Inquisitioning Minds Want To Know
by Shuvcat, © 2000
On a dark and stormy night in 1909, the Mayor tells Edna Mae exactly how he got to be so evil. Rated R for violence (some of it against children) torture, immolation, swordfighting, prejudice against gypsies, gratuitous flashbacks, kung fu, sword fu, charred corpse fu, and um, septugenarian cuddling. ;)
For Maribel, with much love and appreciation for her indespensible help on the Spanish aspects of this story (and for supplying the title!) Couldn't have done it without you, girlfriend. :)
The original idea for this story came from a post made by John Rees on the alt.tv.buffy-v-slayer board on Deja.
As always, Joss and WB own, I just sublet.
"Mother of darkness, hear your son
Accept this humble sacrifice.
Let arcane laws be rendered naught;
let ice be as steel,
let water be as fire.
Uphold the iron, to the heart of the abyss--
then let the sea swallow her bounty.
Strike down all those who dare oppose me, your servant;
vessel of your will, founder of your feast.
On this day of death, let the waters cleanse the earth."
Thunder grumbled. The dark wizard Richard Wilkins-- master of black arts, mayor of the small town of Boca del Infierno, California-- regarded his book darkly. The Latin incantation scrawled down the page; his own handwritten words in coppery red ink. The spell would have to be worded very precisely, omitting nothing, leaving no loopholes for any nasty critters to crawl through. And the whole thing had to be cleverly disguised to human ears as English, as a speech-- an address he would give at some undetermined point in the future. It would have to be perfect.
His deadly serious countenance faded as he made a face, clicked his tongue in deliberation. "You think I should mention something about civic pride?" he wondered aloud.
In the large four-poster bed his wife, the former miss Edna Mae Mickelwhite, smiled a weak smile from where she lay sunk in the pillows. "I think it's lovely as is," she answered softly. "You always did tend to overwrite things."
Mayor Wilkins tilted his head, considered his notes. "I guess you're right," he finally decided, flipping the book closed. "Boy, these write-it-yourself spells are murder. And some people would probably think it's a little overcautious, to prepare a speech I don't get to make for the next three years." He laughed lightly, reflecting on what the future held, as he set his books down for the night. "Three, four.... Mr. Ismay seems to be having some trouble getting his boat off the ground, so to speak. But when he does, you can bet it won't be sailing far. Nobody, but nobody panhandles my money and then renegs on naming the ship after me. The nerve!"
Edna Mae's mouth turned up in a coy smirk. "Perhaps he meant Titanic as a metaphor, darling," she returned sweetly.
Wilkins uttered a short bark of a laugh. "Wicked girl!" he chided goodnaturedly. Then, the amusement left his face, as he really gazed at his wife, taking in her wan appearance. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice turned soft.
Edna Mae shook her head against his concern, drawing a deep sigh. "I'm not used to so much excitement, I suspect." Her voice, though she tried to make it sound light, held an unmistakable tinge of melancholy. "I'll be fine."
They both knew she was not being truthful. 1909 had been a tough year, what with tuberculosis and the flu going around, not to mention several airborne ills of magical makeup. Every year some two-penny sorcerers took it in their heads to strike down their enemies with magicks disguised as the flu, and these things inevitably hit more folks than their intended victims. But Mayor Wilkins had magic, too, and would be pretty lax if he hadn't set up protections against such pennyanny spells. No, Edna's weakness -- and her melancholy -- was due to something much more serious.
Edna Mae had become pregnant early that summer. Their second child, really, but since Richard Wilkins II had been bitten to death by a vampire not six days into his life, this new baby would be their number one, their pride and joy. Except neither one of them had been happy to discover the news. Edna Mae, for her part was fearfully unnerved because, in truth, her first son was not dead. She had sent the infant away with her sister Sophie, fearing for his life in this insane world of demons and vampires, and had lied to her husband about his death. It was dangerous business lying to a warlock. She'd known men that had died particularly awful deaths for doing less to him. And she did it anyway.
It was necessary, she'd told herself. The dreams had shown her horrific things that would happen if her son stayed in that house. She knew full well what her husband was capable of.... and not only stayed by his side, his faithful companion, despite this knowledge, but often was his instrumental tool in carrying the deeds out. But what the dreams had shown happening to her son.... it was ghastly. She had to send him away. It was the best thing. For the boy... for the earth he might have inherited. She might have averted Armageddon itself.
That was what Edna had told herself, anyway. That her deeds were in her child's best interest. But illness brings melancholy, and melancholy brings the firm belief that all one's darkest fears are true; and what she feared to be true was that she had simply abandoned her baby -- an unforgivable sin in her own eyes. It didn't matter that her sister Sophie was the best candidate for motherhood she could have asked for. Edna despised herself. Somewhere in the back of her head, during all the sacrifices and bloodlettings and dinner parties that ended in death for most of the guests, she'd believed that if she ever had children and raised them in any decent manner, it would somehow absolve her of all her sins. It was a hollow hope, and she knew it. Now she didn't even have that to wish for. She could never be a mother.
Now she would have to figure out how to abandon this baby as well. Edna did not look forward to it. She didn't know if she could accomplish it a second time, and Richard was already suspecting something -- or so she thought. "We're expecting," she'd told him that first day in June.
He'd been joking over something or other, but his smile had dropped off his face and he became even paler than normal. "It can't be," he'd whispered, as if denying it. "Not now."
Edna's pale curved forehead had wrinkled, confused. "I thought you'd be happy." I thought one of us would be happy, anyway, she thought to herself.
Richard Wilkins had regarded his dear wife miserably. The evil mayor had a secret, too: in the past few months, he had sensed his lifeforce waning. While he appeared well-kept at middleage, he was, in truth, hundreds of years old. He had kept himself alive for all those centuries by devouring the souls of young women, one after the other, leaving a long trail in his wake.
She would have been next. Edna Mae was a prize above all, because she had magic in her, a deep indelible power that would make it so he'd never need to feast off another girl again. He'd seen it in her that first day in the park. One of them -- the small group of female heirs to a blood legacy older than he was, old as time itself. One of the Chosen.
