eyes from the dying man. With the man so close, he could clearly make out his features. He stank horribly,
his face covered in sores and stains. A dark suspicion took hold of Hegel, and he squatted to get a better look.

The Grossbarts’ uncle had taught them to look first under the arms and behind the groinpurse. Of course king and slave alike
should be burned, but in practice many who should have met the flame instead sneaked into their ancestral grounds through
well-meaning descendants. These tombs should be avoided lest one doom themself before even inspecting other nearby graves
for less dangerous bounties.