413
AN ANTHOLOGY OF SHORTS
Not To Be Misconstrued As Having Anything To Do With Fruit-Of-The-Loom or Hanes
I
ON RELIGION AND OTHER FANTASIES
ONE
THE WIZARD OF FAVERSHAM
1.
It is the year 1480 A.D., and King Ferdinand of Spain and his lovely bride Queen Isabella, in their zeal to serve their church, have appointed Inquisitors against heresy among converted Jews. As an afterthought, they have ordered their Grand Inquisitor-General, Torquemada, to send forth worthy priests with the power of the church to other, less civilized regions of the known world, as saviors of errant souls. In the jargon of the times, this meant the forced conversion of anyone who had the temerity to question the rather “interesting” stories found in their holy bible.
The priests were to be accompanied by soldiers armed with the fervor of their allegiance, and with swords, knives, spears, lances, battleaxes, maces, whips, pikes, ropes, branding irons, and well . . . etc.
Ferdinand and Isabella were highly motivated in their beliefs and in the fervor of their holy mission to convert the Jews and other heathens, because their church taught them that their holy father, a mystical creature living somewhere up in the sky, had ordained that they, as king and queen, were special and must be given large sums of money, and be adored, obeyed, and cared for at all times by the common people, that’s us; a sort of symbiotic relationship between church, them, and state, us.
And so it came to pass that a certain corpulent priest, Georgio Jiminez, and his four corpulent brothers, Ambrose, Albermarle, Argyle, and Clyde, were sent northward to a very backward island, well out of the range of civilization, called – England.
There, after suffering the indignities of a voyage across little charted waters of the Bay of Biscay, and a winter crossing of the English Channel, much time spent leaning over the tiny ship’s guard rails, the corpulent quintet and their fourteen acolyte soldiers reached their destination of Ramsgate on the extreme southeast coast of England. There, they journeyed on donkeyback some thirty leagues westward along the coast, and settled into the charming and bustling little community of Faversham.
Faversham’s primary charm lay in the fact that, of its six hundred inhabitants, all were farmers, fishermen, or highly uneducated landowners; none had weapons; and not less than fifteen were Jews who were easily suspect of being potential heretics.
The priests’ first order of business was to recoup some of the weight loss they had experienced on their journey. This required considerable time at table and prodigious amounts of food.
At first, the Faversham inhabitants balked at supplying such prodigious amounts of food for free. But with liberal displays of the various uses of their swords, knives, spears, lances, battleaxes, maces, whips, pikes, ropes, branding irons, and well . . . etc., the Faversham inhabitants were soon won over, and were only too glad to help return the five priests to their former and magnificent three hundred pound selves.
The farmers, fishermen and wealthy local landowners soon became accustomed to the presence of the Iberian priests, and even went so far as to erect a splendid abbey with an adjacent castle for their convenience.
One thing that remained somewhat of a consternation for the local inhabitants, however, was the Iberian priests’ reluctance to touch water. Among the Europeans of the time, water, in general, was considered a potion of the devil and to be avoided at all times, except for the necessity of satisfying one’s thirst. The Iberian priest had determined a way of bypassing even that necessity by consuming large amounts of wine in its stead. To make a long story short – one did not bathe.
Now of course much of this custom may have had its origin in the fact that Europe was experiencing the height of the “Little Ice Age,” and bathing could prove most disconcerting when one had to break through the ice first in order to locate fresh water for bathing. Goose pimples could become alarmingly enormous under such conditions.
Now it happens that among the fishermen, an interesting habit had developed in which bathing was carried out during the spring, summer and autumn months of July and August. They were the first to develop this habit as a result of occasional accidents that occurred when a large wave would sweep one of them overboard. Upon recovery, the soaked fisherman would point out how refreshing the experience had been, and that if one were to linger a little longer in the water, the chaffing that usually plagued them throughout the year, because T.P. had not yet been invented, seemed to be somewhat relieved.
It was not long afterward that the farmers and wealthy landowners learned of this phenomenon and joined them for longer and longer excursions in the various streams of their region. Fish downstream began developing some mysterious maladies about their eyes and gills.
It was unfortunate for the local Faversham inhabitants, however, that the Iberian priests and their soldiers refused to adopt this habit, citing some obscure ruling in their bible that forbade the touching of water upon the skin. Something about demons and gargoyles polluting the tainted waters. Many of the Faversham folk felt, though, that it might have had something more to do with the priests’ fondness for their pet fleas.
Nonetheless, for the Faversham folk it became a growing problem, for as the years passed and the amount of food being processed through the priests’ systems increased, standing downwind of them during one of their inspection tours became a downright trial. The only consolation for the Faversham folk was the amusement they experienced watching the stiff-legged gait the priests adopted while walking about – caused, they knew, as a result of the extreme chaffing the priests experienced between their corpulent cheeks.
There was another problem that evolved as a result of the Inquisitors’ arrival. Radio, television and ball games had not yet been invented, and the only real source of entertainment for the Inquisitors and their wealthy supporters was the torture, humiliation and dismemberment of other people.
Now the only people available for such forms of entertainment were poor people and Jews. Consequently, the only people who were entertained by this were those who were wealthy enough to know they were highly unlikely to be the source of the entertainment.
This is why the wealthier landowners and innkeepers had no great dislike for the presence of the Iberian Inquisitors, because what greater source of entertainment could there be than the use of swords, knives, spears, lances, battleaxes, maces, whips, pikes, ropes, branding irons, and well . . . etc., to torture, mutilate and dismember hapless poor people. And when the Jews were victimized, their businesses and possessions were more often than not confiscated by the Inquisitors and distributed to any citizen enterprising enough to turn them in as a reward. Seeking out heretics was just plain fun.
Along with the normal methods of entertainment that aided in the poor people’s reduction, another problem arose around Father Georgio and his brothers; they had a penchant for music. In particular, they enjoyed the high, lilting voices of the young alter boys in their choir.
At first, the families appreciated the good fortune lavished upon their sons. After all, they were being well fed and fattening up beyond that of the other children. What did not dawn on them in time, was the realization that at some time around puberty, the voices of their lovely sons dropped. Even more unfortunately, the eyebrows of Father Georgio and his brothers dropped equally in keeping with their sons’ voices.
