Bones of a Toad by Michael Minnis Martyrs, heroes, rebels—all willing to give everything they have to bring the change they so believe in. But is the price of freedom and revenge too steep when you deal with your very soul? A tale of hellish reprisal and rotting decay by Michael Minnis set in the 1300s.

His name was Thomas Cobb and we'd always regarded him as being something of a liar and a rogue. Even I, who was his closest friend, felt this way.

    He claimed to own one of Charlemagne's teeth. It had been given to him by Lord Jesus, from atop Stonecrop Hill.

    He was the son of a sorceress given to cavorting with the little folk. This was why he was always welcome to dance in their little meadow circles on May Eve and Halloween. But even cattle and sheep, dull they may be, are wiser than to enter a faerie ring.

    He knew the habits and doings of ogres and giants. One such brute, known as Jack-In-Irons, was said to be the terror of Essex until Thomas dealt with him. Old Jack was fond of his vittles, and invited Thomas to dine with him – with the intent of adding Thomas to the stew. Thomas asked for a taste first, to see if it was properly done. Jack-In-Irons agreed and handed him the huge iron ladle. Thomas thanked him and then cracked the ladle over the ogre's pate. From the brute he took an ear…but that was lost on another adventure.

    Oh, he was taller and stronger and more handsome than we – a mighty oak among young aspens. He compelled us to listen and laugh and marvel, even if we didn't believe most of what he said…

    But now Thomas Cobb is gone - forever, I believe. Where, no one knows.

    It is true Thomas fought Lord Godfrey's son Martin. But it was I who killed the young nobleman. He lies buried at the foot of Stonecrop Hill. There his bones will lie undisturbed…although I am sure one of Hell's circles waits to receive him.

    The nobility is outraged. It is not the place of peasants to slay their betters. Soldiers will come for us soon. The lamb shall not cross the lion.

    And like lambs, we cower, huddling together, and hope against fate that the lion will know mercy. But no one will speak of Thomas, or what he did to save us – they only make sign of the Cross when his name is mentioned. And so we are all condemned. We are all doomed.

    Thus, if no one else will speak, then it is my obligation to set matters right, even if doing so may end my life.

My name is Henry Carter. I took up arms with Thomas and many others in the uprising in June of the year 1381. It is only by the pardon of His Majesty Richard the II that I still walk the earth, and did not suffer the fate of men like Wat Tyler and John Ball.

    It was the third poll tax that started all this rot, setting commoner against lord and serf against knight. Three poll taxes in four years! Abominable. All to finance wars in far-away places few of us will ever see - Normandy and Flanders and Scotland.

    June of 1381.

    A terrible summer.

    It was hot. Hot as ash-buried coals, hazy as a half-remembered dream, the Sun high upon his cloudy throne, beating down upon our necks as we toiled in the fields. Eyes stung by sweat. Hands bleeding. Back a row of rotten teeth aching with pain. And likely as not Lord Godfrey Folkestone's son on horseback, watching us from a comfortable distance. Martin. Remote as an angel. Small silk canopies gave him shade. Often a young lass rode with him, slender arms clasped about the his waists like white ivy. Sweet as the promise of spring in the depths of winter. But don't look overlong! That was to invite the blow of a cudgel, or the kick of a spur.

    Silk and soft arms and the pride of youth! And what did we peasants have, as the priest John Ball has asked, but wind and rain in the fields?

    He liked not one of us, and especially disliked Thomas, who never took him seriously. This especially incensed Martin. An evil-tempered cur, was he: half-German, with a complexion the color of curd, long lank black hair, and a petulant thin-lipped scowl of a mouth. Red, red lips, however, the shade of fresh blood.

    Lips like a pimp, was what Cousin Joseph always said.

    "Greetings, oh fine knight!" Thomas would shout, doffing his hat, the mud of the fields up to his knees and elbows. Mud in his hair, Mud in his short blond bush of a beard. A man of mud, but still more handsome than Martin, who never failed to remind us that we weren't allowed to speak without leave. Thomas, then, never failed to feign admonishment, dropping his eyes, nodding like a scolded boy.