There, the Mayor thought, was yet more proof that luck, fate, God or whatnot was a cruel and fickle administration. If he hadn't caught her in the sunlight.... if one of the vampire vermin roaming his town had found her first... if she'd discovered her true calling... if her family had never moved to California..... it was perfect. Predestined, almost. All he had to do was win her trust, and her power -- her soul -- would be his for the devouring. He would liquefy her like a spider does a fly, and he would be truly immortal, unaging and undying, forever.
Except...he loved her.
He really did. Centuries of diligently annihilating all human feeling in his heart had come down to a fat load of nothing. He worshipped her. It didn't matter that Edna Mae was his moral opposite in every way, didn't matter that he was literally her senior by centuries. He loved her madly.
In the beginning he loved her shy reserve, the practiced manners and morals that he would soon strip from her like tattered lace, layer by layer, revealing how beautifully black her heart could be. He loved her humanity -- the very thing he sought to squelch in himself, he loved in her. It made her so naive and cute, and it meant he could teach her all sorts of tricks. But even as the years passed and she became ever more adept at evil, Edna had somehow transcended it, keeping a purity that made her almost angelic... goddesslike in his eyes. And the Mayor absolutely loved what he'd finally changed her into -- strong, fearless; the perfect dark queen for his empire. She looked royal; during her pregnancy her petite features had fleshed out adorably and she'd resembled the Queen of Clubs in a card deck -- sorrowed and iconic and full of strength. He loved her strength.
And, inevitably, he began bleeding her strength. He literally couldn't stop himself, when the time came. A slow, inexorable draining of her lifeforce, little by little, night by night. It was a torturing process... for her. He physically had never felt better. And spiritually, he had never felt worse. Again, a big fat lot of good selling his soul had done him. No more emotions, the demons had promised. Wasn't the first time they'd been wrong.
But he was a magician, and he knew tricks, and he planned to save her. He would find a way, before he shriveled her to a husk, he'd put it all back with interest. The pressure was on, but he'd had it under control. And then she got pregnant.
She miscarried the baby. Strong as she was, even she couldn't sustain three lives. The town doctor hadn't expected her to live at all -- women didn't generally survive miscarriages these days. But doctors didn't know thing one about her kind. She had pulled through; the same inherent power that he coveted brought her back from death's door. She paid for it, no mistake. Pale, sick, barely able to lift her hands, fragile as glass... and inconsolable about losing yet another baby. When she'd been laying in the best hospital his small western town had to offer, still plodding along when any other girl would have long since expired, he'd sat by her bed for three days straight, clutching her hand, feeling the odd spikes in her lifeforce -- the supernatural birthright she didn't even know she had. "You're the strongest woman I've ever known," he had whispered aloud, marveling. And it brought a smile to her tearstreaked face.
He had been sickened by that smile. It used to be a favorite game of his, building up a woman's confidence, watching her bloom under his attentions, seeing how brightly he could get them to glow before he snuffed out their light, adding it to his own. It was usually such fun. But this was his Edna. And suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. Like having a mess of beetles crawl out of the roast duck you were about to eat. Or worse... having the duck turn its head and look up at you with the sweetest little smile....
Now on this dark and stormy night she lay, looking like a rag doll in their huge bed, her black hair fanned around her pale face, and she gazed at him with more love and devotion than he deserved, more than he'd seen anyone direct at him. Ever since....
The Mayor of Boca del Infierno closed his eyes, turning his head. He didn't want to think about that.
"You look so sad all of a sudden," came her voice.
The Mayor smiled, opening his eyes. "And you sound surprised," he neatly served back, coming over to the bedside. He sat down on the quilts, in the perfect hollow she made in the bed. She'd been battling a fever, so the bed was unusually warm, her body radiating heat even through the thick feather quilts.
Edna Mae shrugged, her features sharp in the flickery light cast by the oil lamp on the nightstand. "I don't believe I've ever seen you sad before," she said. Shocked, yes, when she'd told them their son was no more. Startled, fired into a rage -- not rage directed at her, but rage nonetheless -- but she had come to believe sadness was something he was blessed without. She was the sad one -- he was her jester, always ready to cheer her up when she got too moody... too bitter, too melancholy. Sadness didn't seem part of his nature. "I fear I'm rubbing off unfavorably on you."
"Now that's just silly." He was smiling now, that curving jester smile, whatever darkness that had ambushed him for a moment now gone. "You've been nothing but good for me. You have!"
She'd closed her eyes, smiling in quiet disbelief. Her eyelids were shiny, and a slightly darker shade of grey than the rest of her face. For the umpteenth time Wilkins wondered why he should feel so deeply toward her, how he could tell her that in nearly two centuries she was the only person ever to.....
Edna Mae snickered sharply, breaking his train of thought. "I'll never fathom why you married me, Richard," she said, echoing his own thoughts. Her pretty face was dark. "I failed at being pious, I failed at being lapsed.....I can't even spawn a proper demonic heir." She chuckled bitterly, disgusted by her uselessness. "It takes a special breed of pathetic to fall short of even Hell's grace, I'm sure."
"Now what kind of talk is that?" he chided, linking her hand in his. "You haven't failed me." He looked down, studying her fragile fingers intently. He almost seemed reluctant to look at her. "No, sir. You haven't failed me in the least."
Edna frowned, wondering at this statement. Wilkins cleared his throat, looked up suddenly, the smile back. "Anyway... let's not talk about that. I slogged through three dedications, a hearing on saddle laws and a pretty darn annoying Vashtar demon attack about halfway through lunch, just so I could come home and offer you my humble services." He bowed his head to her, like Aladdin's genie.
That brought a genuine smile from her this time. "Don't I feel special!" she brightened. "Let me think of something for you to do, then."
"Anything, my dear."
Edna tilted her head, thinking, looking around the room as if for ideas. "Let's see.... I want you... to..." She focused her weary smile on him. "Tell me a bedtime story."
Wilkins chuckled. "A bedtime story? Why that, pray tell?"
Edna shrugged playfully. "Because you are evil and wicked, and I like making you do silly things."
"And you're the only one I'll do them for!" he assured her with a grin. "All right then. A story it is. What kind of story would you like to hear?"
