He yanked me off my feet and dragged me like a pig to the front of the crowd, right beneath the nose of the abbot.
“This one,” said the butcher. “His father, we know, has already been arrested for Huguenot activity, for going against the teachings of the Holy Church. And to add to the suspicion, only this morning he bought himself a wolf-tooth necklace from our own apothecary.” Monsieur Dubois grabbed the necklace from beneath my jerkin, lifted the cord in his fist, and let the tooth dangle white in the sunlight.
I gasped, choking, and struggled to get away. “Father Arnaud, Abbot Joseph,” the butcher continued, “Marius is afraid of his own brother, who everyone knows was born on Christmas Eve. Why wait for his brother to grow old enough to tear out someone’s heart? Already we struggle enough. This family will only bring more curses upon Venyre!”
Then the butcher let go of me. I fell forward, stumbling, but managed to stay on my feet.
“We will start a search,” Father Arnaud said. “And we will begin at the home of Marius Poyet.” He met my eyes. “I promise, with God’s help, to determine whether the devil is at work in your brother.”
I held the priest’s gaze. Once, I’d wished to serve as his altar boy. Now I turned away.
“From there,” Abbot Joseph announced, standing taller than Father Arnaud, “we will conduct a house-to-house search of the entire village. We will leave no stone unturned.”
Under my breath, one name slipped soundlessly from my lips: “Jean-Pierre.”
THE CROWD
Reluctantly, I led Father Arnaud, several soldiers, and curious villagers down the street I’d known forever, passed the battered sign of my father’s shop, then paused at the archway leading to my home. My heart pounded.
“But Madame Troubène,” I said, trying to stall the search, “she’s ill and it would disturb her too much if—”
“Ill? You lead the way then,” Father Arnaud said, with a hint of fear behind his command.
I took the stairs slowly, one step at a time, clearing my throat, trying to make as much noise as possible, but no matter how hard I stepped, my leather shoes were quiet on the stones. I hoped to give Jean-Pierre some warning that we were coming. He could take the medicine pebble. Madame Troubène, despite her own worries, still loved Jean-Pierre. She, I hoped, would make sure he stayed hidden.
I pushed open the door. “Sorry, Madame—I brought visitors. …” I spoke loudly, hoping Jean-Pierre would hear.
“Bonjour, Madame,” announced the priest. “Forgive us for disturbing you, but your home must be searched.”
Madame Troubène lay still on her bed. A crucifix had fallen from her grip and lay on her chest.
I feared she was dead. The room was icy still. I stepped closer and placed my head over her heart. It beat slowly. She barely breathed. I kissed her pale and wrinkled forehead.
The priest swept past me to her bed, studied her face, then turned to the others pouring into the room. “Let’s hope this is not the start of God’s punishment. Pray it is not the sweats returning to Venyre!”
Whispers of “the sweats” rolled down the stairs from one person to another. Sweating sickness had swept through France when I was a young child, and Venyre had lost many children and old people. Healthy people were even said to have dropped dead in the middle of speaking. In the stairway, some began to whisper “the plague.” Maybe this anxiety was what Brother Gabriel had meant about fear like a grass fire. All it took was the right wind, the right word.
I covered Madame Troubène’s bare feet with her blanket.
“Where is your brother?” Father Arnaud asked.
I blinked and looked around the room, then shrugged.
“Find the boy,” ordered the priest. He grabbed the crucifix lying on Madame Troubène’s chest and thrust it at the mercenary. “Search for him. If we wait until Christmas Eve, you may need more than your sword.”
I edged toward the stone wall where my brother—I prayed—was still hiding. I gathered my lute, sat down, and began to pluck the strings softly. I played as the wooden chest was emptied: linens, pewter goblets, bowls, and spices fell amid the rushes on the floor.
I strummed as the mercenary thrust his sword over and over again into the straw-filled mattress where Jean-Pierre and I slept every night. I played as soldiers descended the stairs. I closed my eyes and played when all grew silent around me. I played until I heard the house-to-house search move from my street to the next.