An unfortunate fact of the times was that the church leaders took it upon themselves to believe that it was their god’s will that boys brought into the church to fill their choir should retain their high, lilting voices, and that they were being blasphemous whenever they allowed their voices to change.
There was a way, of course, for the Inquisitors to remedy this problem, and Father Georgio was well aware of this remedy through his participation in the community’s enthusiastically attended entertainment sessions.
Since the Inquisitors allowed no more than a week for the poor boys to recover, the choir remained full and continued on with its hymns sung in high, lilting voices.
All and all, between the scheduled entertainment sessions and the rituals of castration, the Faversham poor began to grow skeptical. After all, how could families hope to have grandchildren if . . ?
To add to all this, the inhabitants learned that, whereas most religious leaders preferred to rape young girls, the Iberian Inquisitors appeared to show a preference for young boys – castrated choir boys being their favorite prey.
Many a Faversham family considered rebellion, but there were always the swords, knives, spears, lances, battleaxes, maces, whips, pikes, ropes, branding irons, and well . . . etc.
2.
Now it happens that well to the west on an island identified as being thousands of leagues away, there dwelt a people, considered by the English to be barbarians, savages, devils, demons, gargoyles, ignorant, stupid, lazy, inferior, beastly, monstrous, and in general status – lower than a worm’s belt buckle. These were the Irish.
And indeed they were a different people. Still basically Celtic in their beliefs, they did not recognize the Christian gods or in the fairy tales associated with them. They believed, instead, in the one true god – The Great Irish Fhurp – who dwelt in a mystical home located in synchronous orbit one thousand leagues directly above the “chosen land” of Ireland. It was a known fact to the Irish that Ireland was the center of the world and had been the largest chunk of matter that had been circling, in the third spherical halo, the early sun billions of years ago, and that all other lands had been mere additions.
Now it happens, and this will be no great revelation to the reader, that some of the author’s distant relatives were Irish. Oh yes! There were two brothers, the Cantwells, who were poor, read destitute, dirt farmers who each occupied a small mud and sod hut, one to the west and one to the east, of the Tipparary and Kilkenny County line.
The point to all this is that we Cantwells have always been considered a bit eccentric, read different. So eccentric, in fact, that history notes; whenever local wars broke out, the side that incorporated the Cantwell Clan into theirs, usually by spear point, always placed them in the front to draw off enemy spear and arrow fire, while the more favored clans could circle and outflank. Another bit of proof as to the Cantwell Clan’s status, was the fact that when presented with their hastily crafted coat-of-arms on shield, prior to battle, the brothers noted that their shields were constructed of paper-mache’ rather than the usual wood or metal. It is a credit to their muscular legs that they were able to live long enough to reproduce. History records that the Cantwell Clan motto was: “Hurry, Richard, the arrows are gaining!”
Now it happens that during the 14th, 15th, and 16th Centuries, about every generation or so, a child would be born who was really eccentric. That child, always a boy, was generally traced as having been born somewhere in the vicinity on either side of the Tipparary and Kilkenny County line. Great suspicion was cast upon the Cantwell Clan, although the boy usually grew up without benefit of a last name.
Such a boy had been born in that general vicinity in the year of the Great Irish Fhurp – 1450 A.D. The boy, without benefit of a last name, was given the moniker – Nichodemus. By the time Nichodemus had reached the ripe old age of thirty-five, he had learned that solitude was better than ridicule, and took up lodging in a small mud and sod hut away from all other centers of habitation, and established a community of his own with some three hundred inhabitants – 100 sheep, 40 pigs, 40 chickens, 30 ducks, 18 geese, 62 rats, 5 cats, 3 crickets, one dog and himself.
Because of its large population, he referred to his community as a city, and because of his devotion to the Great Irish Fhurp, he named his community – Fhurp City.
Because he had never been told by his mother what his true family name was, the Cantwells tended to be a bit secretive about that, he adopted the rare and little known title of Jones. It was not long before other people, who would see him on rare occasions shopping in nearby Ballingame or Callan, began referring to him as “Fhurp City Jones.”
He didn’t mind this a great deal, because after all who wants to be called Nichodemus?
The people in the nearby communities were always suspicious of him, and often whispered among themselves on subjects such as – what his relationship with his 100 sheep might be? And why else would he lead so solitary a life? But, of course, all this was just local gossip. He, in fact, did have lady friends, and although none would admit to it, there were at least two children born that might indeed have inherited “eccentricity.”
A question that might be raised now by the reader is: exactly what do you mean by “eccentric?” Well . . . some of the Cantwell ancestors are alleged to have possessed the “weirding ways.” The Christians considered my ancestors to be “possessed” The Irish considered my ancestors to be just plain “weird.”
Unfortunately for Nichodemus, Fhurp City Jones, some of the local nearby villagers began to suspect the genealogy of the two children recently born to two of the local village ladies, and of their suspected “eccentricities.” As a result, Nichodemus woke up one morning to find his isolated mud and sod hut surrounded by people with various tools of axes, saws, hammers, picks, pitchforks, and well . . . etc., and he was sent packing to the most vile, contemptible and foulest place on Earth – England.
At first, Nichodemus was requested, with liberal waving about of axes, saws, hammers, picks, pitchforks, and well . . . etc., to make his journey across the St. George Channel from Wexford Harbor on the east of Ireland to Strumblehead on the west coast of Wales by use of arm and leg power, read swim. But fortunately for Nichodemus, a village elder named Foksel, allowed that he should be given a small skiff so that he might carry with him all the vile and treacherous items of his craft that might be left behind and cast hideous spells upon the neighboring communities.
Now to the English folk, the distance between England and Ireland was measured as being thousands of leagues. And so one would think that Nichodemus was being given a death sentence. But to the Irish, England was considered merely an eastern suburb of Ireland, and as such no great obstacle to be breeched. The Irish, after all, are not known to be a vicious lot.
The passage across St. George Channel was an easier go than one would have expected, since the season was winter. But for the first time in his life, Nichodemus found that in just one spot directly over his skiff, the clouds that shrouded the sky allowed one small hole for the sun to shine through. On all sides, wind-whipped waves crashed to and fro among the violent winds, but his tiny skiff sailed serenely on as though crossing a small lagoon in a tropical paradise. “Truly the Great Irish Fhurp must be smiling on me this day.” Nichodemus thought. And then he grounded his skiff on the west coast of Wales.