"I want. To hear." She lifted a bony arm and drew her fingers over her brow, thinking. "How you lost your soul," she decided finally.
"Ah." He sat back, clearing his throat. "Well, I was in New York City, and this round little man in a devil's suit came up to me--"
"Not... that one." Edna Mae broke into a grin. Even the growing lines around her eyes and mouth couldn't detract from her beauty. "The real story, now. You've never told me.... how you came to be so despicably evil." She was joking.
But she couldn't have picked a worse topic. Wilkins' smile faded, as he looked down at his other hand resting on his knee. "Well, there's a very good reason for that," he said after a long pause. "It's not exactly the kind of thing you tell in mixed company." He plucked a stray bit of lint off his pantleg. "Much less to a lady as sick as you've been."
"You know I don't mind." Edna Mae was serious now. "By now I've heard worse. By now I've done worse." She snickered weakly. "Come now, let's have it. All the sordid, shocking details. You may even make some up if you like."
The Mayor uttered a mirthless laugh. "You're certainly in a morbid mood this evening," he muttered.
"It suits the occasion, doesn't it?" Edna pouted. "Dickie.... you know, this may very well be my final request. The way things are transpiring I might die any day, and--"
She was only kidding. The way his head suddenly jerked up caused her to stop dead in mid-sentence. "What's the matter?" she asked, concerned.
He just stared at her, his face relaxing but still not happy, coming to a conclusion. "Okay," he conceded, as if she'd just passed her own judgment. "A grim fairy tale, then."
He laid her hand gently on the cover and got up, walking around to the other side of the bed. Edna Mae shifted in the covers, getting comfortable. She secretly adored listening to her husband talk, about anything, even dull things. He could have a soothing voice when it suited him, and she wanted to hear anything soothing now; even a bloodgutting story would sound like a lullaby coming from him. Her eyes sparkled dimly as Richard settled down on top of the warm quilts she was lying under, sinking the mattress. He curled up in a near-fetal position by her side, propping his cheek upon one fist, taking up her hand with the other and heaving a sigh. "Okay.... let's see. Once upon a time, or so legend in Spain has it, there was a beautiful little girl."
"You're right, that's ghastly." Edna smiled.
He looked up at her with an unmistakable do-y'wanna-hear-this-or-not expression. Edna bit down a smile. "Sorry. Continue, please."
*****************************
A long, long time ago, in the then-small province of Santiago, there lived a little girl named Panfila. She was fiery, seven years old, with soft brown hair like a field rabbit, and sparkling pale eyes. She loved adventure and dreamed someday of becoming a horsewoman, even though such things weren't heard of in those days. She had a large collection of horses carved from wood, made by her brother the town orator, man-at-arms, and Defender of his Faith, Ricardo Dosantos.
Ricardo was a swordsman -- an expert, even at his young age, renowned for his speed and agility. He made his small living as a soldier and a city offical, answering to the church. In those days Isabella and Ferdinand had spearheaded an inquest into all heresy, in an attempt to cleanse their country of heathens and evildoers. It was a noble goal, and Ricardo was honored to serve it. He spoke regularly in the village square, stirring the villagers' civic pride and moral sense, inspiring many young men to follow him into the ranks of the growing army, the front lines of a holy war on evil -- a movement that would become infamous to the world as the Spanish Inquisition.
The fight for righteousness didn't take up all of Ricardo's time of course. He spent his spare hours practicing his swordfighting on the hill outside their house, and his number one admirer was his tiny sister Panfila. They had been left alone when their father had been killed, and Ricardo had nearly raised Pan since she could walk. She loved a good story, and her favorite was the tale about Tonino the hunchback and the night he met the fairies of the valley, and watched their dance with their chant of the days of the week; "Lunes y Martes y Miércoles tres; Jueves y Viernes y Sábado sies" -- Monday Tuesday Wednesday three, Thursday Friday Saturday six. It was Tonino who kindly taught the fairies the second verse of their song, and in gratitude they removed the hump from his back and gave him a sack of gold. Ricardo would always act out the story, limping around with a make-believe "hump" while Panfila danced madly around him, playing the role of the fairies. "But his friend Pedro, who was also a hunchback, and greedy and lazy besides, wanted his hump removed too," said Ricardo, telling the tale for the umpteenth time.
Panfila loved this part of the story. "And he went to spy on the fairies as they danced!" she shouted, spinning in circles as her brother hunched down behind a tree, pretending to spy.
"And instead of waiting and listening to the rhythm of their song," said Ricardo, "the fool Pedro leaped out into the open and shouted '--y Domingo siete -- and Sunday seven!!'"
Pan whirled around, fluffy hair flying. "Who dares interrupt our singing?" she squeaked, feigning fairy indignance. "What mortal dares mention that bane of all fairies -- a holy day?!" She jumped at her brother's lanky frame, throwing him to the ground. "And the fairies dragged out Tonino's hump from some hidden place--"
"Oh no, not that!!" howled Ricardo, playing along.
Pan laughed like a loon, crawling onto her brother's back. "And they fixed it to the other hump, and he was forced to carry two humps for the rest of his days!" she shouted, laughing as Ricardo carried her piggyback around the field, a seven year old giggling "hump". They were filthy from rolling around in the dirt, but good Christians need never fear honest dirt.
There came a day when a pack of gypsies came to camp in the valley on the other side of their hill. Gypsies were, at that time, reviled and outcast from decent society. They were thought to be thieves and beggars, with heathen customs that must be black magic, since they were different from what the Church practiced. To be a gypsy was to be alienated in any case, but at that time, with the growing hostility toward anyone without pure Christian blood, it was downright dangerous. At night Ricardo and Panfila would sneak to the hill and watch what went on in the gypsy camp. There were strange dancing and fires, and odd rhythmic chants. "They're brujas -- witches!" exclaimed Panfila, a wicked excitement sparkling in her eyes.
"Hush, Pan," Ricardo whispered. "If they are witches then I'll probably be the one who has to arrest them, and if I'm going to arrest them they'll likely get violent."
"But they're not bad witches," Pan protested. "I met them the other day when I was out hunting for berries. They came and played with me. They showed me magic tricks."
