by P. N. Elrod
Gordy and I rode in the back of the paneled truck, a blanket-wrapped bundle between us. His men would wrap a couple of hundred pounds of chains and weights to it. I wouldn’t be going out onto the lake. Vampires have a problem with bodies of free running water.
Dim light filtered in from the small windows set in the truck doors, not much for Gordy, but plenty for me. He looked a calmer now, almost satisfied.
“Just realized something,” he said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“You told Slaughter you’d twist his head off if he used another girl for food. I didn’t know you meant it.”
“Me neither.”
“We’ll take his head off the rest of the way. Just to be sure.”
My pragmatic reply surprised me. “Wait till you’re on the water. Easier to clean up.”
Gordy took awhile before replying. He must have been surprised, too. “I’ll see to it. I’m thinkin’. . .”
“Yeah?”
“That there should be some distance in between ’em. The body and the head. You know?”
I considered that for more time than was really needed and nodded. “Couldn’t hurt. You been reading up on the subject?”
“Maybe.”
“You had this ready to hand.” I had the shotgun, playing bodyguard. “Wood in the shells, all that.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“In case you ever got stupid,” he said without apology.
“Okay.” Well, he was honest. “I don’t blame you. Idiots like Slaughter give vampires a bad name.”
Gordy’s head wobbled. Laughter. Then he sobered. “There’s still another one out there. The one who made him, if he was telling the truth.”
“Yeah,” I said. I puffed air, and stared out the small windows in the doors. No moon. It was dark even for me. “So. . .what’re you doing the rest of the night?”
* * * * * * *
__________
THE DEVIL’S MARK
Author’s Note: This story went into an anthology I edited with Marty Greenberg for DAW, called TIME OF THE VAMPIRES. Try as I might I could not come up with a Jack Fleming story for it—but I had watched a bit of an old movie that dealt with a “Witch-Finder General” who swanned around England murdering innocent people in the 1600s. I began to wonder: “What if one of those wankers had wandered into the wrong village to ply his trade?” The opening line is totally stolen from a Monty Python film.
England, 1646
“She’s a witch! Burn her!”
“What if she’s not a witch?”
“Burn her anyway, it’s cold!”
“Mr. Bainbridge! If you please!”
Belatedly realizing that his enthusiasm and dark humor were out of place—for the moment—Bainbridge got firm control of himself and presented his audience with a chagrined smile and a respectful bow. “Your pardon, gentle sirs, but when one is doing the Good Work, one may easily be carried away by the nobility of the task.”
The audience—that is to say the men who made up the leadership of the town of Little Evesham-on-the-Wash made forgiving noises. Lucky for him, that. There was a proper way of going about these things, but Bainbridge had allowed his mind to be distracted by his pending reward, and he’d gotten ahead of himself. The time would come for the people to indulge themselves in a good bit of fire and riot, but one had to build them up to it first, get them used to the idea.
Their mayor—or whatever he was in this rustic hellhole—Mr. Percy, cleared his throat. “Indeed, Mr. Bainbridge, but my question still stands: What if the female you have accused is not a witch?
“Why then, she will suffer no harm, but,” his gaze swept over the lot of them in such a manner as to indicate he understood his responsibilities perfectly well, “I know that once you are made acquainted with the evidence, you will not hesitate to deliver her to soul-cleansing flames and thus rid your beleaguered village of the Devil’s vile influence.”
Little Evesham-on-the-Wash was no more beleaguered than any other place had been in the last few years since King Charles and Parliament had gotten down to serious fighting. But each little hamlet Bainbridge had swept through when he began the lucrative work of witch-finding always thought its troubles to be unique to itself. He had but to ask if some oaf suffered mysterious fits or if farms were plagued by sickly livestock to start it all; there was always something wrong somewhere that he could seize upon as evidence of devilish doings. It had been an excellent day for him when he began to emulate the glorious work of the great Witch-Finder General, Matthew Hopkins.