Upon wading ashore and gripping what few belongings he had to his chest, the weather changed. Gale winds buffeted his black frock, ice crystals penetrated his face, goose pimples rose to fierce heights – all in all it got quite cold. He shivered miserably in the icy winds and bent forward toward what he hoped would be a place to find food and shelter.
Unfortunately from the very first village of Strumblehead all the way to Cheltenham, he was treated the way all strangers were treated by the Welch and English during these dark ages – like shit!
Finally at Oxford, some kindly educators took pity and lent him an old donkey. The donkey, named “Puddles” because he was older than most, and had developed a little prostate problem, turned out to be smarter than most of his human counterparts, and took Nichodemus at reasonable speed across the English moors to the community of Whitstable.
Unable to believe his donkey could be smart enough to deliver him to a community that might boast some level of tolerance, he chose instead to backtrack, and ended up on the outskirts of Faversham.
Noting an inn nearby, Nichodemus tethered Puddles to a hitching post, lifted his frock to leap daintily over a pond of human excrement, landed in another pond of human excrement, stepped up onto a raised wooden walkway, and deftly dodged a bucket of urine being tossed out by a chambermaid from a second story window. He smiled in satisfaction, recognizing that his instincts were still being guided by his inherited eccentricities. But he did not duck in time to avoid the chambermaid’s second salvo, and promised himself he would increase his daily practice of the weirding ways as soon as he could get settled in.
With a sodden head and a deepening frown, he hurried to the inn to see if the proprietor might have a single room for the night.
“Have you got any money?” the proprietor asked.
“Uh . . . a few farthings, yes.”
“There’s a room upstairs, just recently vacated by one of our whores. You can rent that for uh . . . say five farthings.”
“Five farthings?” Nichodemus wrinkled his nose. His tiny leather purse shivered at the thought of giving up half of what it carried.
And then a thought occurred to him. He narrowed his eyes
suspiciously. “Why did the whore vacate the room?”
“Why?
What do you care?” The proprietor returned the question with a
frown.
“Well, I was just wondering . . ?”
“She was a whore!”
“Yes, you told me that. My memory is not failing. But what happened to her? Why was her room so recently vacated?”
“What’s it to you?” The Proprietor asked, “She was just a whore.”
“What’s it to me? Well I’ll tell you what it’s to me. I’m not moving into a room that may be tainted with the demons of disease. What was it that caused the room to be vacated? Was it the romps and stomps, the boils and bubbles, or . . .” and Nichodemus now closed one eye, leaned forward and cocked his head – “the muckles and buckles?”
“Uh . . . the what and the what? Are you uh . . . are you a doctor or something?”
Nichodemus thinned his lips and stared at him. “Well?”
The proprietor rocked back on his heels and stared in dismay. Then he shook his head: “No-no-no!” he cried, “No-no! She was identified as a witch and a heretic – even suspected of being maybe a Jew.”
“Uh-huh! And so . . . what happened to her?”
“What happened
to her? Why she was taken away and turned over to His Grace, the
Chief Inquisitor, Father Georgio the Great.”
“Chief Inquisitor? What’s a Chief Inquisitor?”
“What’s a Chief Inquisitor?” the proprietor gawked, “You don’t know what is a Chief Inquisitor?”
“No.”
“Why it’s His Most Holy Grace, Father Georgio the Great, the most holy and divine savior of our souls. Where have you been, man? And . . . who are you?”
Nichodemus waved off the last question. He pondered the proprietor’s words carefully, a sensation of trepidation rising in the form of gerd up his esophagus. “Okay, uh . . . why was the poor girl identified as a witch and a heretic? What did she do – conjure up a spell against a customer, or something? I’ve known girls to do that before, but it doesn’t make them a witch. And what does this Chief Inquisitor do? Does he act as a judge and order her to do penance?”
The proprietor studied Nichodemus’ face carefully. These questions were strange and his demeanor even stranger. Only his smell seemed familiar. The local chambermaids were particularly adept at aiming their chamber pots with unerring skill.
“Which question do you want answered first – the first or the last?”
“The first!” Nichodemus answered him dryly.
“Uh . . . what was the first?”
Nichodemus inhaled deeply. “Why was the poor girl identified as a witch?”
“Oh uh . . . no, she was identified as a heretic.”
“Oookay! What exactly is a heretic, and why would that cause her to lose her room?”
“What’s a heretic?” the proprietor backed up a step, “Say, who are you? Where do you come from? Everybody knows what a heretic is.”
“I don’t. I never heard of it.”
“Why, why, why . . .” The proprietor backed up two more steps until the wall stopped him. He stared in abject alarm at the imposing little figure of the stranger. “Why a heretic is uh, is uh, why it’s a uh . . . I dunno, somebody who doesn’t believe in our holy savior, the lord Jesus Christ, and uh, and uh, well . . . I guess that’s just about it.”
Nichodemus blinked his eyes several times and contemplated the proprietor’s answer. “Uh . . . so what’d she do, come out and tell everybody this? That seems kind of . . .”
“Oh no! She didn’t confess it willingly. She was overheard screaming out epithets and blasphemous themes while servicing one of her clients – a uh, a particularly well-hung member of His Grace’s holy soldiers.”
“I . . . see,” Nichodemus hummed. “Soldiers? Perhaps another village might be a better bet.”
“Well okay,” Nichodemus said, “I’ll uh, I’ll be going then . . .” He nodded and started to turn. The proprietor’s voice stopped him.
“What was the second question? I don’t remember.”
“What? Uh . . . Oh, what happened to her? What did the Inquisitor decide to do? Why does he have soldiers?”
“That’s two questions!” the proprietor said indignantly, “I can only handle one at a time.”
“Oookay! What did the Inquisitor do to her?”
“Oh . . . the Grand High Inquisitor, Father Georgio the Great, questioned her to determine the extent of her, uh . . . heresies.”
“Uh-huh! And what did he determine?”
“Why she was guilty, of course. They’re always found guilty.”
“Always, eh? So what happened? Did she have to do pay a fine, or what?”