Ricardo wasn't too thrilled with this. But instead of reporting the strange people to the church, as he should have done and as anyone else would have, he decided to wait and see whether they actually posed any threat. This was dangerous in itself; everyone was encouraged to report even the slightest sign of heathen practices, and those who did not were in danger of being suspected witches themselves. But Ricardo saw no point in stirring up trouble where none was present. The strange people had committed no sins that he could see. So he let the matter go.
In the following months, a plague fell upon their little village. People vanished from their homes, never to be seen again. Children began developing diseases that made them stay in bed when they should have been playing, and women began miscarrying their unborn babies. Then came the last straw: the town butcher found three children in his barn, dead; drained of blood.
The padre of the church, one Hernando Madras, saw (quite rightly, mind you) that there was something truly evil lurking in their village. He sent his soldiers throughout the town, redoubling efforts to find the witch or witches responsible for the murders. Any excuse was a good excuse to enter someone's home, suspect the family of witchcraft, seize their belongings and drag them off to the garrison to be imprisoned. At first, that was the worst that could happen. The dungeons were filled to overflowing with men and then women who were accused of witchcraft, sitting there on their hands until they were to be judged. But the Inquisitioner that the Padre had sent for kept delaying, and delaying, until soon the garrison was so full they had to start chaining offenders to the walls of the kitchen.
Ricardo himself had assisted in taking many of the accused to the garrison, and lost many friends because of it. He reassured himself with the fact that the arrests were ordained by God. Of course, Ricardo couldn't help but have misgivings. On one hand he couldn't believe the better half of Santiago was practicing black magic, for that indeed seemed to be how many citizens were arrested for it. On the other, he didn't dare argue, for questioning an edict of the church was grounds for being accused himself. So he dutifully took fathers away from their families, maids and cooks away from their work, women away from their sweethearts. Some of the soldiers were rough with the prisoners, but he tried to be as civil as he could without being suspicious, promising the prisoners that it was all a trial, a brief imprisoning, and soon they would return to their homes. For, he thought to himself, it was impossible that all of the accused could be true witches. Surely the church would pardon most of them.
Panfila didn't think so. The children she played with were losing their parents and older siblings to the citywide sweep, and she was very upset with her older brother for having a hand in it. She was also concerned about the gypsies. "They don't listen to me," she told him pouting one day. "Old Gravas says he knows about the sweep, but he won't believe me when I tell him they're in danger. Even Tatiana can't make him listen." Tatiana was Pan's imaginary friend. "They'd listen to you, brother. Tell them to go away! They're good, they're not the monsters who ate those children, they wouldn't do that! If you go tell them what old Madras is ordering, they'll have to believe you!" She gazed pleadingly at him with those shiny rabbit eyes.
Ricardo weighed what the little girl told him. His better judgment and years of local tales told him to mind his own business, that for all he knew the gypsies were the murderers. But for a soldier, Ricardo had a tender heart, and this proved to be his greatest fault. He didn't believe the gypsies were evil. He had seen nothing to prove to him that they were. The very fact that they were living on the other side of his hill was dangerous; he could be imprisoned just for knowing they were there. That, above all, was reason enough for him to warn the travelers away. Besides, Pan had her heart set on it. And having a tender heart, he couldn't refuse anything Pan asked him.
So it was that evening he let Panfila drag him by the hand over the hill, to the camp where the gypsy fires burned brightly in the dark. For being in hiding, the gypsies had made no effort to conceal themselves. The fires could clearly be seen lighting up the sky, Ricardo wondered at the fact that they hadn't been discovered already.
His little sister eagerly tugged him onward. "You have to meet him! He's like Father when he was alive, so wise and kind...." She was talking about Old Gravas, whom Ricardo gathered was the leader of this particular tribe. Pan dragged him without ceremony into the camp, right between fires and people dressed in serapes and scarves, all of whom stared at this stranger suddenly in their midst. Pan paid no mind, calling out cheerfully to the strange people by name. "Ola, Maria! Ola, Ferdinand! Here is my brother Ricardo! He's come to talk to old Gravas!"
On that, the whole community seemed to come out of the shadows, to meet the soldier that their little friend had talked so much about. They certainly didn't seem like bandits or blood-drinkers or any of the other things people called them. Most of them Pan knew by name, it was clear they all loved her very much, and by that token they welcomed Ricardo like he was family, one of them.
They brought him willingly to the gypsy leader's tent. Pan was the only one who went in with him, however, as the old man was considered something of a king among his people. While gypsies take great pride in being ruled by no man, they revered old Gravas as the keeper of all their knowledge, settler of disputes, justice of the peace, and so on. Pan led her older brother in to where an old, old, gnarled little man sat on a chair of silken pillows. Candles were everywhere: sitting in tin pans on the floor, buried in the floor itself. Strung around the tent walls were dozens of growling masks and hollow-eyed faces staring back at him. Before the old man on the floor was a table on which was strewn rows of cards with strange symbols and pictures on them.
Witchcraft, thought Ricardo.
Panfila dropped his hand and went right up to the old gypsy, hunched over his cards. If anything, he looked like he was sleeping. "Old Gravas," she stage-whispered in his ear. "I've brought my brother to visit! He wants to tell you something!"
The gypsy's head raised, and Ricardo found himself looking at the wrinkliest face he'd ever seen. The gypsy had many rings on his fingers, which were holding a long strange pipe, and a long twirling moustache, and few, if any, of his original teeth. He stared at the young, tall soldier up and down for a very long time.
"You're the end of everything, boy," he spoke in a scratchy, razorbladed voice.
Ricardo didn't quite understand, and thought the old man might be senile. "I've come to warn you--"
"The sweep." Old Gravas waved a weatherbeaten hand. "We know all about that, boy. That's why we came to you." He looked at Pan. "This is why I pretended not to listen to you, bonita. I knew you would bring him eventually." He gave her a toothless but kindly old smile. "Now I can tell you both what the cards tell me." He looked down at the rows of cards scattered before him. Old fingers with broken, yellow nails pushed the cards around a little.