I played until sometime late in the sun’s course across the sky, played until light turned gray between the cracks in the shutters, played until my fingers felt raw, played until I heard the soft whimpers of Jean-Pierre behind the wall.
Then I eased the stone back. Jean-Pierre’s face was ashen, dusty, and tear-streaked. “I wet myself,” he said, shaking his head. “I tried to stay still as long as I could.”
I grabbed my brother and buried my head in his neck. “C’est bien,” I said. “You did just fine.” I realized he couldn’t stay forever in hiding. Much better to escape to somewhere beyond the reach of village hysteria. The ruins. I would take Jean-Pierre there, while it was dark, and wrap him in blankets in the highest tower. I could visit there during the day, and at night perhaps I could return. All I knew was I needed to get my brother as far away from the village as possible. My father had charged me with his welfare. I couldn’t let him down. “We must hurry,” I said to Jean-Pierre.
Just then, a stir of movement sounded beyond the door.
I jumped toward it, ready to drop the wooden bolt into its casing. How could I have been so forgetful as not to lock it? Before I was halfway across the room, the door inched open and Monsieur Dubois crossed the threshhold, his gaze directed beyond me to Jean-Pierre.
“I knew if I waited long enough,” he said, “you’d find each other.” A hint of a smile showed beneath his ample lips. He glanced at Madame Troubène, who had slept through it all. The medicine pebble had spared her from this pain.
The butcher brushed past me to Jean-Pierre. “Look at this, bruises on his face. A sure sign, it is, that he was out with the devil himself. Who did you rip open then? Some innocent traveler?”
I pushed myself between Jean-Pierre and the butcher. “Stay away from him! You know nothing!”
The butcher backhanded me and sent me flying to the mattress. “Someone,” he said, “must see to it that the boy is locked up before he changes, before the moon climbs higher.”
Stunned, I watched Monsieur Dubois tuck Jean-Pierre under his arm and carry him like a young boar to market.
Something told me I might never return to this place. My life was crumbling beneath me. I staggered to my feet, grabbed the lute, and hurried after my brother into the twilight.
TORCHES
A thudding of hooves sounded to my right. I jolted to a stop. A traveler on horseback was heading swiftly toward the eastern gate.
“Please help,” I cried, running into the street and nearly throwing myself beneath his horse’s hooves.
“Trying to kill yourself?” He was a young man with a slender nose, his beard tucked inside a cloak of the highest quality.
“Please, monsieur, I—”
“I would love to help,” the young man said with a sweep of his arm, “but I must be on my way.”
“This is important,” I said, reaching inside my tunic and pulling out my money purse. “I haven’t much, but I’ll pay you something.”
The man pulled on his horse’s reins. “I’ll listen, for a moment, then I’m leaving this village for towns more hospitable.”
“Just this,” I said. “Go to St. Benedict’s, the monastery to the northwest, and give Brother Gabriel this message: the fire is out of control. Will you do this—please—as an act of Christian charity?” I held out a few coins.
“Ah.” The man brushed away the offer of money, lifted his reins, and galloped toward the gate. “I wish you well!”
For a second, I stood there, money pouch dangling from my fingertips
as I watched the man ride away. Hardly a speck of goodwill could be found anywhere. And where was God in all of this? My belly turned on itself in anger.
I stuffed my money purse back in my tunic and headed toward the village square, where a round sphere of light glowed, soft and beckoning, almost as if something holy and good were taking place in the heart of my village, almost as if God had ordained the house-to-house search.
I ran, and my chest filled sharply with air; with each exhalation my breath formed a misty cloud of white. I remembered the candle I’d lit at church. God, please, add my brother to that prayer. Keep him safe along with my father. Send an angel.
Ahead, in the center of the square, Monsieur Dubois was holding Jean-Pierre over his head. Torchlights glowed, some held high by villagers, others burning from the outside walls of the guardhouse.
“See these bruises?” the butcher called. “It is no coincidence that the night after wolves were howling beyond our walls, this boy is covered with bruises!”