“What? Pay a fine? Oh ho-ho! That’s funny! No, there’s no fine.”
“Had to do penance, then, eh?”
“Penance? No! There’s no penance. The heretic is simply subjected to various and entertaining uses of the sword, spear, knife, lance, battle ax, mace, whip, branding iron, and well . . . etc.”
“What, they tortured her?”
“Certainly!”
“Good grief!” Nichodemus cried out, “And you call that entertaining?”
“Well . . .” the proprietor hesitated, and then recovered himself, “Yes, the heretics are known to reach very high notes when they’re being dismembered or burned at the stake. Their last hour is usually the most entertaining. I’ve attended quite a few myself, including this last one, for which I was well rewarded, since I turned her in, and I can tell you – it is most entertaining. Sometimes, even, the Inquisitors extend to us the courtesy of wine and fine bread. And the wine is excellent, with the Welch vineyards providing such a good year. And I’ve heard . . .”
Nichodemus closed his eyes and attempted to drown out the proprietor’s ramblings. No wonder his neighbors had sent him into exile on this hideous island. It was everything they had told him – a bastion of evil, bestiality and barbarism. Even the urine dumped upon the streets by the chambermaids bestowed upon the island a particularly noxious odor. “But to torture and murder people?”
He set his jaws.
“So . . .” the proprietor’s voice jarred him back to consciousness, “do you want the room?”
“Oh uh, hmmm, well uh . . . no! I think I’ll pass. I’ve uh, a friend I want to look up. He lives in uh, uh . . . Whitstable, yes Whitstable. I’m thinking of staying with him for awhile.”
“Oh . . . Well then, why did you ask for a room here in Faversham? I don’t understand.”
“Uh, well . . . it’s just for one night. I don’t want you to have to tie up one of your more favorable rooms for just one night, when you could have it free to accommodate a longer-term renter who uh . . . might be possessed with a larger number of farthings than I am want to have right now.”
“Oh . . . yes!” The proprietor thought for a long moment. “Yes, the man was right. He wouldn’t want to tie up one of his best rooms for a single night, when indeed another, more promising, renter might come along to offer a longer stay and better payment. Another renter would come along, wouldn’t he? The room was one of his best too, wasn’t it? Was it? Wait! I can’t quite remember. Uh yes . . . No! But wait, I think . . .”
Nichodemus hastened out the door while the proprietor continued his ruminations, and hunched his shoulders at the gale winds buffeting the hanging signs and flapping gables. Overhead, the sky was growing even more overcast. “It’s going to snow. Great! I’m freezing now. What more can happen? Soldiers? Inquisitors that torture and murder people? No wonder his irate neighbors had sent him here. This place was worse than any hell these Christians could ever describe.
He unhitched Puddles’ harness; stepped over the contributions Puddles had made to the ubiquitous ponds of urine in the street, and mounted him with a determined flourish. Somewhere there had to be an inn with an available room.
At length and after searching for another hour, he reached the outskirts of town and found a farmer willing to rent him the use of his barn for the night, and for the far more reasonable sum of half a farthing. Puddles would be allowed to occupy the same stall for free. The farmer apparently shared the same fondness for animals as Nichodemus, and possibly the same aversion for humans.
Puddles, feeling sympathy, cuddled up to his shivering friend and afforded Nichodemus sufficient heat for a decent night’s sleep.
During the night, Nichodemus dreamed. And in his dream, he remembered that halfway between Whitstable and Faversham, he had observed large tracts of land that appeared to be both uninhabited and well wooded. A perfect place, perhaps, to build a mud and sod hut that might even be reinforced with logs of wood. What he would need, of course, would be a sharp ax, a grindstone, and enough food to supply the energy to do the building. Ah yes; and then he would settle in and surround himself with a new population of “friends” in the form of sheep, pigs, chickens, ducks, rats, crickets, cats, a dog, and of course Puddles – and well, maybe even a woman; a young farmer’s daughter perhaps; certainly one who had not yet known a man. After all, one did not wish to catch the various forms of romping’-stomps, bumps and boils, or the dreaded muckles and buckles. Could such a woman be found here in this land of bestiality and barbarism?
Nichodemus awakened late the following morning, and remembering his dream hastened to his morning constitution. It took a little longer to awaken Puddles, but at length he found himself seven leagues eastward of Faversham, deeply ensconced in a forest not more than a half league from the coast. Here, he allowed Puddles to show him where to find the lushest of berry plants and a few interesting tubers, and settled in for brunch.
Straight north of his forest glade was the coast, where fish should be readily available, and nearby to the south lay fields of cabbage and carrot. Not the best fare, but certainly nourishing enough to satiate his needs until trading arrangements could be made with the local inhabitants. Some of his lesser “weirding ways” ought to be sufficient to act as a quid pro quo.
And so it came to pass that Nichodemus of the Tipparary-Kilkenny County line settled in to become an accepted, but somewhat eccentric member of the community.
It also came to pass, however, that the Faversham proprietor who had chanced to make Nichodemus’ acquaintance, finally completed his ruminations as to how and when to rent the room so inconveniently vacated by the hapless whore, and settled on the realization that the stranger had possibly tricked him into not renting the room to anyone at all.
Setting his jaws, he decided to teach the nasty little stranger a lesson. After all, those strange questions he had asked and his strange way of carrying himself could only be the characteristics of a heretic, could they not? Revealing the presence of a new heretic to the awareness of his Grace and Holiness, Grand High Inquisitor, Georgio the Great, and his equally great and holy brothers, Ambrose the Supreme, Albermarle the Serene, Argyle the Innocent, and Clyde the uh, uh, well uh . . . would certainly curry favor and perhaps enhance their willingness to allow him more access to their holy larder.
3.
Early the following morning, the proprietor set out to seek audience with his Eminence, Father Georgio the Great and Grand High Inquisitor. Upon arrival at the castle, the proprietor was greeted by a voice from the Inquisitors’ primary butler and manservant whose name it turned out was Throckmorton. Now it was known to the proprietor that Throckmorton was a man of lowly stature and esteem, and had received his position only because his eldest son, Mortimer, had at the age of ten a handsome figure and a high, lilting voice. The high, lilting voice had gained him a position in the church choir, and after his castration at age twelve, a position in the Inquisitors’ boudoir. The last part had only recently been made privy to poor Throckmorton.