Ricardo tried to seat himself on one of the cushions on the floor. "You're not safe here, senor Gravas," he tried to tell the old man. "When the church finds you here, they'll have your camp broken up. All of your people will be put in the prison. They've been trying people for witchcraft--"
The old gypsy looked up sharply at Ricardo. "There's much to be learned from what you call the black arts, boy," he rasped. "Much more than your priests and elders care to tell you about the true workings of the universe. Much more." A gnarled hand suddenly reached out and gripped Ricardo's hand. He was startled by the strength in that hand, like tree roots come to life, wrapping around his bones.
The gypsy took Panfila's tiny hand in his other claw. "There is great power in both of you," he told the siblings. "Great pools of both sides of power. Good and evil. You are both destined.... to end things."
Ricardo looked at Pan, whose eyes were shining excitedly. "That's what Tatiana says," she whispered, like they were telling scary stories around a campfire. And in a way, they were indeed.
Old Gravas turned his craggy eyes on her. "Does Tatiana tell you about events that later happen?" he asked her.
Pan nodded. "Yes! One day, we were in the field and we were watching a flock of geese and she said that one was going to fall out of the sky dead! And it did!" She was nearly bouncing up and down on the cushion.
Old Gravas smiled. "I think this Tatiana may be your spirit guide," he said. "I will ask my guides if this is so, but the next time you see her, you must ask her if she comes in the name of God, and if she says yes, you must listen carefully to what she tells you."
Pan looked thrilled. "She is?? See, you said she wasn't real!" she exclaimed, giving her brother a playful, indignant shove.
Ricardo didn't mention what the church would think of people who heard voices, angelic or otherwise. "Senor, I think I should tell you, I've been keeping the eyes of the church away from this side of the hill for some time now. I don't know how much longer I can manage it. The church is cleansing the heretics from--"
"The heretics are running the church," Gravas corrected roughly. "The evil in this country is not a monster eating children, or witches casting spells. The evil sits on the throne! You come here to help me?! You don't even know what side you're on!"
Ricardo didn't care much for the gypsy's suddenly accusatory tone. Gravas pulled Ricardo's hand closer. "The Great Spirits told us to come here," he told the soldier. "They told us to offer our help to you. The time for the end of Torquemada's church is at hand. You two will end it -- end the injustice, the bloodshed. You have the power to destroy them all." The old gypsy ended this sentence with a rusty, triumphant, somewhat unsettling laugh that rattled the masks on the walls.
It all sounded a little too close to blasphemy for Ricardo's liking. "It sounds to me," he said carefully, "next you'll be saying there's no God."
Old Gravas leaned forward. The steeliest glint was in those ancient eyes. "There is," he spoke unequivocally. "But the men you've chosen to worship are not Him."
He sat back, bones creaking. "You have power," he insisted. "I can see a great amount of energy in you both, but particularly in you, bonita." He looked to Pan. "Your priests tell you it is evil because they know you will destroy their corruption. They know who you are. And they will fight you, make no mistake. You must let me teach you how to use your powers so you can defend yourselves." He squeezed their hands so tightly that Ricardo's bones creaked. "There are no accidents, children. You have been sent to save us." Tears were forming in the old man's rheumy eyes, his gnarled hands shook. "You will save us all," he repeated, as though he were praising God.
************
Ricardo enjoyed his life.
It was a simple life, clean-cut, black and white. There were always two sides to everything. There were good people and evil people, on the side of God or against. There were the weak, and the strong who had to defend them. Good and evil, smart and foolish, right and wrong. The universe operated so simply that he was surprised he was the only one who could see it. Perhaps it was a great spinning mass of confusion to everyone else, but to him it all worked, it all connected, it was all part of a greater whole. Everything had purpose and meaning -- sometimes more than one meaning. His sword, for example.
It was a marvelous sword, made of simple iron, carved with symbols and decorations. His father had given it to him, one of few things left over from his legacy. Ricardo contemplated it now as he knelt before it in the morning sun. It was a weapon. It could be used to kill and destroy, but it could also be utilized in the fight for good, to defend, protect. Stuck upside down in the ground like it was right now, it even became that holiest of all symbols, the cross. Ricardo smiled at this sign of God's hand in even this most common of base objects. Everything came together. God had given him this sword, this duty, to protect those who were too weak or sick to help themselves. He was the slayer of the dragons, this town's defender, without him....well, maybe it wouldn't fall completely apart, but he knew himself to be a big piece of why it was there. He alone stood against evil, he protected his village. In return he and Pan were protected by divine power and assured a happy place in the next world. Two sides to everything. Give and take. Perfect.
He rose to his feet as the Padre approached. Padre Madras was a round, short, hawkish man, with requisite disapproving eyes and a permanent curving arch of a frowning mouth, pulling lines down from his pointed nose. The old man had been head of the church for many many years, unwavering in his faith, unquestioned in his piety. He had signed the order committing so many citizens to the garrison dungeons, and in doing, had confirmed God's approval of the arrests. The Padre said so, therefore God said so, therefore it was done.
Today he would sign another order. Three of his own soldiers had been caught at a tavern, drinking, carousing, indulging in games of chance. "The devil finds his way into the soul through these chinks in the armor," Padre Madras announced the crowd assembled. "I have no ear for those who say there is no harm in these things. Drinking to excess is a sin. Wagering is a sin. These are the men who protect your families! The punishment on them must be even harsher!"
He turned to the three soldiers, standing in a row in the middle of the town square. The assembled crowd watched mutedly; there had been almost a carnival atmosphere in town all day as there usually was accompanying such things, but now a strange shadow seemed to fall, as though in warning. Ricardo got to his feet with his fellow soldiers, and glanced toward Dominic, his friend since childhood, questioning. They hadn't been told what sort of punishment would be meted out to their brother soldiers. They were of the opinion that the church's own men wouldn't be punished at all.
The three men, too, seemed surprised that so much attention was being given to their trial. They stood firmly, like the soldiers they were, watching as six other soldiers -- across the field, some yards away from Ricardo and Dominic -- drew arrows from nowhere and nocked their bows. They were aiming straight for the three accused.