The men conferred briefly, their voices low, but Bainbridge knew what they’d be thinking and discussing. Upon his arrival in town that winter’s afternoon he’d made sure to get a few timid souls at the local tavern worked up about the dangers of witchcraft, and as darkness fell they’d carried their worries straight to their leaders.
Forced by the demand for action to hold a council meeting, those learned men in charge of a fearful flock would be afraid themselves. If they forbade Bainbridge’s witch-finding, might that be taken to mean they were in fellowship with the Devil as well? If, on the other hand, they hired him to dig out the evil, they’d be short some trifling pounds from the town treasury and no harm done except to the witches, and what were a few old men and women more or less to them?
They reluctantly consented, Bainbridge went to work, and promptly found a witch.
Mr. Percy looked worried, almost morose, at this turn, but some of the others had a gleam of expectation in their eyes. Certainly the news of witch trials taking place in nearby towns had aroused their curiosity. Now it seemed they’d have the chance to see one at first hand.
This was just the start, though. Something entertaining to whet the appetite for the blood-letting to come. Bainbridge had accurately summed up just how much he could pocket from this little village.
Soon would come the real work: the sorting of gossip as hidden jealousies surfaced, as old grievances were recalled, then the searching of houses, discovery, the triumph of good as the flames burned away the evil. Every town in England was bursting with such opportunities, and it was a dull man who could not turn them to his own profit. Bainbridge fully intended to give them their money’s worth.
“Very well,” said Percy with an air of resignation. “Have the accused brought before us.”
Two strong young men standing by the council chamber’s door obliged him. They returned almost immediately with their charge; the others, seated judge-like at the long table, leaned forward with interest.
“ ’Swounds!” one of them muttered.
The soft exclamation was justified. No aged crone for tonight’s event—the sweet-faced young girl that stood before them had the figure of a temptress, with or without the help of stays. For the present she was without, being clad only in a plain chemise of thin and revealing weave. Her cap was gone as well, exposing an abundant crown of dark hair that tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. The flesh of her bared arms and a fair length of leg was a pleasing white and unblemished.
“Why, it’s Gweneth Skye,” said another man.
Bainbridge knew her name. He knew all about her, or as much as he could pick up from the tavern gossips. The spinster Skye made her way in the world tending sheep like most of the others living here, but she lived alone in her humble croft. Alone, except for a few cats. How Bainbridge loved cats, especially when combined with a solitary female. Usually the women he picked out for accusation were old, but this one’s youth and beauty would work in his favor just as well, if not better. There was always a contingent of respectable harpies—goodwives, that is to say—in any town ready to think the worst of any well-favored, unmarried, and therefore threatening female. They’d nag their husbands into lighting the first fire. Once that milestone was reached, the real frolic would begin.
Gweneth rubbed her arms as though cold and glanced at the row of men gaping at her.
“See, but she’s a bold and shameless we
nch,” said Bainbridge, planting his favorite and most fruitful seed. “Given is to the chance she’d gladly seduce any one of you goodly souls to the service of her dark master, if she hasn’t been doing so already in the town.”
Oh, but that always gave them something to think about. Once he’d introduced the idea of her lustfully preying on their weak physical natures, the men would have her tied to the stake quick as spit before their wives could think to suspect them.
“It has yet to be proved that she is in league with the devil, sir,” Percy reminded him.
“Then I will delay no longer.” Bainbridge turned full upon the girl, thrusting his face at her. “What is your name?” he roared.
She regarded him with calm eyes, showing not the slightest hint of alarm. “Gweneth Skye,” she answered in a clear, church-cool voice. “What’s yours?”
Bainbridge blinked. She should have at least flinched at such a vocal assault. “I am,” he announced loudly so any villagers with ears pressed to the chamber door could hear without strain, “the Witch-Pricker Bainbridge.”
