by David Leslie Johnson; David Leslie Johnson; Catherine Hardwicke Sarah Blakley-Cartwright
“I’m doing as I’ve been told to do,” he whispered shortly. “And you, sir, would be wise to as well.” The soldiers stepped back, one reluctantly, one in grim resolution.
As the flames flickered at the bronze belly, the sound of Claude thrashing echoed from within the metallic monster.
“Listen to how he sings of his love of Satan….”
Father Solomon felt Father Auguste’s horrified stare. Observant people know when they’re being observed.
Solomon took a deep breath, rearing back with it, like a cat about to pounce. He moved to the side of the village priest. “What men like you and me do, we do for the greater good. As men of the cloth, it is our burden to rid the world of its evils.”
“Tell me.” Auguste feebly tried to stand strong. “What could possibly be the good of this?”
Father Solomon leaned close so that Auguste could make no mistake about the level of his resolve.
“I killed my wife to protect my children.” He let his words have their full effect. “Our methods of pleasing God are sometimes flawed, Father, but such is the business of werewolf hunting. You’d best develop a stomach for it.”
“What are you saying, Father?” Auguste replied in such a dangerous voice, powerful in its quiet, audible over the cries and thumps, that Solomon had no choice but to stop and turn. He held a finger to the other man’s lips.
“I’m saying that you must make a choice. And I suggest, for your safety, that you join me.”
He turned to the soldiers. “Do not release the boy until he offers the name of the Wolf.” Then he swept out of the building.
“How can he speak? He’s being tortured,” Father Auguste said quietly to himself, hoping that Father Solomon knew what he was doing but worrying he might not.
Solomon was the only customer in the tavern. The man of God was drinking down his midday meal. How else to still the anger he felt at these ignorant peasants who did nothing but work against themselves?
He looked up from his drink as the Captain entered, followed by a village girl. Solomon narrowed his eyes, sure he knew her.
Ah, yes. The boy’s sister. The redhead with the sweet face. She was girlish and God-fearing; he liked that. Solomon did not object as the Captain brought her forward.
“Yes, child.” He acknowledged her presence.
“I have come to bargain for Claude’s release.” She said her well-rehearsed line aloud.
When Solomon didn’t say anything, she thrust her closed hand over the table in front of him. She opened her fist, and it sounded as though she’d dropped a few coins. She pulled her hand back, as though from the heat of a fire, and Solomon could see that she had indeed. A few paltry pieces of silver.
His lips tightened; it was not clear whether he was angry or trying to stifle laughter.
“What do you mean me to do with this?” Solomon asked.
“I…”
“With this, I could buy one loaf of rye or a half-dozen eggs. Thank you for that gift. Now tell me,” he said, coming close enough that she felt the touch of his cool breath. “What were you hoping to bargain with?”
Roxanne slid the coins off the table and back into her hand. They seemed dirty now. Her face burning red, she managed to get out, “I have more than money.”
Father Solomon raised his eyebrows.
She lowered her shawl and loosened her blouse until she was very nearly exposed and offered him the shockingly full breasts, which she had always kept carefully hidden.
Solomon sneered at the exposed flesh, insulted.
“This is your idea of a bribe?” Solomon’s brow was still lifted.
The Captain laughed roundly. They let her stand there, feeling hopelessly foolish.
“Don’t you want me?” she murmured, almost convincingly.
“Turn around, girl,” Solomon spat out.
Now it was she who felt dirty. Roxanne managed to cover herself before the Captain laid his hands on her to drag her out.
“Wait!” she cried.
The worst thing Roxanne had ever had to do was beat the body of a filthy, drunken man off her mother with Claude standing nearby, wringing his hands as he witnessed the scene. This was so much worse. This… this would haunt her forever. But she had no choice.
“Wait, please. I do have one more thing.” She spoke quickly enough that she could not turn back.
“If you spare my brother,” she began, “I’ll give you the name of a witch.”
This got Solomon’s attention. “Now that is worth something.”
22
Valerie’s father was keeping watch by the fire while Suzette rested, delirious in bed. This meant that he had fallen asleep, slumped slack-jawed on a stool, an axe lying dormant across his lap. It was the same size axe as everyone else’s, the same one he’d always used, and yet it looked too large for him. She noticed the sunken plum-colored pits beneath his closed eyes and settled beside him to do the watching herself.
As Valerie had walked home from the granary, stunned by what she’d seen, she spied the three little girls whom Lucie used to take care of. They were seated, pallid and still, at a cottage window, watching with vacant stares and pursed lips as Valerie passed. Valerie wondered if, in a year or two, they would even remember Lucie. Her sweet generosity, the way she’d twirled them one at a time, giving one a second turn because she wanted it and then giving all a second turn because fair was fair. Would they remember that?
Amidst the chaos, deep mistrust was growing underneath like mold. The villagers’ eyes glazed over, so they did not really see each other.
Some men had assembled a small group, a vigilante brigade that knocked on doors, seeking anything that was out of the ordinary. And they found things, too, in just the few hours they had been searching. One villager kept an assortment of feathers by her bed. Another had a book in an ancient language, despite claiming to not be able to read. Someone else had given birth despite being past the usual age for such a thing.
