cradled the creature on her lap. The greenish-yellow ichor stained her clothing and gave forth a sweetish, sickly odor. “Welc—” She stopped, swallowed, and began again. “Welcome, pilgrims, to the hospitality of my home. It pleases—It pleases me that you might abide with us.” She stroked the thing’s head gently, looking much like the Sorrowful Mother in those
Vesperbilder
that had lately grown popular, save that her eyes were squeezed shut and she would not look on what she comforted.
Everything came clear for Dietrich in a sudden, dizzying rush. The monster cradled by the miller’s wife was badly injured. The effluvium that issued from him was a humor of some sort. The strips of cloth the demons wore were the torn and burnt remnants of clothing employed as bandages around limbs and torsos. Their bodies and faces were smoke-smudged and the motley of their skin signified dull-green bruises and scratches.
And do hellish creaturessuffer earthly torments?
As for the smaller creature who had charged them buzzing like an angry hornet …
A child
, Dietrich knew. And demons had no children; nor did they run and snatch them up into their arms as did the second creature racing close behind.
“Pastor?” said Max. His voice trembled. He was on the point of breaking, and with his hand on a knife. “What manner of demons are these?”
“Not demons, sergeant.” Dietrich had seized hold of Max’s wrist. He glanced at Hildegarde and the injured one. “Men, I think.”
“Men!”
Dietrich held fast. “Think, sergeant! Are there not centaurs, half-man and half-horse? And what of the
blemyae
of which Pliny wrote—men with their eyes in their torsos? Honorius Augustodenensis described and sketched dozens of such.” The words tumbled and fought each other, as if they fled from his own tongue. “Stranger beings than these grace the very walls of our church!”
“Creatures more talked of than seen!” Yet Dietrich felt the man untense, and so released his knife arm. The sergeant backed away a step, and then another.
One more step and he runs
, Dietrich thought.
Then would tales run through the village and down the mountainside to pool in the ears of Freiburg; and a commotion would ensue in this quiet fleck of earth. Preachers would find God or Devil in the hearing and announce new heresies. Ecstatics would claim these creatures in visions; philosophers gravely question their existence. Some would in hidden rooms burn incense and pray to their images; others would ready the stake for those who did. Questions would be asked; inquisition would be made. Old matters would be remembered; old names recalled.
A woodleafsinger trilled from the treetop and Dietrich noticed how the monsters shrank from an innocent bird.
“Max,” he said. “Hurry to the parsonage and fetch my bag of salves and my copy of Galen. It’s bound in dark brown leather and has a drawing of a man’s body on thecover.” He doubted Galen had much to say on injuries to demons, but he could not let anyone vomit his life into the dirt without some attempt to save him. “And, Max,” he said, calling after the man.
“Tell no one
what we have seen. We want no panic. If anyone asks, say that … that these strangers may carry the pest.”
Max gave him a serious look. “You’d warn them of the pest to
stay
a panic?”
“Then tell them something else. Leprosy.
Only keep them away
. We have need of cool heads. Now hurry—and bring my salves.”
Dietrich slid down the face of the ridge to where the creatures stood, now in a compact mob. Some held axes and mallets at the ready, but others bore no arms at all and shrank from him. A stack of logs had been placed to the side of the strange white building, and Dietrich realized that they had been clearing the broken trees from around it. Yet how could such a large building have been erected in the midst of the forest without a clearance to begin with?
He knelt beside the creature that Hilde comforted
Vesperbilder
that had lately grown popular, save that her eyes were squeezed shut and she would not look on what she comforted.
Everything came clear for Dietrich in a sudden, dizzying rush. The monster cradled by the miller’s wife was badly injured. The effluvium that issued from him was a humor of some sort. The strips of cloth the demons wore were the torn and burnt remnants of clothing employed as bandages around limbs and torsos. Their bodies and faces were smoke-smudged and the motley of their skin signified dull-green bruises and scratches.
And do hellish creaturessuffer earthly torments?
As for the smaller creature who had charged them buzzing like an angry hornet …
A child
, Dietrich knew. And demons had no children; nor did they run and snatch them up into their arms as did the second creature racing close behind.
“Pastor?” said Max. His voice trembled. He was on the point of breaking, and with his hand on a knife. “What manner of demons are these?”
“Not demons, sergeant.” Dietrich had seized hold of Max’s wrist. He glanced at Hildegarde and the injured one. “Men, I think.”
“Men!”
Dietrich held fast. “Think, sergeant! Are there not centaurs, half-man and half-horse? And what of the
blemyae
of which Pliny wrote—men with their eyes in their torsos? Honorius Augustodenensis described and sketched dozens of such.” The words tumbled and fought each other, as if they fled from his own tongue. “Stranger beings than these grace the very walls of our church!”
“Creatures more talked of than seen!” Yet Dietrich felt the man untense, and so released his knife arm. The sergeant backed away a step, and then another.
One more step and he runs
, Dietrich thought.
Then would tales run through the village and down the mountainside to pool in the ears of Freiburg; and a commotion would ensue in this quiet fleck of earth. Preachers would find God or Devil in the hearing and announce new heresies. Ecstatics would claim these creatures in visions; philosophers gravely question their existence. Some would in hidden rooms burn incense and pray to their images; others would ready the stake for those who did. Questions would be asked; inquisition would be made. Old matters would be remembered; old names recalled.
A woodleafsinger trilled from the treetop and Dietrich noticed how the monsters shrank from an innocent bird.
“Max,” he said. “Hurry to the parsonage and fetch my bag of salves and my copy of Galen. It’s bound in dark brown leather and has a drawing of a man’s body on thecover.” He doubted Galen had much to say on injuries to demons, but he could not let anyone vomit his life into the dirt without some attempt to save him. “And, Max,” he said, calling after the man.
“Tell no one
what we have seen. We want no panic. If anyone asks, say that … that these strangers may carry the pest.”
Max gave him a serious look. “You’d warn them of the pest to
stay
a panic?”
“Then tell them something else. Leprosy.
Only keep them away
. We have need of cool heads. Now hurry—and bring my salves.”
Dietrich slid down the face of the ridge to where the creatures stood, now in a compact mob. Some held axes and mallets at the ready, but others bore no arms at all and shrank from him. A stack of logs had been placed to the side of the strange white building, and Dietrich realized that they had been clearing the broken trees from around it. Yet how could such a large building have been erected in the midst of the forest without a clearance to begin with?
He knelt beside the creature that Hilde comforted
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