It was done with such speed that many people didn't at first realize what was happening. The first arrow struck one prisoner in the shoulder. He jerked, looked down at the shaft with the most incredible expression of non-shock...as though he didn't quite believe what he saw. Then it sunk in, as blood began soaking through his shirt. A second arrow struck him in the stomach, but it hung only a moment before dropping to the ground.
His two compatriots finally began to realize what was going on. Scattered shouts of dismay were rising from the crowd: this was no trial, this was an execution. The prisoner in the middle uttered a shout of outrage -- and then of pain, as an arrow struck him in the thigh. He dropped to his knees, tugging at the shaft in agony.
The third prisoner was torn between fight or flight. He had been trained never to run in battle -- but he had never been trained what to do when his own men were trying to kill him. He wavered a moment more before bolting, heading for the crowd.
He waited a moment too long. An arrow stuck him dead center in the back. He fell to the ground face first, and did not move again.
The other two were less lucky. The archers were shooting faster now, one arrow after the other flew from their bows in terrible rhythm, zipping through the air and hitting their targets with sound thwacks. The two prisoners jumped as they were hit, a gruesome death dance, arrows hanging off their limbs as blood sprayed and coursed over their clothes, staining the red dirt. The middle man was the first to finally die, and his friend soon followed after; kneeling on the ground, stretching his bloodied hand in agonized rage toward Madras, cursing in a strangled voice. One last arrow finally found his heart and put him out of his misery.
A roar of a cheer rose up from the crowd as the man hit the dust, and Ricardo jumped, startled. The people of Santiago, at first horrified at this gory display, knew that it was sanctioned by the Lord, and had quickly realized it was to be cheered, not reviled. Every man, woman and child in the square was applauding the executions. Ricardo looked toward Padre Madras, and his strong stomach blanched. The Padre had no expression whatever. No righteous remorse, no pity for the souls of the damned. Absolutely nothing.
Ricardo turned to find Dominic. His friend looked much the way Ricardo thought he himself did; his face was paler, and the look of shock on his face was quickly buried under the old soldier's discipline as he caught Ricardo's eyes. "That's.... that's...." was all he could say.
Ricardo turned his eyes back to the bloody scene. Well... there wasn't much needed saying, really. The men had sinned, had been punished... it was necessary. It was God's will. In a way, by dying, the men had carried out God's unending pattern, so perhaps they were pardoned. In any case, Ricardo was a soldier, and as such couldn't show emotion either way over it. Still.....
The Padre was coming toward them, his round form shuffling toward the rows of soldiers, glaring at each of them in turn. He was watching for signs of sympathy, signs of weakness, and his eyes found Ricardo and Dominic almost immediately. Ricardo was careful to keep his face expressionless as the Padre approached, using the old man himself as an example. Padre Madras had known and counseled his father; the man was something of an icon to him.
The Padre stopped right in front of him. "Come with me, son," he spoke.
Ricardo followed obediently, trailing after the robed man. "Today is the day of your father's death," Madras spoke.
His voice, even when calm, necessarily sounded disapproving, but Ricardo knew him well enough to know this was semi-friendly conversation. "Yes, Padre," he replied. "Three years today. I lit a candle this morning in honor of the occasion."
"He was a good man." They were walking along the edge of the square, where the bodies were being carried away. Nobody watched, nobody commented, nobody mourned. "A worthy soldier of God. Faithful to the church. I never saw him do a wrong turn to anyone."
"Yes, Padre."
The holy man turned suddenly, facing the young soldier. "What did you think of the execution today?"
Ricardo was no fool. "It was a good thing, Padre." He paused. Then, as the man seemed to be waiting for more, he spoke diplomatically, "Perhaps hanging might have been more....ah... well, faster."
The Padre's expressionless expression didn't change. "More humane," Ricardo elaborated. "I assumed.... well, the Inquisitioner finally arrived from Madrid, I take it?"
Still nothing. "I will share a secret with you, son," Padre Madras said, ignoring the question. "This town is full of witches."
"Yes, Padre."
"The work of Lucifer is being done right under our noses. In the least likely place you would think. It's a disease. What does the Bible say about the diseased tree?"
"The branches must be pruned," Ricardo replied promptly.
"Pruned." The Padre nodded. His permanent downturned mouth went even thinner. "Not tied back, not imprisoned awaiting a so-called Inquisitioner who will arrive when he sees fit, not argued with to grow differently. It's useless arguing with a tree, son."
"Yes... Padre..."
"I can tell a witch," said Madras. His hawk eyes glinted. "The Lord has given me the Sight. I can see them for miles. I can track their evil influence." He stepped so close to the young soldier that he was nearly stepping on Ricardo's feet. "I won't stand for witches in my country, Dosantos. Your father wouldn't have. Your Heavenly Father won't."
Ricardo was much taller than the holy man, but he felt intimidated, nonetheless. "No, Padre," he spoke quietly.
"He knows," Ricardo told Pan and Old Gravas that night as they sat in the gypsy's tent. "I could tell by the look on his face. He knows the gypsies are here. He knows I've been here." He looked to his tiny sister, who was playing obliviously with her wooden horses. "Senor Gravas, I knew one of the men who died this afternoon. He couldn't have been less a witch than the Virgin herself. Something's wrong."
Old Gravas uttered a wheezy, harsh laugh that threatened the candles on the table. "So you can see what's been put in front of you. Much applause!" He leered at the boy. "I told you myself! Your own sister told you! The Church is corrupt!"
Despite what he'd seen this afternoon, Ricardo was still deeply reluctant to deny the one institution he had grown up believing in. "Well, I don't think Madras is exactly corrupt.... maybe...." He ignored the raspy laughter from the old gypsy king. "...perhaps... in his old age, he's become less competent than he used to be--"
"Defending the devil, are ye?" sneered Gravas.
Ricardo stopped short. It was hard to avoid being the devil's advocate when you were increasingly unsure of who the devil was.
Gravas cast a look at Panfila, then at Ricardo. "It's time for a lesson," he growled. "Your first lesson of witchcraft! Better be careful I don't steal your soul, boy! Aren't you excited?!"