At young Mortimer’s request, Throckmorton and his wife, Hortense, and their two other children, Hermione – age eleven, and Mordecai – age four, were brought to live in the Abby’s adjacent castle as servants to the Inquisitors. Hortense, it turned out, was a better than average cook, and there was nothing Father Georgio the Great and his four holy brothers appreciated better than a damn good cook!
Although what they had done to his son, Mortimer, seethed in his heart, Throckmorton realized his lot had changed slightly for the better, and that he and his wife and children complained of less grumbling in the stomach than did the other starving members of Faversham’s poor.
“You wish me to wake His Holiness, the Grand High Inquisitor, Georgio the Great, this early in the morning? Do you imagine the kind of thrashing I could receive for this kind of affront? Why the sun’s not even cleared the castle’s east wall yet. Why I could be . . .”
“I’ll wait,” the proprietor said tactfully.
“Yes uh, alright. I’ll see if one of the soldiers is up. He can decide whether to let you in or not.”
“Fine! Thankyou!” the proprietor said grumpily.
The roadway leading up to the moat over which the drawbridge had not yet been lowered, was covered with a fine layer of hoarfrost, and the proprietor felt his knees knocking together underneath his woolen frock.
After several minutes, another voice beckoned down to him. It was an even deeper and gruffer voice, and the proprietor recognized it as belonging to one of the Iberian soldiers’.
“What the hell do you want at this time of the morning? It better be good, or I’ll introduce you to the business end of my sword, after which I will endeavor to test my newest ball-crushing device on your testicles. Now, what is it?”
“Oh uh well . . . I have some information that may be of some interest to His Most Holy Grace and Eminence, uh . . . Father Georgio the Great. He uh, he . . .”
“He’s not called Father anymore. He’s been promoted. He’s now a bishop, in honor of all the heretic souls he’s redeemed in this cesspool island of yours.”
“Oh . . . that’s nice. Give him my . . .”
“What’s the information? Come on, I haven’t got all day!”
“Oh uh, yes well . . . I think I may have just uncovered the presence of a most vile and contemptible heretic among us – he may even be a Jew.”
“Oh yeah?” the soldier brightened, “Hey, that’s great! Why didn’t you say so? Yeah, come on in! Hell, I haven’t crushed a heretic’s balls in months! Pickings have been pretty lean of late. Here, I’ll lower the bridge.”
Cranking and grinding noises followed, and the proprietor watched as the drawbridge slowly lowered for his convenience.
“Yeah, come on in!” the soldier waved to him in a neighborly fashion.
The proprietor stepped gingerly onto the still creaking drawbridge, noting with some trepidation it’s narrowness and the ice-clogged, yellowish-green water below, and moved as quickly as possible across it.
On the other side, the soldier, whom the proprietor recognized as the one called “Angel the ball-crusher,” gripped him about the shoulders and giving a friendly squeeze to his neck, escorted him down the long and lavishly appointed corridor to the castle’s audience room.
“Give His Eminence about an hour to breakfast and relieve himself, and I’ll see to it he gets the message. I’m sure he’ll want to see you personally. There’s nothing he likes better than to help a poor, sinning heretic surrender his demons and cobblestone his way to heaven, eh? Hang in there now!”
Angel the ball-crusher bade him a friendly wave and disappeared behind the lofty, twin doors that led off in the direction of the soldiers’ quarters.
“About an hour?” the proprietor thought, “Gee and no breakfast either. Maybe I should’ve waited a little longer before starting out. Oh well, maybe they’ll allow me some hot cider with my bread. I do hope my reward will be worth all this. I hope he doesn’t save my soul again, and promise me yet another safe journey to heaven. He’s already done that for me twice now.”
The proprietor didn’t have as long to wait as he had thought. In fact, it was less than an hour when the doors to the grand chamber opened, and not less than all five of the Inquisitor brothers entered. And to his great and happy relief, all five were smiling and beaming down at him as though he had become one of their own.
“Aha! So, my friend, I hear you have information as to the whereabouts of an errant and heretic soul. Is that true?” the Grand High Inquisitor, Bishop Georgio the Great, himself, said, his eyes gleaming in gleeful anticipation.
“Oh yes, oh Magnificent and Wonderful One, a vile and contemptible heretic of the gruesomest and most heinous kind. He may even be a Jew.”
“Really?” The Grand High Inquisitor’s eyes shown brightly. He turned to his brothers, and they all nodded and gleamed their eyes in unison.
“And where may we find this filthy, vile and loathsome creature, might we ask?”
“Yes,” Ambrose the Supreme said, “Does he reside nearby? Is he a big man? Is he known to bear arms?”
“Oh uh . . .”
“Does he carry any kind of armor?” asked Albermarle the Serene.
“Oh uh . . .”
“What about witchcraft?” Argyle the Innocent said, leaning forward with his cap on sideways.
“Well I really don’t know for certain . . .” the proprietor tried to say.
But then Clyde the uh, um, uh, the uh, well . . . said: “Just tell us where he is? Our soldiers can handle him.”
“Yes-yes!” Georgio the Great said enthusiastically, “Our soldiers can handle him. It does not matter really what his heresies are. Anything will do. It’s been over a month now, and Jesus Christ our Heavenly Father calls out to us to deliver more heretics to him so that he might chastise them and cleanse their souls. So uh . . . where is he?”
“Well, I can’t tell you exactly where . . ?”
The faces of the five Inquisitors sobered. A frown began to appear on each and every one of them, including the fourteen soldiers who had entered to hear the latest news.
“You can’t tell . . ?” Georgio the Great leaned forward from his throne ominously.
“Oh no-no! I mean, yes-yes, your most holy and gracious and uh . . . most magnificent one. Yes, truly, I can tell you. Uh, at least I can get you within a league or so.”
“A league?” the five Inquisitors chorused with a ring of doubt in their voices.
“I know, sirs, I know that he has a newly constructed dwelling that resides in a forest some seven leagues straight east of here at a location not far from the coast and closer to Faversham than to Whitstable.”
“Whitstable?”
“Oh, and along the road not far from uh . . . the coast and . . . no-no, closer to Faversham – well within the seven leagues I spoke.”
