Following on from @HareBrain's hilarious caterwauling that nobody celebrates Christmas / St Swithin's Day / National Pecan Month* / X000th posts anymore, here I am with my 2000th post just to prove him wrong, the daft old rabbit.
This is the opening from my current WIP which I'm tentatively calling Satan In The Woods, but which I don't really like as a title. All comments, teeth and insulting guffaws at my ineptitude are wholly welcome. Except for those I don't approve of. You know who you are.
~
Chapter 1 - The Trial
“Who decides when a man should burn?”
The attendants of the trial considered my opening question to them, their whispered murmurs and shuffling of their clothing gently reverberating through the stone of this rustic old church. Rhetorical though they would know my question to be, I hoped it would give them pause to think. The Dominican Inquisitor, Nastagio di Balino, glowered at me, allowing me the courtesy of finishing my address.
“Is it our Lord God, the Almighty?” I continued, directly addressing the witnesses, three common, local men from this backwater north Italian village. As was to expected, without a satisfactory answer – or knowledge to provide an answer – they bowed their heads rather than dared to hold my gaze. I faced the persons accused of heresy and sorcery respectively and now standing trial, a man, Thomas, and a woman, Benessa of Cuorgné. I repeated the question for their benefit, attempting to translate it into their local, vulgar tongue, prompting some stifled mirth from the gallery.
“May God be our judge!” called Thomas, perhaps desperately hoping that this would somehow appease me. But it was not me who was to be appeased. The woman Benessa remained silent. Doubtless Nastagio would use her silence as a proof of her guilt weighing heavily on her soul. I knew it was out of fear that she would incriminate herself, and I silently thanked her for her discretion. Not all of the ill-educated have the forethought to keep quiet from damning themselves.
“No, my dear Thomas; in the secular court it is not God who is judge, but the esteemed gentleman sitting there, Judge Mavela, presiding over these grave matters, who decides whether or not somebody ought to burn. Therefore it behooves us to ensure that the insidiousness of wrongful condemnation does not taint the purity and solemnity of Earthly jurisdiction, and that the stink of heresy is not wrongfully applied, as I believe it has in this instance.” I approached Thomas, quivering in the dock, hands bound. He was a singularly grotesque individual, possessing a deep, overdeveloped forehead, a misshapen nose and squinting little eyes that seemed permanently creased into an unfortunate-looking sneer, as though he was leering at those around him, and the stench of unwashedness. Given that the Dominican, di Balino, was possessed of a stringent and zealous distortion, this cruel joke of nature upon one already sadly bereft of the wit to properly defend himself, was not a favourable combination for one accused of carrying the sin of heresy. “Signore Thomas, why is it that you refuse to denounce the accused, Benessa of Cuorgné?”
Thomas crumpled his brow in confusion, probably fearful that I too, despite being brought to defend him against these charges, was somehow trying to ensnare him into incriminating himself. I did not follow the question up, and instead turned to the plaintiff, a ragged-trousered tatterdemalion going by the name of Serge. He too was possessed of a grotesque countenance, but not in the same way as the male defendant Thomas. This man bore a strong sense of contempt for this court in his sneer, a grim apathy for the vitality of jurisdiction, and throughout the proceedings he glowered malevolently towards the accused, Jane. I looked at him for a moment longer than he would have liked, peering into him, and while he held my gaze with a scowl for a time, he could not resist looking away after a fashion. I turned to the regional judge presiding over the court, a thoughtful and reasonable secular man of apparent faint nobility, Raffaele Mavera, and gave him a knowing look.
“I’d like to call my first witness, Father Riche,” I said.
The Father, an elderly prebender under whom the local congregation was shepherded, was ushered into standing and swearing the Holy oath as requested by Judge Mavelo, and bent his ear towards me in anticipation of my line of questioning.
I leant in, taking this gesture as a sign of deafness in one ear. “How long has the plaintiff, Serge, been known to your community, Father Riche?”
He nodded assuredly, his whiskery jowls wobbling as he did so. “He first made an appearance at my congregation not one month prior to this very date.”
