THE DARK BRETHREN
by
Jeff Hartnett
Jeff Hartnett kindly allowed me to use the characters from his 1993 novella, The Dark Brethren, in the second book of the Doctor Shock Trilogy. He subsequently gave me permission to place his book, entire, on this website in 1997. If I can get his permission - in the intervening years I have, unfortunately, lost contact with Jeff - I will add The Dark Brethren to the Amazon publication project, either as a separate title, or as a preface or an appendix to Doctor Shock and the Dark Brethren. For now, here’s the first chapter of The Dark Brethren.
One
Death. The sodden, sweet smell of rotting corpses sucked the scent of primrose and forget-me-not from the air and gave weight and form to the invisible, a shifting miasma of bloated, black flies, which rippled and eddied as he quickened his step and hurried through the village. He knew not in whose train he now walked. He guessed the gang of some local baron let loose upon the innocents but whether they killed at the King’s behest or for sake of the Lady Mathilda he neither knew nor cared. Perhaps they acted for their own master, to ease some craving for lust, or greed, or vengeance for some imagined slight. Perhaps the great war which split this poor benighted country in twain was not the cause of this particular pocket of destruction. There were demons abroad in the land, the Anarchy had conjured them out of the darkness, loosed them to rage among the living, spreading fear and death.
His right foot touched something soft, sank into a hole in the ground, and the old monk stumbled slightly but regained his balance. Looking down he saw his foot alive with worms, stuck in the oozing belly of a baby. He saw its head. Its eyes black and shiny, weeping tears of slime. The slugs shifted in their new home and he whispered a prayer, “Requiescat in pace.”
“Enough of that Brother, save your gibberish for the living. They may still possess the faith to hope.”
The man had suddenly appeared in the doorway of one of the wattled huts. The old monk, startled at the sound, jumped back in alarm and instinctively reached for his scrip.
“Easy there, Brother, I mean you no harm. Leave your bag be, I am no thief. You may go on your way in peace, Brother, have no fear.”
The old monk gathered his wits and found his voice. He looked at the man. Full six feet tall he stood, dressed in rough leathers and hung about with belts and straps, each home to a dagger or a sword. At his feet was a mighty club, a stock of oak, studded with nails. His right hand rested lightly on the handle, his left was entwined in the long black hair of a young girl.
“Are you alone responsible for all this?” murmured the monk.
“Who else is here?” answered the bold warrior.
“Why?”
“On my master’s order, to root out all dissent in his manor, to find rebels and outlaws, to administer his justice and send them all to Hell.”
“You do not possess the power to determine their ultimate destination.”
“Maybe not, Brother but I do not have the time to indulge in theological discourse. I have tarried too long here but this wench delayed me, offering me her sweet favours. After all I am but a man and I was intoxicated by the pleasant perfume that wafts around this place. Now I must be on my way. A pity you were so late arriving. If there were still life in this,” he threw the girl’s body at the feet of the old monk, “then you could have preceded me and spread news of my coming, prepared them for their deaths or roused them to put more effort in their fight. The sport would then be improved, but too late for that now. You must follow in my wake, muttering your ‘requiescats’ for only the carrion to hear.” He picked up his club and stepped over the threshold.
The monk looked down at the young girl, her naked body a bruised and bloody wreck. He thought for a brief moment then reached into his bag and felt for the salt. Taking a pinch, he scattered it over the dead baby.
As the warrior prepared to leave he caught the old monk staring at the girl. “Don’t be ashamed Brother, relieve yourself in her, she’s still a fine-looking piece of flesh whether her heart beats or no. I’ll leave you to take your pleasure and wish you God speed on your journey.”
The old monk looked up then and spoke a few words.
‘More Latin,’ thought the warrior. ‘Praying for his soul. For what he is about to receive,’ and he laughed, a huge laugh as big as himself. But as he laughed he choked and then he coughed and spat, and out of his mouth flew maggots. Gobbets of squirming white worms dripped down his chin and fell on his mighty right hand. And he saw the skin on his hand begin to move, saw something under the skin, wriggling, running in patterns, raising bumps and pustules, stretching the skin tight until it burst and the white worms ate their way to the air. And as he watched his hand, he felt his whole body overcome with the same inner army of demons eating away his flesh from within, and he fell to the ground and writhed in agony, mimicking their grotesque manoeuvres. He felt them feasting on his heart, on his brain. They burst forth from his eyes, from his ears, his nose, his mouth.
The old monk watched him die, then taking holy oil from his scrip he anointed what remained of the body of the man. “Requiescat in pace,” he said, although he had doubts on that score. Then he began to bury the dead, beginning with the baby, whose body now was pure as the driven snow.
(THE DARK BRETHREN by Jeff Hartnett was first published in 1993 by Uproot Books Ltd.
1997 edition published by Inverted Tree Press, Milton, Stump, England. Copyright Jeff Hartnett 1993)
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