Yes, they found things.
They had a hard time, though, getting Solomon’s soldiers to listen, as the soldiers seemed to have their own way of doing things. So the men stored the information away for later.
Lost in such thoughts, Valerie had drifted off, too. But now both father and daughter awakened to pounding at the door—Bang! Bang!—then pounding that tore into the door itself. Something was coming in.
Valerie pictured those great claws working furiously at the wood, those huge teeth ripping out chunks.
The frayed wood of the door flew apart—but the Wolf didn’t burst into the room. It was a pair of soldiers who charged in and took command of the space, staking claim over everything. One kicked over a chair that was not in his way, just because there was no reason not to. The people were theirs, too. They shoved Cesaire aside and grabbed hold of Valerie, dragging her off.
Suzette never even woke up.
“Tell them what you told me,” Solomon demanded, leaning across the bar in the tavern.
Roxanne was seated directly across from Valerie but did not look at her, staring through her to the wall behind.
The tavern had hastily been made into a courtroom, the benches assembled into pews, and when there were no more benches, people used stools. Valerie was tied to a chair for all to see at the front of the room. Heavily equipped soldiers kept guard at every exit, standing stiffly in their armor.
Valerie had seen Peter enter, seen how hard it was for him to be there, to see her like that. He stood alone in the farthest corner.
Roxanne knew she had to respond, that people were waiting to hear what she’d promised them. She summoned her courage, her voice shaky.
“She can climb the tallest trees,” she began, repeating dutifully what she had told Solomon, what she believed to be the truth, a truth that fractured her heart to believe. “She can run faster than all the girls. She wears this red cloak. The Devil’s color,” she added, for those who couldn’t put it together.
The rope dug int
o Valerie’s skin as Roxanne continued. “And she can talk to werewolves. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
Valerie heard the villagers let out a communal gasp as, beneath her red hair, Roxanne’s face turned pink with tears. Valerie quivered with her own heartbreak as she watched her friend go through with it.
“Do you deny the allegations?” Solomon turned to Valerie with mock incredulity.
Valerie felt wooden. “No.”
The crowd murmured.
“I don’t deny it.”
Prudence sat poised and silent. Her mother had curled up into the end of the pew and was chewing her hair. Henry was seated between a friend and his grandmother, dressed in her mourning black. Rose was seated right behind Henry, still trying to be noticed, even now. Peter still stood alone.
“And what was the nature of this conversation?” Solomon steepled his fingers.
Valerie, happy to find that she still had a glimmer of humor left, held back a faint smile. She would give him the information, but in the order she wanted to tell it. “The Wolf said”—she paused to draw it out—“that you don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
Feeling the eyes in the room shift over to him, Solomon smiled showily; he was too smart to fall into that trap.
“I’m sure that it did,” he said sweetly. “What else did it say?”
Valerie felt as if her head were full of wool, the way she felt when she was sick with a cold. She felt separated from her own body.
“It promised to leave Daggorhorn in peace. But only if I leave with it,” Valerie thought, only to find that she had said it aloud.
Roxanne’s body reacted, her shock stemming the tears her will hadn’t managed to hold back.
Valerie felt Peter’s eyes boring into her from the back of the room.
A heavy quiet overtook the room. Solomon thought a moment. This was better than he’d hoped. He leaned in close to Valerie, as though no one else were there.
“The Wolf is someone in this village who wants you, Valerie,” he said in the voice he reserved for the public. “Do you know who it is? I’d think very hard if I were you.”
Valerie was, of course, silent. She did not know anything for certain, and she could not tell. She looked again to gauge Peter’s reaction. But he was no longer there.
Solomon was an astute observer. He knew Valerie well enough by now; he would get nothing more.
“It wants her, not you,” he appealed to the villagers, trying a different tactic. “Save yourselves. It’s very simple. We give the Wolf what it wants.”
Henry leapt to his feet. His friend looked up at him unhappily; Henry’s dogmatic adherence to his principles had always bothered those around him, as it meant that he was more plodding, less fun than he might have been. He would not race off with an old woman’s undergarments, snatched from a hanging clothesline, or swap a pawn for a bishop in a chess game. But this time he was putting himself in danger.
“We cannot give her to the Wolf. That’s human sacrifice.”
“We’ve all made sacrifices,” Madame Lazar spoke up in her noncommittal way, as though she were merely making an observation.
Henry scanned the room, seeking support where there was none. The villagers were never so united as when they were banded against someone.
Desperate, Henry spun around to where he had seen Peter standing earlier. Gone, his post abandoned.
Valerie was touched by Henry’s effort, even though she sensed that it was more about doing what was right than about her. At least he had stood up to Father Solomon. Not even Valerie’s family had done that.
Her parents and her grandmother sat together, afraid to speak up. They would not offer themselves up now; what good would it do to be locked up together? There would have to be another way.
Her mother still looked ill from her attack, and Valerie wasn’t even sure Suzette was entirely conscious. Cesaire looked angry but trapped, as if he finally grasped his own powerlessness. And Grandmother—well, Valerie hoped she might have a plan, but she also knew that the woman would be risking her own life to speak now. She was grateful, at least, that Roxanne had not brought Grandmother into it.