“Hmmm!” newly promoted Bishop Georgio the Great hummed, leaning back into his throne and rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Then he leaned forward again: “Yes! Yes! Angel, you and three others shall journey to the east of Faversham, some seven leagues or so, and seek out local farmers and fishermen who may be able to identify for you the whereabouts of this mysterious heretic. Uh . . .” He turned to the proprietor. “By what name did you say this vile heretic went by?”
“Oh uh . . . he didn’t say.”
“You don’t know his name?” The Grand High Inquisitor’s expression sobered again – this time, even more ominously.
The proprietor began to perspire profusely. Then his mind galvanized. “Oh but I can give you a vivid description,” he said, his head nodding vigorously, “Most vivid, most vivid indeed!”
“Um-hmm! Very well,” Georgio the Great said in a lower and more skeptical voice, “describe away!”
“Well uh, you see, he’s quite short, uh, has long, black, unruly hair, knotted badly and smelling of local uh . . . pee . . .”
Georgio the Great leaned forward. “I’m sorry . . . pee?” He furrowed his brow. “Everyone of you down in the village smells of pee. It seems to be a local characteristic.”
“Oh . . . yes well . . . but he wears a long, black frock, more like a cloak really, and sports leather slippers that are covered more odorously than usual with yellowish mud.”
“Yellowish mud, eh?” Georgio the Great settled back into his throne with a look of bored disgust on his face. He looked blandly over at his brothers. “Methinks everyone down in the village has slippers covered in yellowish, pee-saturated mud. It’s a characteristic of the English culture.
“Yes,” Albermarle the Serene said sagely, “This fool must be a fool.”
“What’s wrong with you, fool?” said Argyle the Innocent, “Are you trying to lead us into temptation?”
“Temptation, sir? Oh no, oh great and glorious one! I would never do such a thing. Uh . . . what temptation?”
“The temptation to allow Angel over there to help you achieve redemption by having your testicles tested in his newest device.”
“Oh uh oh . . !” The Proprietor stared in horror over at the soldier, Angel, who had just at that moment produced a metal device that had an ability to clamp together with an amazing level of force.
Thinking quickly, the proprietor blurted out: “He has a beard – a blackish beard with reddish overtones. You really can’t miss it, once you see it. Oh, and his teeth – he has a sort of crooked one that sticks out very much like the horn of a demon.”
“Well now we’re getting somewhere,” Georgio the Great exclaimed. “Angel, what do you think? Is that enough of a description for you to find this heretic?”
“Hmmm!” Angel rubbed his jaw, “Yes, Your Eminence, I think it would be sufficient. Might I suggest, though, that we ask the proprietor here to consider staying on in the Abby until we find this heretic – you know, just in case?”
“Yes, that would be a good idea,” Georgio the Great said, smiling condescendingly down at the proprietor’s quivering form. “And don’t take too long, Angel. Remember, it’s been over a month, and the landowners are clambering for a show.”
“You have my solemn promise, Your Most Gracious and Grand Eminence,” Angel said. He bowed, replaced his helmet and strode out the door with three chosen soldiers at his heels.
Georgio the Great motioned to one of the remaining ten soldiers, and the proprietor was ushered out with one soldier in front, carrying a sword, two more soldiers on either side, carrying pikes, and two more behind with battle axes.
Ten steps down the hall, the proprietor began mincing his steps and asked in a quivering voice: “Could you fellows be so kind as to direct me to the nearest privy?”
“Sure buddy!” the one in front said, “That’s a common reaction for people in your slippers. It’s just down the hall there to your right. Just follow your nose.”
4.
And so it came to pass that on a bright, sunny morning in February, Angel the ball-crusher and three of his party set out upon a quest for the latest victim to be fingered for the entertainment of the Inquisition.
After two days on donkeyback, the four soldiers came upon a small farm not quite seven leagues due east of Faversham, along the road not half a league from the coast. They managed to persuade the farmer, a man of over forty, but seemingly better fed than most, to give up certain information as to the whereabouts of a man known to sport a blackish beard with reddish overtones, a tooth that tends to stick out in front like the horn of a demon, probably wearing a long, black frock or possibly a cloak, and who might be wearing slippers that are covered with foul-smelling yellowish mud.
“Well, I dunno about the slippers but uh . . .” The farmer hesitated and narrowed his eyes, “Say uh, I ain’t saying I know of such a man, but uh . . . what do you want him for?”
“We just want to talk to him, that’s all,” Angel said diplomatically.
“Yeah, he might be a heretic,” one of the other soldiers said – not so diplomatically.
Angel gave him a sidelong scowl.
“Oh . . .Naw!” the farmer drawled, “I don’t know nothin’ about no such man.”
Angel reached down, lifted his chain mail armor, and produced from his jerkin pocket the metal ball-crusher. He held it up to the farmer’s face, smiled, and snapped the two iron halves together with a clang.
“Oh him!” the farmer said, reaching tentatively down toward his crotch, “Why uh, why didn’t you say so? Yeah, he uh, he lives right over there in that glen there. Yeah, just uh . . . right over there!”
The farmer pointed a stiffened finger northward across a field of frost-covered carrots toward a thicket of elm and locust trees.
“Over there in those woods?” Angel wrinkled his brow.
“Yeah, over there; way-y-y-y over there,” the farmer gestured.
“Okay! But if you’re handing us a line, you know, we’ll be back.”
“Yeah-yeah, I know! But don’t worry, you’ll find him. He was over here just this morning, early; put a hex on some rats for me. They was getting into my cabbages.”
“A hex? A hex, did you say?” asked the other three soldiers in unison.
“Hey, Angel!” the taller of the three said, “If this guy can cast hex spells, he may be a wizard. What if he, you know . . ?”
“Yeah, Angel, come on,” the shortest one said, “I don’t need no romps and stomps, or the muckles and buckles right now. Jeeze man!”
“Right! I don’t need no jock itch, or thigh rash either at this time of the year. I can’t get through all this chain mail and stuff to scratch it. You know how it is,” the tallest one said.
“Aw quit bitching, the three of you! There ain’t no such thing as wizards; except maybe I heard about some that may live west of us in some land called Ireland. But that’s thousands of leagues from here, and the Irish ain’t heretics, they’re just heathens. They don’t exist here in England. They ain’t allowed to.”