Ricardo watched pensively as the old man led them outside -- this in itself was a surprise, since Ricardo had been under the impression that Gravas couldn't walk at all -- and they ventured into a small grove of trees, outside the camp. The stars were bright overhead, and an orange moon was peeking its face over the mountains, witness to whatever sorcery was about to happen. Ricardo felt strangely exhilarated and nervous all at once, like taking his first drink or kissing his first girl. This would be a milestone... one more stripping of his soul.
"I can feel your surprise, boy," the old gypsy's voice trailed back to them. "You didn't expect to see me up and about, eh?"
Ricardo looked down at Pan, who was keeping up, just barely, with them. Her eyes were shining, excited by the covert nighttime doings. "I have to admit, I thought you were crippled," Ricardo answered back. "Judging from your tent--"
A raspy laugh. "Always have one obvious vulnerability, boy," Gravas said, halting their journey at a small clearing. "One weakness that your enemies know everything about. Then, when they think they've used it to corner you....you can rise up and destroy them."
Gravas led them to one tree, a young sapling. He circled it once, twice, three times. Ricardo and Panfila seated themselves on the ground, side by side, as the gypsy king began chanting, his razory voice speaking a tongue that neither of them knew. The words were gently rhythmic at first, but as Gravas continued to circle the tree his tone became louder and sharper. The cool night wind blew Pan's hair, and Ricardo kept casting glances over the hill.
Old Gravas continued to chant, his words becoming a vengeful rhythm that rang over the grassy valley. The moon had drifted behind a cloud, almost fearful of whatever it might see. Just when it seemed the old gypsy would pass out from the strain, he raised a gnarled fist toward the tree, pointing a bony finger at its trunk. He belted a single word in the odd language, hurling it like a spear.
At first they weren't sure what he'd done. Just then, however, the moon pulled free of the clouds, and the valley was bathed in soft light as the tree, a modest cedar sapling, began to change color. Before Ricardo's and Panfila's stunned eyes, the tree turned, leaf and trunk, into solid stone.
Ricardo got to his feet, amazed. He walked up to the petrified tree and took one of the leaves gingerly between his fingers. At that several leaves snapped loose, falling to the ground with thumps like apples. He stared, unbelieving, at the lump of stone in his hand. It still bore the network of veins typical of any leaf, but it was definitely stone; a delicate shell of white granite.
Behind them, Panfila was excitedly jumping up and down, thrilled to death. "Do it again, do it again!!" she cheered.
*****************************
"But why did they have to practice witchcraft?"
The ornate cherrywood clock by the bed had just chimed half-past. Thunder grumbled somewhere above the beams up in the dark recess of the room's ceiling; the storm was gathering its strength in the distance. Rain was falling in soft, steady clicks against the window glass. Despite the gathering storm, however, Edna Mae was quite warm and comfortable, deeply ensconced in her husband's tale. Up til now she had refrained from asking questions, but as he'd paused, she felt it was all right. "With all that was happening around them...they knew, they weren't stupid. I'm sure I should talk...but why did they feel the need to do that?"
Wilkins, briefly distracted from his tale, shrugged noncommittally. "Well, why does the Catholic church feel the need to stick gargoyles all over their steeples?" he returned. "Why did the Quakers put hex signs on their barns? Why do God-fearing parents send their good little girls and boys out on Halloween dressed as the devil?"
Edna Mae twisted her mouth. "All right, all right," she conceded. "The state rests. What happened next?"
*****************************
For a month Ricardo and Panfila took lessons in the dark art of witchcraft. To Ricardo's surprise, he had a natural talent for it. He became adept at conjuring -- fire from water, objects from across far distances. He had trouble mastering the spell of stone that Gravas had demonstrated, however. "Chanting is the key," Gravas instructed. "The words themselves do not matter, not even the chanting itself matters. Focus on the rhythm, forge it into a stream of power, and strike the object with it." But try as he might, in those first weeks, Ricardo couldn't get it to work at all.
Little Pan seemed to be faring even worse. Gravas tried patiently to teach her one trick or another, but she simply wasn't making the progress Ricardo was. In fact, if not for her constant conversations with her spirit guide Tatiana, they would have thought the little girl had no magical ability at all. And it wouldn't have mattered, except that the Church was getting ever closer to the gypsy camp, and Gravas remained convinced that Ricardo and Panfila were the only ones who could ward them off. Why else would the spirits have brought them together?
The lessons went beyond flashy parlor tricks. While Pan tried furiously to move a coin across the floor with her mind, Gravas took Ricardo aside and showed him the dark, dusty books he kept in the very back of the cluttered wagon he lived out of. These books were very, very old and full of the darkest secrets of magic, penned by seers before the time of Christ, before even the pharaohs. The secrets in those books were powerful, and would have been quite dangerous in the wrong hands. Ricardo pored over these tomes by the light of the fire, awed and at times shocked by what he was reading.... and deeply intrigued that such things could be mastered by mortal men like him. The ancient seers had wielded these powers for evil, but perhaps... if such power could be used to benefit people....
Gravas strongly disagreed. "I keep these books to be prepared," he warned the young soldier. "I've seen how power destroys, boy. These are not secrets man was meant to know."
Ricardo saw absolutely no sense to that way of thinking. "If man isn't supposed to know them, who is?" he asked. "Why have them at all?"
"To tempt us!" Gravas waved a bony finger in the boy's face. "To seduce the foolish! Power is like wine, it dulls the mind, corrupts the soul! Has it occurred to you -- any of your explorers who go to 'win' these far off lands of yours -- that the mighty Lord might have put those riches out there precisely to test you? To see if you would take them?"
Ricardo smiled at that. "The Lord put us on this earth to enjoy it," he reasoned. "We're meant to branch out, find other lands. The earth is here for our use. Why--" and he hesitated a little at the growing leer on the gypsy's face. "--why shouldn't we use it to our advantage? The human race.... we rule all the others. We--"
The smile on Old Gravas' face was less a smile and more a sneering, sardonic grimace. "You really believe human beings are rulers of this world?" he asked quietly.
Well, that struck Ricardo as an awfully silly question. Of course they were. They walked upright, they held intelligent conversation, they hunted -- not always responsibly, he had to admit; there were wars, and humans were of course capable of great evil as well, but as far as the question of their superiority.....of course they were. What other species was there?
"What do you think is hunting the children of Santiago?" Gravas posited.
