Tag: medieval

Day #15

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Intervisible: Mutually visible; each in sight of the other

Sister: A female who has the same parents with another person or who has one of them only

Accuser: One who accuses one who brings a charge of crime or fault

—–

‘So I put it to you Goodie Western, that you are a witch. A bride of Lucifer and weaver of sinister spells. The punishment for which, of course, is death.’

The Hunter raises his staff to the judge and takes a seat, thin wooden legs splaying under his weight, then slings an arm lazily onto the table before him. The cuffs of his jacket are an off white, greasy.

‘Yes, thank you Mr. Lancaster, your testimony has been noted.’

The Judge, old, chipped from wood and mossy. Hunched into the uncomfortable high chair behind the dais. It’s the law. He coughs gruffly, some kind of chest cold or some such. He begins speaking in reedy tones,

‘Goodie Western, your accuser stands before you, your contentions are intervisible betwixt you, and it is by the grace of God that I am required to hear your testimony – now in this court of fair and just law.’

The silence is thick, muggy, rife with peasants trying to work out what the word ‘intervisible’ means.

‘She’s a witch!’ calls a voice from the back of the room. The Judge roars to life instantly, a hawk grabbing a fish,

‘Silence! Silence Mr Robertson – Apprentice Tanner,’ he spits the words vilely, ‘remove him now!’

Mr Robertson, apprentice tanner, is removed from the room. A twinkle grins in The Hunter’s eye. It’s almost too easy. As she stands, the woman’s chains remind him of falling coins.

‘You may begin, Goodie Western,’ says The Judge, magnanimous once more, composed and gnarled as bark. The old woman nods, the folds of her skin scrunched up like paper and almost translucent.

‘I see here before me,’ her delivery is loud and crisp, intoxicating in its subliminal ferocity, ‘friends. And good people, but I don’t see no family. And why’s that? Because my sister is dead. And I stand here before you all, accused of her murder through witchcraft. You all knew her condition then. You all know me now. It were my medicines that made her better, you all know that.’ The old woman pauses, casts a bruised eye over the small crowd. ‘Goodie Meadows, who was it what delivered your three chillen?’

Goodie Meadows feels the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes boring into her, iron pokers, she shudders in her soul. Without saying a word, she nods. Several more white heads bob up and down of their own volition. Lot of chillen in this town here today because of Goodie Western. Lot of women too, come to think of it.

‘And what do we know about this man here?’ Goodie Western points at The Hunter, the glint in his eye slightly smaller, shrinking. ‘This man, who appears from nowhere last week, days before my sister was murdered, yes murdered! This man who calls himself a hunter of witches and decries me as a sibling killer and a bride of lucifer! Where were you that night Sir? Where were you?’

She spits on the ground, there’s blood in it. It was a rough night.

A single bead of sweat rolls down The Hunter’s temple, the glint in his eye just a flicker. The old woman is good, very good…but he’d come across better.

‘Mr Lancaster?’ says The Judge.

Tidying his cuffs, The Hunter stands, clears his throat and begins to speak, greasy fingers leaving their marks.

Day #5

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Audience: The act of hearing attention to sounds

Prebendship: Completed by a Prebend, an administrative role in the church

Leptocercal: Having a long slender tail

—–

Huddled into a corner, his body quivering, Reski patiently waited for an audience with the Priest. The old man was currently elsewhere, dealing with matters of importance that generally involved the didactic pleasures of God and Gold.

In the old man’s absence, the Prebendary sat with Reski to keep him company. He was a slight, unassuming man with paper-thin skin and a wilting thatch of hair that resembled the foundations of a small bird’s nest. He had been living in the church for nigh on eighteen months and was finally approaching the end of his Prebendship, an arduous administrative role that required scruples as questionable as the Priest’s himself.

Reski sat silently, listening to the man as he muttered fragmentary stories of his life before the church. The words were hard to understand, relayed in piecemeal, and they filled Reski with an ominous feeling. The hairs on the back of his neck twitched, bristling like flickering candles. His ears trembled as a footstep echoed somewhere in the dark. He shrank back further.

‘Come now,’ said the Prebendary, noticing Reski’s sudden reticence. ‘What scares you?’

Reski remained silent, unable to speak.