“Yeah but still, you never know,” the shortest one grumbled.
“There ain’t no damned wizards here in England!” Angel said, “Now come on, quit stalling! We’ve got a job to do. His Eminence wants this heretic in our dungeon for the show by Saturday, and by gawd I intend to see to it he gets him! Come on, it’s only a little way across the field. And besides, I’m getting cold standing here jabbering with you bone-heads.”
Angel crunched through the thin layer of frost on the field and mounted his shivering steed. With his men behind him, grumbling, he quickly covered the distance in a quarter hour.
The wizard’s mud and sod hut, reinforced strangely with logs of wood, took a little longer to locate, but as the sun climbed higher in the sky, the four men were able to reach the doorstep and Angel, leading the way, pounded on it vigorously.
“What?” came a caustic voice from within.
“Open up!” Angel yelled, “I’m Sergeant Angel Hurtado, soldier of the Lord Jesus Christ our savior and redeemer. I’ve been sent by the Inquisition to take you into custody and bring you before His Grace and Supreme Eminence, Bishop Georgio the Great, to try you for heresy and uh . . . possibly being a Jew.”
“A what?” the caustic voice from within came again, “I’m not a Jew – I’m Irish!”
“You’re what?” Angel said.
“What?” the voice returned.
“What? You’re a what?”
“What – what?”
“What?”
“I asked you what first.”
“What?”
“You wanted to know what I was?”
“Yeah . . . what are you?”
“I’m Irish!”
“You’re Irish?”
“Yeah, I’m Irish! What about it?”
Angel frowned. “Well uh . . . you said you were Irish?”
“Yeah, I’m Irish! What’s it to you?”
“What’s it to me? Well it’s uh . . .” Angel hesitated. “Does that mean you’re a wizard?”
“A wizard? Who me? Naw-w-w!”
Angel looked askance over at his men. The men shrugged.
“Hey listen!” Angel snapped back, “Open the door, alright? We need to talk to you.”
“Oh yeah? What about?”
“Jeeze!” Angel groaned, “This guy’s gonna be a pain in the ass, I can see that. Okay!” He stepped back and drew his sword.
“Uh . . . what’re you gonna do?” the shortest one, whose name was Eduardo, said.
“I’m gonna break down the door.”
“Yeah, but uh . . . what if he is a wizard?” Eduardo balked, “I mean, what if he puts a hex on us? The farmer said . . .”
“Ah, he ain’t no wizard!” Angel screwed up his face.
“Yeah, but he is Irish,” the taller one, Lupe, said, “What if he does? I don’t need no jock itch or the muckles and buckles.”
“Aw, will you guys cut it out! He ain’t no wizard, I tell you.”
“Yeah, but what if he is?”
“Aw jeeze!” Angel grumbled, “Alright, I’ll see what he says about it. Hey you in there, one of your neighbors says you’re a wizard; says you put a hex on some of his rats. What have you got to say about that?”
“Nothing! Go away!”
“Hey listen, asshole!” Angel reacted negatively, “Open this door, or . . .”
The door to the little mud and sod hut that was strangely reinforced with logs of wood suddenly flew open.
Angel and his three men lurched back startled. Standing before them and looking tougher and meaner than he should, was a man with square shoulders, a sturdy frame, and a determined look of indignation on his face.
“What did you call me – a what?”
“Uh . . .” Angel recovered his composure - a little, “Irish! I asked you if you were really Irish?”
Nichodemus dropped his eyebrows. “Humph! I thought you called me something else.”
“Yeah! I also asked if you were a wizard?”
The stoutest soldier, who was also a little slower than the others, looked at Angel strangely, “I think you also called him an . . .”
“Shut up, Carlos!” Angel cut him off in time. He turned back to the little man with the square shoulders. “Yeah, your farmer neighbor over there said you were a wizard – said you put a hex on some rats he was having trouble with. Is that true? Are you a wizard?”
“No! That’s nonsense! There are no such things as wizards. What did you do to poor Enoch to make him say such a thing about me?”
“I didn’t do nothing to him. He just volunteered the information.”
“Nothing huh?”
“Yes you did,” Carlos said, “The ball-crusher, remember? You showed him the . . .”
“Shut . . . up, will you, Carlos! Jeeze!”
“Why do you keep telling your friend, Carlos, here to shut up?” Nichodemus said, “Are you trying to cover up something?”
“What?” Angel bristled, “Hey, I don’t need to cover up nothing! Frankly, I don’t give a rip whether you’re a wizard or not. Just tell me one thing; do you believe in Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior, or not?”
“Why?” Nichodemus said suspiciously.
“Why? Hey listen . . . what’s your name? Just answer the question, damn it!”
“Which one?”
“What?”
“Which question?”
“Whaddya mean, which question? The one I just asked.”
“You didn’t just ask one question, you asked two.”
“What?” Angel wrinkled his nose and reached again for his sword.
“You did ask him two,” Carlos said.
“Yeah, yeah, you did,” Lupe and Eduardo nodded.
“What? I did? What were they?”
“Well, the first question was uh . . . what’s your name?”
“No, that was the second question,” Lupe said, “The first question was uh . . .”
“It don’t matter!” Angel screamed, “What’s your god-damned name?”
Nichodemus eyed him cautiously. The sergeant’s hand was still on the hilt of his sword. “Uh . . . my name is Fhurp City Jones. Why?”
“Fhurp City Jones?” Angel said, screwing up his face even further, “What the hell kind of name is that?”
“It’s just . . . my name, that’s all.” Nichodemus had no intention of telling them his true name. After all, everyone might start calling him that.
“I don’t believe you,” Angel snorted, “Yeah, I think you’re lying to us.”
“What about the other question?” Carlos said, “That one’s probably a better one anyway.”
“Which one was that?”
“Uh . . .”
“Something about Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior,” Eduardo said.
“Oh . . . oh yeah, yeah!” Angel nodded, “Okay, wise-ass, what about it? Do you believe in the teachings of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior?”
“Oh boy!” Nichodemus thought, “That’s a tough one. I should just say yes, but how would I live with myself, if I did? On the other hand . . . they’ve got a sword, two pikes and a battle-ax. Not good! Not good at all! Nope, those odds are not good at all.”