That did stump the young soldier. "We're not sure," he admitted. "It -- seems to drink the blood of its victims..." He didn't think it wise to tell the old man that they had first believed the gypsies to be the monsters.
But like so many other things, the gypsy already knew. "You wonder if it's me, don't you?" he asked the boy. His smile had relaxed, now it was subverted, as though they were sharing a joke. "Your masters taught you well." Casting a glance toward Panfila, who was still madly trying to move that coin, he tugged at the boy's arm, back toward the tent. "Come. Let me show you something."
In the tent, they sat down at their usual places, cross-legged, facing each other. Old Gravas pulled out a large basin, big enough for Pan to have sat in, and placed it between them. Ricardo watched as one of the goats from the tribe's flock appeared in the doorflap, seemingly having wandered in of its own accord. It bleated, boredly; tapping in over the dirt on its hooves. Its stubby tail wagged as it approached Old Gravas, who was watching the animal in dead, huge-eyed silence. Suddenly, without warning and much to Ricardo's surprise, the gypsy king lashed out and sunk a dagger deep into the animal's neck.
With a pitiful bleat, the goat hit the floor, blood gushing from its main artery. Gravas tugged the dying creature over the basin so that its blood was caught, pooling in a black-red puddle in the bottom. The goat's legs kicked stiffly, but Gravas held it firmly by the horns until it finally subsided, dead.
The blood continued to flow, and he pulled the creature upright, as if pouring a bottle into the bowl. Ricardo was stunned -- and more than a little bit disgusted -- by this display. "May I ask what the point of this is?" he asked roundaboutly, wondering if the old man might be mad after all -- madder than he had been up til now, anyway.
But the gypsy didn't answer for once, his mad eyes on his gory work. He seemed to be draining the creature, making sure every last gout of blood had left the goat's body. It took some while, but finally he let the dead goat sink to the floor, carefully folding the poor thing's legs as though it were asleep. Gently he let the head rest, the red wound open and facing upward. The goat's slitted eyes stared blindly at them, watching as Gravas took the same dagger and sliced open his own hand.
Ricardo shifted, wondering what the mad old man might cut up next. He resolved to stay put, however, watching as Gravas let a fair amount of his own blood drop into the basin. He stirred the pool with the tip of the dagger, eyes wild as he watched the spooling designs made by the different thicknesses of the blood. "Help me," he suddenly growled.
Ricardo realized as the gypsy set down the knife that he wanted him to lift the basin. Wordlessly, he did so, grabbing the large bowl on his end as Gravas got the other. Tilting it, they let the blood flow over the side, down a spout, and back -- into the wound in the dead goat's neck. Ricardo watched, arms aching, carefully pouring so as not to lose any of the blood. He had no idea what Gravas was doing, but was becoming more intrigued by the process.
At last the final drops poured down the spout, and Gravas signaled that it was all right to drop the basin. Grabbing a spoon, the gypsy scooped up what remained -- and drank it down himself, licking the blood from the spoon.
Ricardo's stomach turned. "Tasty, is it?" he muttered politely.
The old gypsy, who suddenly looked very old, much older even than his wrinkles showed, released a long, withering sigh. "I deny myself," he answered, eyes closed as if raptured by the taste. "It has been a while."
Ricardo didn't quite know what to make of this, other than that Gravas had to be some kind of blood-drinking madman, if not a demon. But then why had he offered his help to Ricardo? What of all this talk of righteousness and God's wrath, and the corruption of the church? Ricardo was beginning to wonder, indeed, where the devil truly was in all of this.
But he didn't have time to ponder it, as the gypsy held up a hand suddenly. "Hush!" he barked, as though silencing even the boy's thoughts.
The dead goat lay on the floor, eyes flickering in the candlelight. The bloody wound on its furry neck sat, its blood returned, pooled in its veins. As they watched, to Ricardo's amazement, the cloven hoof moved.
The animal's head jerked. The hoof kicked again, and slowly, as though awaking from a nap, the goat that had been very much dead got itself awkwardly to its legs. Like a newborn kid it wobbled, briefly, tapping about dizzily on its hooves. It shook its ears out, as if shaking off the rain. Spatters of blood hit Ricardo in the face, and he wiped it off immediately, startled.
Uttering a disaffected bleat, the goat turned right around and tapped out through the door flap, just as if nothing had happened.
************
"You have to teach me," insisted Ricardo.
Gravas, so eager to show off the spell, now seemingly didn't even want to mention it as they returned to Panfila. "I didn't show you that to teach you," he put the boy off gruffly. "You misunderstand me, boy. What you saw isn't magic. You can't just wave your hand and raise goats from the dead!"
"Why did you show me, then?" Ricardo demanded. "Senor... think, just a minute, of what you've got there. People have died. Innocent people. You talk about monsters sitting on the throne, and yet you have the power to raise the truly good and decent from the graves they've been put in--"
"You don't understand!" Gravas' old eyes had narrowed. They had been black this whole time, but now they seemed to have lightened... almost amber in the sunlight. "If you raised a dead man, he would become a monster! There's no harm in raising a goat that becomes a monster, is there? A monster goat would only terrorize other goats, but imagine what an unscrupulous person would do with the power I've shown you. He might raise Attila, or Genghis Khan, or any villain from history he liked! An entire army of the dead might be assembled, and being dead, they would be vulnerable to no man!"
"Exactly!" Ricardo pointed out. "An army! That's exactly what we need right now! You said I was to fight the Church, why not with an unstoppable army?"
Gravas only shook his head, staring at Ricardo as if he were the madman. "You have no idea the cost of utilizing evil. Even if your aims are good. Mind--” he wagged that bony finger in Ricardo's face "--mind you don't become like Madras! He's already put his mark upon you, or tried--” He clapped that withered hand over Ricardo's eyes. "--he's already twisted God's truth in your mind. I can see his corruption deep inside you even now."
.......
And then the Mayor's little sister Panfila was burned at the stake as a witch by the church. And then the Mayor renounced God, and sailed across the world, and crashed on the California coast, where he was enlisted by evil spirits to build a town on top of the Hellmouth. And the rest as they say is history. :)