The Prebendary watched him carefully, as if expecting a response. However, none was forthcoming except the faint horse-hoof clop of rain on the windows.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Suit yourself.’

Reski was relived. He had never liked the Prebendary, who he knew deep down was a cruel man simply masquerading behind the thick weave of a cassock. Religious administration was such an indiscriminate term that, as Reski saw it, reduced the Prebendary – or should it be elevated? – to a position tantamount to little more than the Priest’s dog’s body.

Seemingly bored with babysitting, the Prebendary broke off a small hunk of cheese from a slab on the table and took a bite. A snail’s trail of spittle clung to his lips like stalactites with each disgustingly wide bite. He washed it down with a goblet of holy water taken from the font. Reski knew that he shouldn’t have done this.

Aware that he was being watched, the Prebendary winked at Reski and said slyly, ‘our little secret…’

As if to barter for his silence, the man tore off a second chunk of cheese – much smaller than the first, naturally – and tossed it towards Reski. He hung back for moment, hesitant, but hunger overcame his apprehension. He ate it quickly, greedily, savoring the rich, milky taste.

‘Good boy,’ purred the Prebendary smugly.

Beyond the weak glow of the candles, a door suddenly opened then closed again heavily. Footsteps followed, echoing as though they belonged to a giant.

‘Holy Father!’ squeaked the Prebendary, jumping to his feet like a natural born sycophant. ‘He is here, just as you requested!’

The Priest’s owl-like eyes focused on the thin wire cage that sat atop the table. Reski suddenly shivered, the cheese forgotten, and defensively curled his leptocercal tail around his small, hairy body.

Day #2

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Unbowed : Not bent or arched not bowed down

Papyrine : Imitation parchment made by soaking unsized paper in dilute sulphuric acid

Approving : Expressing approbation commending as an approving smile

—–

It was the perfect plan. Gaston had spent months scouring the archives, memorising the shapes of letters. The curly flourish of a capital ‘R’. The crucifix of a small ‘t’. The endless ouroboros of the letter ‘o’. Of course, he had been helped along the way, spending countless hours alone with nothing but scrolls, the thick stub of a candle and the Pastor, who despite his saintly façade stood to gain as much from Gaston’s plan as the man himself. After all, it never hurt to have the Lord’s backing.

The Pastor, an elderly man whose back was remarkably unbowed despite his age, was a common fixture in the village. Trusted and feared in equal measure by his flock, he was always willing to interpret God’s word in a particular way if the gold coin bent between his teeth. Bent coins always gave way to a cackle and the same old tired joke that it was a ‘special communion wafer’ rather than bribe.

Was it really a bribe though if the word was never mentioned, or was it merely engendering oneself to God’s approving gaze? And therein lay the rub: you had to take the Pastor’s word for what constituted good and evil. If a gold coin slipped between sweaty fingers was acknowledged as good, then so be it.

Gaston worked in the village tannery. He awoke at dawn, made his way to the butcher’s abattoir and collected the previous day’s hides, many still covered in the yesterday’s gore like a bad dream. Over time his nose had become numb to the smell of rotting flesh and he had learnt to tolerate the buzzing of flies, flitting around the freshly deceased like children clamouring for honeyed gingerbread.

By the time the village slowly began to grind to life, Gaston had already trimmed, salted and washed dozens of pelts, then dumped them in the pit to wait until the hair rotted off. He hated the pit. It was filled with a lime and water solution that smelt so sickly sweet it made him gag. Death shouldn’t smell of flowers.

He wasn’t trusted to tan the leather yet, that came upon completing his apprenticeship. But still, the smoke of the furnaces and the faeces that stained the leather often made his eyes water and his throat burn. It was more a punishment than a job. But the rumor kept him going. He had to cling to it.

The Pastor had pitied Gaston, said he had known the boy’s mother before she died giving birth to her only son. The wily old man had even mentioned that Gaston’s mother had moved in prestigious circles, very prestigious indeed, especially before Gaston had been born.

A stolen gold coin later and here they were. Gaston, memorising his letters and then re-writing his own birth certificate. Gaston watching the Pastor gingerly submerge paper into the green tinted acid, the resulting papyrine indistinguishable from real parchment. Gaston hoping to start a new life. The gappy grin of the Pastor flickering like an empty skull above the flicker of a candle.