His mind raced. Several thoughts came and went, all in an instant. They were rejected just as fast.
“Well?” Angel stepped forward. Then he stopped. His nose began to twitch. He sniffed the air. “What is that?” he inquired.
“Uh . . .” Nichodemus hesitated. The smell of bacon he had left frying on the stove was wafting out through his open door.
“That’s bacon!” Carlos cried out with glee, “And we ain’t had no breakfast or lunch.”
“Uh, yeah-h-h,” Angel’s hand relaxed on his sword hilt.
“Sure does smell good,” Carlos hinted.
Nichodemus’ mind suddenly shifted into gear. “Food!” he thought, “Yes, food! What better way to . . .”
“Uh listen,” he said, adopting a brighter tone, “I was just preparing a late breakfast. I’ve got plenty of food. You want to join me?”
“Yes!” cried Carlos.
“Yes!” cried Lupe.
“Yes!” cried Eduardo.
“No!” cried Angel.
“What? Why not? We’re starving!” Eduardo exclaimed.
“Oh don’t worry, we’re gonna eat alright, only he ain’t gonna join us.”
“What? Oh . . !”
“Gee, Angel, that’s kind of cruel, ain’t it?” Carlos said, “I mean, he did invite us to eat with him, all polite and such.”
“Shut up, Carlos! He’s a heretic, remember? He’ll be in our dungeon in a fortnight. Ain’t no sense wasting food on him.”
“Oh . . . yeah, that’s right.” Carlos turned to Nichodemus and added: “Gee, I’m sorry, buddy, but you know how it is. Angel’s right. Once the Inquisitors start redeeming your soul, you ain’t gonna have no appetite for food anyway.”
“Oh yes, sure, I understand,” Nichodemus said with a brotherly nod.
“Good, buddy, I knew you’d understand.”
They trooped into the tiny mud and sod hut, with Nichodemus taking up the rear, and sat down around his tiny table.
Carlos went to the stove to serve up the bacon and bread that were being fried.
Angel looked down at his plate, and then up at Nichodemus to thank him as impudently as he could. But to his consternation, he found Nichodemus staring at him with an odd grin on his face.
He looked down again at the bread and bacon, and then back up at Nichodemus. Nichodemus was still grinning at him. “Wait-a-minute!” Angel cried, jumping back from the table.
“What? What is it?” the other soldiers said, the bacon hovering near their mouths.
“How do we know this food ain’t poisoned?”
“What?”
“Poisoned?”
“The bacon?”
“Yeah, any of it – all of it!”
“Oh, it’s not poisoned,” Nichodemus scoffed, “I just cooked it just now, myself.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Angel looked suspiciously down at his plate, “Well, here, you eat some then.”
“Sure! Okay!” Nichodemus said, with a look of amusement on his face.
Five swallows later, Carlos snatched up a handful of bacon and stuffed it into his mouth. “See, he ain’t dying!” he said, between chews.
“Yeah well . . . Here, give me that!” Angel grabbed the plate away from Nichodemus and began stuffing his mouth greedily.
Within minutes, all the bacon and bread was gone.
“Okay!” Angel said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. And he reached for his sword.
Nichodemus stepped back and swallowed dryly. The spell he had in mind had only been used once before, and that was when he was much younger and had come within range of the farm girl’s wrathful father and his wickedly sharp, four-pronged pitchfork. Did he still have the power to cast it? He’d know in a few moments.
“Aw Angel,” Carlos said, “You’re not still gonna take him in, are you? I mean, he gave us a good breakfast, and he didn’t poison us, or nothing.”
“Shut up, Carlos! He’s a heretic! And like His Eminence said; they’re ain’t been no redemption of heretic souls done in over a month now. The folks are stomping their feet.”
“Yeah but . . .”
“No buts! Grab him!”
Eduardo started to reach for Nichodemus. Nichodemus shrank back. Lupe hesitated.
“What, Lupe? Come on, grab him!” Angel cried.
“He ain’t answered your question yet, though, Angel.”
“Question? What question?”
“You know, the first question you asked.”
“What first question? I thought I already asked it.”
“No, no you didn’t.”
“He’s right, Angel, you didn’t,” Carlos said.
“I didn’t?”
“No!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, I think he’s right,” Eduardo said. He dropped his arms and stepped back.
“Really?” Angel furrowed his brow, “Well . . . What was the question?”
“Oh uh . . .” Eduardo looked confused.
“It was uh, uh . . .” Carlos looked bewildered.
“Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior,” Lupe said, “I think . . .”
“Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior?” Angel’s mind swam. To remember that far back, and especially on a full stomach, was asking a lot.
“Yeah, I think so. I’m pretty sure.”
“Well, what about him?”
“I dunno! I think the question was – do you believe in his teachings?”
“What? Of course I do! Are you saying I’m a heretic?”
“No-no, Angel!” Lupe shook his head, “You were asking him that.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Nichodemus.
Angel’s eyes flashed a sudden recognition. “Oooh yeah-h-h, yeah, that’s right!” He gripped the hilt of his sword firmly, “Alright, wise-ass,” he remembered that part of his question alright, “here’s the question: Do you believe in the teachings of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior?”
Nichodemus thought for a long moment about that; not because there was any question in his mind about it, but rather how to tactfully get these men outside so that his humble mud and sod hut, reinforced with logs of wood, would not be soiled.
“Well?” Angel prompted. His hand gripped his sword hilt even tighter.
“Of course I believe in a lord and savior, but I can explain my views to you more lucidly outside in the fresh air.”
“What? Outside? Why?”
“What’s there to explain?” Lupe said.
“What views?” Eduardo said.
“What does lucidly mean?” Carlos said.
“Come on, I’ll explain it to you outside,” Nichodemus said. He opened the door and quickly stepped outside.
“Hey wait! Wait! Grab him!” Angel yelled.
“Hey come back here!” Lupe cried.
“He’s trying to get away!” Eduardo screamed.
“No he’s not. He’s standing right outside,” Carlos said. He’d been standing closest to the door, and had held the door open for Nichodemus when he stepped out.
“Carlos, you god-damned idiot!” Angel cursed. He dashed out and drew his sword. “Lupe! Eduardo! Grab the little shit!”