    But let Martin depart to hunt stag or practice against the quintains, and Thomas would curse him. Let no stag fall to his arrows. Let wind and rain be his companions, as they forever are ours.

    Like as not the skies darkened, clouds gathered, and home would come Godfrey's son, empty-handed, or soaked through and thoroughly annoyed. Or practice went wrong, and he would sport bruises or a limp the following day. Then we laughed, and found our plight a little less desperate than before.

    The trouble started near the end of May. We were in the fields. Spring – the time to plant beans and oats and barley, the time to break the soil and cast salt into the holes in hopes of bounty. Time, also, to speak of troubles.

    "What a waste these lords and knights are," I said to the others, "they sleep between silk sheets. They rise long after we've gone to work. They eat capons while we gnaw on potatoes. Then they foolishly set forth at the wrong time of year to conquer a land not one of us cares about!"

    "And after they've lost the campaign, they return and raise taxes again!" Cousin Joseph said. He swiped the sweat from his forehead. All of seventeen or eighteen winters old, and already toil had drawn lines in his face, like dry creek beds.

    "Ah…but to live like them." That was Badger. Not his real name, of course, but in appearance he somewhat resembled one, with his bristling whiskers and black eyes. He had fought with the Black Prince in Calais and nearly been killed in a hailstorm. His sons had died in later French campaigns, while his first wife had succumbed to a second bout of the Pest some twenty winters ago. He was much older than us, and revered the divine order of things.

    "Bah," Thomas said and spit, "I've lived more a life than the two of them put together. I wouldn't be so quick to wish for what they had."

    "Oh come now," Cousin Joseph, the eternal amused cynic, protested. "You mean to tell me you prefer being knee-deep in dirt and shit to that?"

    Cousin Joseph hooked his thumb in the direction of Folkestone Manor, perched atop the green swell of Knockmeal Hill. Tiny banners flapped atop the battlements of the main tower, which was something of a wonder in those parts. Nearly ninety feet it soared into the air. Four hundred men-at-arms could be housed and provisioned within.

    "Perhaps," Thomas said.

    Cousin Joseph shook his head. Thomas never ceased to baffle him.

    "Lady Folkestone," Badger said, his tired blue eyes alight with something like wonder, which was rare in him, "is said to keep a garden somewhere within those walls, where peacocks walk among violets and turtledoves sing in the trees."

    "Your head's like that tower, Badger," I said, "in the clouds."

    "Those hailstones, remember," Cousin Joseph, gently rapping his forehead with his fist.

    We turned earth with hoes for a time in silence.

    "She's much younger than Lord Folkestone, you know," I said.

    "She's from Saxony, I hear," Thomas added, "Marguerite de Saxe. Arranged marriage. She doesn't speak English too well. But imagine crossing the Channel only to find an old bag of bones like Folkestone on the other side. I'd forget what little English I knew, too."

    "I wonder how he's getting along fighting in Spain these days," Cousin Joseph said.

    "The farther away, the better," Thomas replied.

    The others laughed. Badger became annoyed. He'd always been a very serious fellow. Jokes were lost upon him. He likewise had the curious habit of ignoring where a conversation went, if he didn't like the direction.

    "Now laugh if you will. But I saw her once, you know – riding a white horse, accompanied by the lord of the manor and several knights, and her ladies-in-waiting, all with flowers in their hair, and singing virelays…"

    "Damned sight better than your Big Mary, I imagine," Cousin Joseph said. Big Mary was Badger's second wife.

    "I heard them singing, too," Thomas said.

    "You did?"

    "Yes. Ran all the way home. Thought the bloody Devil was on my heels, what with that racket."

    "Cats in a sack, is what they probably sounded like," I said.

    We laughed again. "To the Devil with all of you," Badger groused, and sourly returned to his work.

    "Speakin' of him…" Cousin Joseph muttered, and gave a nod in the direction of the road that wound up to Folkestone Manor. I shielded my eyes against the sun and looked. Several men on horses approached. Sunlight winked white off chain mail and spearheads. But one of the men was richly dressed, well turned out in a round beaver hat, black doublet and cloak, and rode with the languid air of a favored emperor.