Solomon, always a man of action, took the opportunity to nod to the soldiers, who tramped over to untie Valerie and relocate her. The trial was over.
The villagers were eager to escape the room, which felt bitter with the aftertaste of their decision, their conviction that they deserved to live more than Valerie did. So they filed out wordlessly, holding their chatter until they were out of doors. No one dared to speak to Father Solomon; no one dared to look at him. No one wanted to stand out from the rest.
Only Father Auguste hung back to say a word to Father Solomon.
“I thought you came to kill the Wolf, not to appease it.”
Solomon looked at him as though doing so were a taxing trial of his patience.
“I have no intention of appeasing it,” he said conspiratorially. “The girl is merely the bait for our trap tonight.”
“Of course, of course,” Father Auguste murmured. He stepped back, his faith restored, pacified in leaving his hero to do his hero’s work. Auguste hadn’t even thought of that! He turned away, feeling he had done his duty, pleased with the order of things. Valerie saw that he would not take any blame, either. She was alone in this.
The villagers had gathered in small, tightly knit groups just outside the tavern door. Cesaire, Suzette, and Grandmother stepped out and into the aftermath of the hearing, the bubbling of talk subsiding at the sight of them, especially of Grandmother, who was not often at village events.
Madame Lazar, though, continued to speak loudly to Rose and a group of gossipy women. “… Her grandmother lives all alone in the woods.”
Though it was not the first time she had heard such prejudice, something made Grandmother stop to listen.
“The first victim was her sister. The second was her fiancé’s father. And don’t forget her poor mother, scarred for life,” she alleged loudly. “If the girl isn’t a witch, then how do you explain it?”
Cesaire saw that Grandmother was falling under the trance of Madame Lazar’s voice. Something about it seemed to resonate with her.
“Don’t listen to her.”
“She’s not wrong,” Grandmother mused. “Valerie is at the center of this.”
Cesaire looked concerned but only nodded and started Suzette down the road to put her back in bed. Grandmother paused to catch the last word.
“I’ve tried to talk Henry out of his feelings for her,” Madame Lazar went on, her eyes droopy at the corners. “But there’s no hope. He’s lost his senses. If that doesn’t sound like witchcraft to you…” Madame Lazar trailed off, her listeners nodding their agreement.
No one spoke to Henry when he pushed out of the tavern to confront Peter, who was standing across the way, watching the crowd from a shadowy corner. Peter straightened from his lean, ready for the fight.
“What was that about?” Henry’s voice came out higher than he would have liked.
“Shh.” Peter’s eyes shifted around the square.
“I thought you cared about her,” Henry said, careful to steady his voice this time.
Peter rubbed his eyes and then opened them, hoping to find that Henry had gone. He hadn’t.
“I do care.” Peter sighed, seeing that he would have to give a genuine answer, that Henry wouldn’t take anything less. “But”—Peter nodded in the direction of the tavern, where the Captain was—“I’m trying to be smart about it.”
Henry looked quickly and saw that even his brisk glance had not escaped the Captain’s notice.
“You’re going to rescue her.” Henry understood at last.
Peter didn’t bother to respond.
Henry studied his rival. He felt that he could trust him but thought that he’d rather not. And yet Henry was not so prideful that he would sacrifice the girl he loved. He watched as a soldier hauled Valerie out of the tavern, taking her elsewhere to be locked
up. Seeing where the ropes had chafed her skin red and raw, he found it was easy to reach a decision.
“I’ll help you.”
“I’m not that desperate,” Peter answered coldly, his pride apparently still intact.
“Oh, really? What’s your plan, then?”
Peter shifted his weight.
“You don’t have one, do you? Look, the blacksmith shop is mine now,” he reminded him. “I’ve got tools and the skills to use them. You need me.” Henry wanted the satisfaction of Peter giving in. “Admit it.”
Peter didn’t like it. But he liked the idea of letting Valerie be taken by the Wolf even less. He knew it would be easier with Henry’s help.
“Fine.” As he thought through it, Peter’s face lightened, but it was subtle, almost imperceptible, like the gradation of tones in a shadow. He didn’t necessarily need to trust Henry, just trust that Henry’s love for Valerie was strong.
But what if it was too strong? Supernaturally strong?
“If you’re the Wolf, though, I’ll chop off your head and piss down the hole.”
“And I’ll do the same for you. With pleasure.”
“Fair enough.”
The two men looked at each other searchingly, amazed at the truce they had reached, uneasy though it was.
23
Roxanne, feeling hollow, eaten by corruption from the inside out, approached the Captain.
“Where’s my brother? Father Solomon told me he would be released.” She sniffled in the cold.
Something indiscernible crossed the Captain’s face.
“Released.” He nodded absently. “Yes. I believe he was.”
The Captain turned and swept back inside the tavern. Roxanne assumed that the motion meant she ought to follow. She hurried after him as he easily took the stairs three at a time. He led her through the tavern and out the back to a wheelbarrow standing in the yard. Roxanne was confused, and she paused to look around. She didn’t see her brother.