I had heard the talk. Anyone suddenly covered with bruises was believed to have been out at night as a loup garou, running with other wolves, attacking sheep, pigs, and people. But not my brother. I knew full well where the bruises had come from. I didn’t care what happened to myself; I had to speak out.
“He fell from a high place at the ruins!” I shouted.
A few villagers turned to listen.
“Just a few nights past—we were out and he fell. That’s why he has bruises! No other reason!”
“The wolves were howling last night,” a woman shouted, somewhere beyond my view. “A legion of werewolves. This child must have been with them!”
The villagers pressed closer to my brother, touching and looking. Exclamations rose from some. “A sure sign!” screeched Madame Negrel, clutching the arm of her aging husband.
I rushed forward. “My brother is not a loup garoul”
Someone grabbed my arm and held me fast. I wrestled free.
“Unexplainable!” shouted the butcher. “The only answer is that he was out preying upon victims and has now turned back to this innocent form. But the bruises remain! Now, we must keep him from returning to the forest for his salve. If he cannot get to it, we will be safe.”
“The wolves will have their celebration tomorrow. The eve of Christmas,” said another. “We must make no room for evil in our midst.”
“We have no other way to kill the werewolf in the boy,” said the butcher, “other than to burn him at the stake.”
“Cut off a limb! An arm, a leg!” called another. “You’re the butcher. Then we’ll know for sure. If we find a shaggy coat beneath his skin, we’ll know the truth. We’ll have him!”
The butcher didn’t reply.
“Yes, cut off a limb!”
“He may look innocent,” said a young woman with a baby clutched tight, pleading in a high voice to those around her, “but that’s the devil, tricking us into doing nothing, tricking us into thinking we’re safe!”
I was only a breath away from my brother. Jean-Pierre’s eyes were wide, whites exposed. Tears streamed down his cheeks, which were pale as ice.
“Please,” I cried. “Listen! My brother is good, he isn’t evil, he—”
“Just like your father, I suppose you’re going to tell us!” someone shouted.
Uneasy laughter rang through the crowd. “Bring him to the guardhouse!”
“Keep us safe! Lock him up for the night!”
“Burn him in the morning with the rest!”
Burn him in the morning with the rest. Was this the fate decided for my father?
Feelings of worthlessness flooded me. I had done nothing of use. Maybe there was nothing I could have done for Papa, but I’d tried to help Jean-Pierre. My efforts had only made things worse. I might just as well have delivered Jean-Pierre into the hands of the crowd all on my own. As if my head were suddenly full of feathers, my vision became foggy. My stomach turned sour, and I bent at the waist, hands to my knees. I felt as if I were spinning, faster and faster. Beads of sweat formed along the sides of my face and the back of my neck. Voices blurred in my ears. Suddenly, I bent over and emptied my stomach in the street.
Shakily, I stood up again. The crowd was shifting, moving with Monsieur Dubois and my brother toward the guardhouse. I struggled to follow.
At the entrance doors, two soldiers took Jean-Pierre, who twisted and kicked.
“He’s wild!” someone shouted. “Hold him!”
One soldier held him beneath the arms, the other held his legs, and they carried him inside. “Marius!” he cried. “Papa!”
I slumped to the guardhouse steps, just around the corner from where my father was imprisoned below. I put my head in my hands and wept.
Hours passed. As the moon rose higher, ringed with an ominous white haze, the crowd of villagers thinned.
Deep in the night, a small group gathered at the edge of the square and pushed two women, their clothes torn, toward the guardhouse. One held her head high, her face stern. The other pleaded, “I am not a witch! I practice medicine for the benefit of everyone! You’ve seen me work good, not evil. I am not a witch!”
“God will be the judge,” said the mercenary.
Sometime in the middle of the night, when the villagers had drifted home, when occasional soft cries and curses rose from the prisoners’ cell, I dropped my head across my arms and fell asleep.