“Merely a month? And how long have Thomas and Benessa been part of your community?”
The old man nodded. “Indeed, for all their lives. I knew both their mothers and fathers.”
“And what would you say of their character?”
At that, Nastagio di Balino stood and reproached me with a triumphant look. “Dear judge, ought we not to disregard any testimony relating to the historical assessment of the accused’s character? We all bear the incorrigibility of the sinner; the Evil One acts to infect even the most devout of souls with his strains of depravity, and one cannot rely upon the historical fortitude of the accused, no matter how impeccable, when considering the corrupt nature of the crimes for which these people here stand.”
Judge Mavelo, sitting by the church altar, nodded. “Quite so. You may proceed, Brother Jacobus, without reliance upon the character history of the accused.”
I allowed Nastagio the slightest of wry smiles, before returning to my questioning of the priest. “Father, would you relate to those gathered here today the nature of your own dealings with the plaintiff, Serge?”
“As I said, he appeared at my congregation one month ago, beset by beggary and ill-fortune, and requested alms and food, which we provided him. It was a week into his stay with us, during which time he had attended mass twice and observed it in the matter of a good Catholic, when he approached me, asking for my confidence in a grievous matter.”
“Confidence?” I asked. “Do I infer that Serge requested the sacrament of confession?”
“No, Brother Jacobus. Though Serge was greatly distressed, and ashamed, as befitting one who might request that intimate audience, he edited not ask for absolution. He proceeded to tell me that since arriving at the village there had been those who had been cruel to him. He had proceeded to try to get to know Benessa, whom he considered to be kind, but when he approached her, she was repulsed by him, and touched him upon the hip, whereupon she made his male member disappear!”
There was chatter among those present in the public stalls at that moment: some snickered and stifled childish laughs, while others cried, “Witch!” and, “Sorceress!” and, “The Evil One is among us!” while others still cried, in lower voices, that Benessa was innocent. Judge Mavelo called for hush, and ordered me to proceed. Benessa, meanwhile, remained straight-faced throughout, a picture of dignity and restraint.
~
*It's a thing, honest.
This is the opening from my current WIP which I'm tentatively calling Satan In The Woods, but which I don't really like as a title. All comments, teeth and insulting guffaws at my ineptitude are wholly welcome. Except for those I don't approve of. You know who you are.
~
Chapter 1 - The Trial
“Who decides when a man should burn?”
The attendants of the trial considered my opening question to them, their whispered murmurs and shuffling of their clothing gently reverberating through the stone of this rustic old church. Rhetorical though they would know my question to be, I hoped it would give them pause to think. The Dominican Inquisitor, Nastagio di Balino, glowered at me, allowing me the courtesy of finishing my address.
“Is it our Lord God, the Almighty?” I continued, directly addressing the witnesses, three common, local men from this backwater north Italian village. As was to expected, without a satisfactory answer – or knowledge to provide an answer – they bowed their heads rather than dared to hold my gaze. I faced the persons accused of heresy and sorcery respectively and now standing trial, a man, Thomas, and a woman, Benessa of Cuorgné. I repeated the question for their benefit, attempting to translate it into their local, vulgar tongue, prompting some stifled mirth from the gallery.
“May God be our judge!” called Thomas, perhaps desperately hoping that this would somehow appease me. But it was not me who was to be appeased. The woman Benessa remained silent. Doubtless Nastagio would use her silence as a proof of her guilt weighing heavily on her soul. I knew it was out of fear that she would incriminate herself, and I silently thanked her for her discretion. Not all of the ill-educated have the forethought to keep quiet from damning themselves.