    "Christ!" I said. "It's Coffin."

    "What? Him again?" Badger asked.

    "Well what more can we possibly give this year?" Cousin Joseph demanded of the situation and us. "They've already bled us dry. Now they want more?"

    His name was Charles Coffin. Title: Commissioner of Taxes, Essex County. He wore his position like a crown. A creature of comfort. In our hearts we knew his life was a slow, measured feast, of moving from one pleasure to the next, as stately and self-pleased as a swan, and we hated him for it. I'm sure he took note of us in the fields. Tax collectors with their swift meticulous fingers and watchful eyes miss nothing. To him, we were little more than black and brown birds, picking over the earth.

    Heralds trumpeted, announcing Coffin's arrival at the gates of Folkestone Manor. He was welcome wherever he went. No Lord would wish to offend him, even a choleric, ill-humored sort like Godfrey Folkestone.

    "I don't like the looks of this, lads," I said.

    It was the second time that month Charles Coffin had come to Folkestone Manor. There was trouble afoot. The poll tax had not brought in the revenue expected by Parliament. So now a new round of collection was underway. I suppose there was still some blood to be squeezed from little stones such as us.

    We gathered in the manor courtyard that evening to hear the news - a black-brown sea of upturned suspicious faces and crossed arms, plagued by heat, bothered by horseflies, the women as dirty and tired as the men. The air was still and tense. Hard-eyed armed guards kept watch. My wife Meg and my son Tobias were beside me.

    William Rohan, Lord Folkestone's bailiff, stood atop the granite stairs that led to the main tower. Once he had been a mighty warrior and expert bowman. Time and war had diminished him, left him wizened as an old tree. His sparse hair flew and fluttered about his scalp like cobwebs. Red prominent nose, drooping white mustache, quietly clouded eyes that slowly wandered over us, slow and solemn. He reminded me of a dotty old uncle who doesn't remember having so many nephews and nieces, and cannot quite place their faces or names.

    Not that one should be taken in by appearances. William Rohan would have eaten our eyes out like a raven to steal the light of the sun from us, if he could. He lived to better the lives of his superiors, make those beneath him more wretched, and in the meantime secure his share.

    Should we drive our herds to pasture, he made us cross Lord Folkestone's demesne rather than our own, so that his fields were made fertile by dung while ours withered.

    Should winter blow cold and our fingers turn red and raw, we cut wood first for Lord Folkestone, and then made do with what scraps and twigs were left.

    He charged peasants with the pettiest of crimes, and then demanded payment to rescind his accusation.

    With William Rohan, everything but your breath came with a price, and he was there to collect it, be it grain, a goat, a hen, or the few coins in your pouch.

    He knew we hated him. That was why he kept his hand firmly on the pommel of his sword.

    To one side of him was petulant Martin. Slightly behind them, but nevertheless a presence we could not ignore, was Charles Coffin. His goatee face was carefully neutral, but still sinister and satisfied, like that of a cat that has cornered more than its share of mice.

    An angry mutter of conversation was in the air. Rohan called for silence. Charles Coffin was to speak.

    In a voice commanding, but not loud, Coffin told us what to expect. There was war in Spain and Scotland. Our countrymen were fighting bravely against King Richard's enemies. We were bound by "duty and servitude and God's will" to speed His Majesty's victory.

    (At this many eyes rolled and several sighs were heard. We had heard this all before, in one form or another. The guards gripped tighter their weapons. Martin glared at all assembled, but Coffin seemed lost in thought.)

    God had called forth those who were fit for battle, Coffin declared. They did not question Him. Soon, Folkestone's own son would go forth to fight the Scots, or the French, or the Spaniards – but he would go, all the same. And we, who remained behind, must do all we could to aid him.

    Then Rohan stepped forward.

    In this past month, there had been resistance, he said, and let the word hang in the air like a man upon the gibbet. It was very quiet now. All listened intently. There had been attempts to bribe tax collectors into falsifying records and underreporting the number of taxable hearths.