Three riders, magnificent knights on horseback, their armor shimmering silver and shields displaying coats-of-arms I had never seen before, thundered into the village square. They threw off their helmets at the feet of the local priest, and displayed bright halos. “We have been sent by God,” one said, “to deliver your father and brother from wickedness. There will be no trial here.” Each stretched his arms wide and white wings appeared on his back. Then the leader cried, loud and high-pitched, like a screeching eagle.
I woke, trembling, to a painful sound, one that tore at my heart—the sound of my father’s voice, crying out.
I gathered my lute and raced from the steps of the guardhouse around the corner to my father’s cell. “Papa?” I asked, my hands as cold as the grate I clutched.
An unfamiliar voice answered from the darkness. “They’ve taken him—for torture.”
“No!” I cried.
“They will get a confession from him, one way or another.”
“What will they do?”
“Many things. Tonight they are heating oil.”
“For … for what?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
“They have a funnel. They put it in your mouth and threaten to pour in burning oil.”
I didn’t want to believe this. Maybe this prisoner—or was it a soldier?—was just trying to scare me. “How do you know this?” I ventured.
“I confessed before they poured. There is no winning,” the man said, his voice distant, as if he’d already passed from his body. “If you don’t confess, and survive the torture, you get life in prison, worse than hell itself. Confess and you get it over with quickly at the stake.”
Time passed slowly. I leaned against the building, knees drawn tightly to my chest, and waited. A cat, skinny and one ear torn, brushed by my legs, then disappeared.
Merely moments later, Jean-Pierre’s dog scooted to my side, body low, cowering, tail wagging. I remembered my brother’s words: he needed a friend. My own emptiness was so painful that I stretched my hand to him, and he met it in midair with his pink tongue. I patted his thin sides. With small black eyes, he looked straight at me. He leaped up and licked my chin—almost as if he understood—then he settled into a furry ball beside me, bringing a hint of warmth.
Below, metal clanged against metal. Labored breathing joined the sound of footsteps.
“Who’s next?” came the voice of the mercenary.
“This one,” came a soldier’s voice, then a thud. “No, he’s already dead.”
“You, quick to your feet!”
&
nbsp; A whimper, a clink of chains, a shuffle of feet, and the same rotten smell stirred up toward the grate. Then quiet fell as the guard’s voice echoed deeper into the building.
“Papa?” I whispered.
“Marius.” His voice was weak.
My throat tightened. To hear my father, always so strong and vital, to hear his voice … I swallowed and tried to be brave for him. I leaned over the stray dog and grasped the grate. “Papa, what did they do?”
“I confessed,” said my father, “to loving my wife and my sons. And that will always be true, but I lied, too. I told them I was a heretic. …” His voice trembled. “Only because I couldn’t face …”
Tears filled my eyes. The dog pushed his nose into my hand, a small comfort.
The other prisoners in the cell seemed to quiet their moans and clinking chains so we could communicate. I fixed a picture of my father in my mind, not below in the cell, but strong and capable in his smithy. He was a tall oak whose leaves were dropping in a fierce wind. And yet he stood, bare as the silhouetted trees on the plateau. I swallowed hard.
“They can take a man’s life,” my father continued, “but not his soul. Remember that, Marius.”
An occasional villager passed by, some swaggering with drink. I didn’t care if I was found at the prisoners’ grated window. I didn’t care anymore about what happened to me. My life and everyone I loved were slipping from me.
“You must save yourself,” he said. “Flee to another place and start over. Save your brother and work toward good. Go, please,” he said, “before it’s too late.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell my father that Jean-Pierre had been caught. I pulled my lute from its leather case, rested it on my lap, and—offering up the only thing I could—I played.
Beside the grate, with the smell of human waste and rot wafting upward, I played for my father. I strummed until my fingers were numb and my sight blurred with tears. I played also for my brother, alive or dead, somewhere deep within the stone walls of the guardhouse. I played as the moon dropped steadily lower, the sky turned to a dingy blanket of gray, and the sun licked the horizon with hungry orange flames.
Curse of a Winter Moon Page 8