She favored him with a stony face. “Meaning you run about the countryside pricking witches when the fancy takes you? What do you do with all the brats that come of it?”
He rounded on the mayor and his men in time to see their sniggering reaction. That was bad. If he lost control of things at this early point, he never would see his fee of twenty shillings per head.
“Are you very good at pricking, Mr. Bainbridge?” she inquired innocently.
“Honest sirs,” he said keeping his gaze steadily on his restive audience to better regain his hold of them, “You have just heard for yourselves that this female not only has a lewd mind, lacks the natural womanly virtue of modesty, but she also holds absolutely no respect for authority.”
Gweneth Skye made an audible yawn.
“She’s ever been modest, sir,” said one of them, Cameron by name. “As you’ve taken away her clothes, it makes that virtue impossible.”
“Ah, but there is a good reason, sir. The most infallible way to prove anyone is in the service of the Devil is to find the mark of his filthy claw upon their body, so it was necessary to make the woman ready for just such a search. Since I have much experience at this, I will conduct my query here and now—with your permission, of course.”
“With our permission, eh? How do you feel about it, Gweneth?”
That was unexpected. Bainbridge hadn’t thought she’d have a friend here. Perhaps later, when the time was ripe for it, he could bring an accusation against this Cameron and remove his sympathetic influence. He was a handsome, well-set young bravo, though, and men like that always had friends. It would be a nimble trick, but just possible to play if Bainbridge worked things right. Once the panic had firm hold of them, the hunt took on a life and course of its own.
When that happened, he’d leave this place with full pockets and another tale of success to add to his growing reputation.
“I suppose so,” Gweneth replied with an indifferent shrug. “I’ve nothing to hide.”
More laughter. Percy cast a sour glance at the others to quell it, then nodded. “Very well, permission is granted.”
Bainbridge swung upon Gweneth and reached toward and her, but she was too quick for him. Her chemise was off her shoulders and in a crumpled ring at her feet fast as lightning, inspiring a collective gasp from the men and a snarl of baffled annoyance from Bainbridge.
“So there, witch-pricker,” she said feet apart and hands on her bare hips. “Are you content now?”
Guffaws and hooting now, but Bainbridge wasn’t worried; he’d found what he needed. This smirking wench was headed straight for the flames. First she’d be given the opportunity to name others in her coven, and once that was out of the way then perhaps a jolly barrel roll to finish her off. Yes, pound a few knives between the staves so the sharp points are on the inside, shove her in, hammer the lid shut, then roll her merry-o down a nice, long hill, to burn barrel and all at the bottom. That was fine sport, never failed but to rouse up the young fellows of a town, to make trying them want more of the same, the shillings adding up for each witch that they found. . .
Percy cleared his throat. “Mr. Bainbridge? Does the girl bear the Devil’s mark?”
“She does, sir.”
“Indeed? Are you ready to prove that to the rest of us?”
From his doublet, Bainbridge drew out a small, elongated box. “In a trice, sir, in a very small trice.” He opened the box and plucked from it a slender silver object. “As everyone knows, witches cannot abide the touch of silver. Some squeal at the very sight of it.”
Gweneth gave no sign she was one of that number. “But it is also well known that the part of the body branded with the devil’s mark is wholly without feeling and may be deeply pierced without the witch giving the least cry of pain or bleeding so much as a single drop of blood.”
Those gentlemen not still distracted by Gweneth’s ample charms managed to nod sagely at this bit of information.
“You will see that when I pierce the Devil’s mark on the wench with this silver pin that she will neither give outcry nor will she bleed, providing unquestionable proof of her guilt.”
“Let us see the mark first.”
Gweneth, disdaining Bainbridge’s touch, stepped forward and pointed out a small red patch on her left forearm. “If this is what all the bother is about, then have a close look, sirs. It’s no devil’s sign, but merely a strawberry blemish I’ve had since birth. ’Tis likely you’ve seen such before on others if not on your own selves.”