“No, my dear Thomas; in the secular court it is not God who is judge, but the esteemed gentleman sitting there, Judge Mavela, presiding over these grave matters, who decides whether or not somebody ought to burn. Therefore it behooves us to ensure that the insidiousness of wrongful condemnation does not taint the purity and solemnity of Earthly jurisdiction, and that the stink of heresy is not wrongfully applied, as I believe it has in this instance.” I approached Thomas, quivering in the dock, hands bound. He was a singularly grotesque individual, possessing a deep, overdeveloped forehead, a misshapen nose and squinting little eyes that seemed permanently creased into an unfortunate-looking sneer, as though he was leering at those around him, and the stench of unwashedness. Given that the Dominican, di Balino, was possessed of a stringent and zealous distortion, this cruel joke of nature upon one already sadly bereft of the wit to properly defend himself, was not a favourable combination for one accused of carrying the sin of heresy. “Signore Thomas, why is it that you refuse to denounce the accused, Benessa of Cuorgné?”
Thomas crumpled his brow in confusion, probably fearful that I too, despite being brought to defend him against these charges, was somehow trying to ensnare him into incriminating himself. I did not follow the question up, and instead turned to the plaintiff, a ragged-trousered tatterdemalion going by the name of Serge. He too was possessed of a grotesque countenance, but not in the same way as the male defendant Thomas. This man bore a strong sense of contempt for this court in his sneer, a grim apathy for the vitality of jurisdiction, and throughout the proceedings he glowered malevolently towards the accused, Jane. I looked at him for a moment longer than he would have liked, peering into him, and while he held my gaze with a scowl for a time, he could not resist looking away after a fashion. I turned to the regional judge presiding over the court, a thoughtful and reasonable secular man of apparent faint nobility, Raffaele Mavera, and gave him a knowing look.
“I’d like to call my first witness, Father Riche,” I said.
The Father, an elderly prebender under whom the local congregation was shepherded, was ushered into standing and swearing the Holy oath as requested by Judge Mavelo, and bent his ear towards me in anticipation of my line of questioning.
I leant in, taking this gesture as a sign of deafness in one ear. “How long has the plaintiff, Serge, been known to your community, Father Riche?”
He nodded assuredly, his whiskery jowls wobbling as he did so. “He first made an appearance at my congregation not one month prior to this very date.”
“Merely a month? And how long have Thomas and Benessa been part of your community?”
The old man nodded. “Indeed, for all their lives. I knew both their mothers and fathers.”
“And what would you say of their character?”
At that, Nastagio di Balino stood and reproached me with a triumphant look. “Dear judge, ought we not to disregard any testimony relating to the historical assessment of the accused’s character? We all bear the incorrigibility of the sinner; the Evil One acts to infect even the most devout of souls with his strains of depravity, and one cannot rely upon the historical fortitude of the accused, no matter how impeccable, when considering the corrupt nature of the crimes for which these people here stand.”
Judge Mavelo, sitting by the church altar, nodded. “Quite so. You may proceed, Brother Jacobus, without reliance upon the character history of the accused.”
I allowed Nastagio the slightest of wry smiles, before returning to my questioning of the priest. “Father, would you relate to those gathered here today the nature of your own dealings with the plaintiff, Serge?”
“As I said, he appeared at my congregation one month ago, beset by beggary and ill-fortune, and requested alms and food, which we provided him. It was a week into his stay with us, during which time he had attended mass twice and observed it in the matter of a good Catholic, when he approached me, asking for my confidence in a grievous matter.”
“Confidence?” I asked. “Do I infer that Serge requested the sacrament of confession?”
“No, Brother Jacobus. Though Serge was greatly distressed, and ashamed, as befitting one who might request that intimate audience, he edited not ask for absolution. He proceeded to tell me that since arriving at the village there had been those who had been cruel to him. He had proceeded to try to get to know Benessa, whom he considered to be kind, but when he approached her, she was repulsed by him, and touched him upon the hip, whereupon she made his male member disappear!”
There was chatter among those present in the public stalls at that moment: some snickered and stifled childish laughs, while others cried, “Witch!” and, “Sorceress!” and, “The Evil One is among us!” while others still cried, in lower voices, that Benessa was innocent. Judge Mavelo called for hush, and ordered me to proceed. Benessa, meanwhile, remained straight-faced throughout, a picture of dignity and restraint.
~
*It's a thing, honest.