“Do not try to deceive us with your foul master’s lies!” cried Bainbridge, clamping one huge hand hard around her arm. Startled, she struggled a moment, then held still, glaring defiance at him. His fingers pinched tightly on her flesh, hard enough to cut off all blood and all feeling. After a moment, when he judged her limb to be suitably numbed, he gently eased the silver pin into the spot.
Gweneth very unexpectedly said, “Ow!” and tore herself violently away. She gave Bainbridge a slap so resounding that it knocked his hat off, then pulled the pin from her arm and threw it on the floor. “You clod-pate bastard!” she snarled, trying to staunch the blood flow.
“It would seem,” said Percy, raising his voice to be heard over the robust amusement of his fellows, “that she is not a witch after all, sir.”
Bainbridge hadn’t quite recovered from the blow—his ears were still ringing—but he wasn’t about to give up yet. “She is a witch, and puts on a false show to trick you. ’Twas the silver pin that—”
“The false show I believe, sir, is what you are doing. You come into our town, get everyone all frothed up—which is very bad for the liver—about witch-hunting, repeatedly insist you won’t take money until you smell out a witch, but as soon as may be, you do manage to accuse someone: an obviously innocent woman.”
“Not innocent, I say! But mayhap you are bewitched by her, sir. She is a comely wench, after all.”
Percy made no reaction to this accusation. Odd. Usually when Bainbridge called that one out, the respectable element would go either huffy or fearful, vigorously deny everything, and hurry the proceedings along their normal path, meaning Bainbridge could get on with the business, take his earnings, and leave.
“Oh, bumfay and nonsense,” said Cameron impatiently. “Come, Percy, we’ll have to do something about him. Can’t hang about all night with this.”
“I suppose not,” Percy said with a sigh. “Well, Mr. Bainbridge, we of Little Evesham-on-the-Wash do judge that the accused, Gweneth Skye, is not a witch and may go free. Your services are no longer welcome here; you may leave as soon as you will.”
Bainbridge saw his fee slipping away faster than an oiled snake. “But you cannot make such a judgment!”
“Why not? It’s our town.”
“Aye, but there’re others who’ll not be so quick to deny the presence of the Devil in their midst. Word will get out of your laxness in seeking out and puni
shing heresy—”
“Perhaps it would be best for you to just—”
“If I have to go to the Witch-Finder General himself, I shall. There is evil in this place, and if you’re not going to purge it, then he will!”
“There’s no reasoning with his sort, Percy, and you know it,” said Cameron. “Things have gone too far already.”
Percy, rather mournful of countenance, looked at the others. “Are the rest of you in agreement?”
They all nodded, including, surprisingly, Gweneth. She’d not bothered to pull her chemise back on, but for all her base nakedness she didn’t look or act in the leastwise vulnerable or shamed.
“One last chance to forget about all this and be on your way, Mr. Bainbridge,” said Percy, in a tone of appeal.
“Oh, aye, but I’ll be going straight to the Witch-Finder Gen—”
“Yes, yes. Well, you can’t say I didn’t try.” He looked up to the men acting as guards by the door. “Call in the others.”
Bainbridge suddenly found himself close surrounded by several of the townspeople. Closest of all, to his shock, was Gweneth, who regarded him with a strange hot gleam in her remarkable eyes.
“I’ll go first if you please, Mr. Percy,” she said.
“Seeing what he did to your arm, it’s only fair.”
Bainbridge’s world went all soft as her gaze locked onto his. He heard her clear melodious voice speaking right into his mind, telling him all kinds of interesting things, strange things, imparting a feeling of absolute contentment and safety such as he’d never known in all his hard life. She opened the top of his doublet, undid the ties of the shirt beneath, pushed back the small collar. It was wanton, utterly improper, and in front of all these people terribly embarrassing, but he held still for her, so lost in her words of comfort that the presence of the others did not matter.