    "As if we have anything to bribe them with," Cousin Joseph muttered.

    Rohan raised an infirm fist and shook it. God would allow no victory without sacrifice! We must not interfere with His designs or those of His Majesty! To not pay the poll tax was an act of treason against Lord Folkestone, the King and God Himself!

    We must pay the poll tax!

    Angry muttering swelled within the crowd. Protests strove to be heard. Rohan called for silence, but a young, raw-voiced heavy-set woman – Badger's wife, Big Mary - shouted him down. A small girl clung to her skirts. The woman's face and forearms were very red, her eyebrows insubstantial, making her look as if she had been scalded.

   "We have nothing left to give!" she cried. "Don't you understand that? There's nothing left! You take and you take until there's nothing left!"

    Rohan could not get a word in, no matter how he tried. Poetry failed him. Eloquence took flight in the face of such invective. His dull, placid face became as dark as Big Mary's own.

    "We work and toil and sweat and die, and all you talk of is patience and obedience and our duty to you! To the King To the Church! To-"

    "Shut up, you bloody cow!" he shouted

    Big Mary's face reddened even further. Badger pulled their daughter back, away from her, and the little girl wailed. Big Mary lumbered toward an incredulous Rohan. We parted quickly; Big Mary could part a square of Swiss pikemen if she set her mind to it.

    "Call me a bloody cow, will you, you withered old knock-kneed-"

    One of the guards, a reedy lad in armor and helmet too big for him, stepped between Big Mary and Rohan. He leveled the point of his spear at her face.

    "Get back!" the guard said.

    With astonishing speed Big Mary grabbed hold of the spear instead, pushed and pulled, twisted it this way and that. The young guard held on desperately.

    "Get that God damned thing away from me!" Big Mary snarled, and tossed her opponent aside as easily as a bull throws a wolf through the air. Indeed, the guard went sprawling into the dust with a grunt, losing his helmet. We erupted in laughter and cheers. The other guards were at a loss, not knowing what to do. Spear in hand, Big Mary climbed the steps.

    "Mary! No!" Badger cried.

    "Put the spear down, for God's sake!" Thomas yelled.

    Cruelty followed. Big Mary, spear in one hand, was atop the stairs. The crowd was a din of shouting and yells, half urging her on, half pleading for her to stop. Those at the front surged desperately against the guards, who grimaced and dug in their heels. Rohan, thunderstruck at this upset of his carefully ministered world, could only point at us and shout at her: Get back! Get back or you'll swing for this! Edward and Martin had drawn their swords. Coffin, never a courageous man, slowly backed away.

    Rohan went for his sword, but something was wrong. The blade was stuck in its scabbard. Big Mary brought the short spear back two-handed, like a great club, and Rohan, still struggling with his own weapon, twisted low to avoid the blow. Instead it caught him across the back, the sharp head of spear cutting into his ear and temple. The bailiff fell to his hands and knees with a cry of pain. The crowd roared its approval.

    "I'll show you how to bleed!" Big Mary shouted.

    But it was she who was to bleed, and not William Rohan. Big Mary brought the spear up, intent on breaking it over Rohan's head. Martin stepped between them and with one practiced, deadly motion, brought his own blade down on her shoulder. Bone splintered with a horrible wet crack, blood sprayed in a red arc. The little girl shrieked. Badger howled and clawed at his face.

    Big Mary died with neither sound nor grace, bleeding prodigiously. She collapsed and Martin set his foot to her hip, and rolled her back down the stairs. She struck the ground like a sack of meal.

    He followed in her wake, blade drawn, at the ready. A feverish light was in his eyes. His tongue touched his improbably red lips.

    "Bastard!" Badger roared, and came at him. A guard knocked him down into the dirt with his spear shaft. The little girl shrieked on and on.

    Now it was the turn of the rest of us. We hurled insults at Martin, at Coffin as he helped Rohan to his feet. We damned them to Hell. Several men wrestled with the guards, trying to take their spears. Women wailed, children cried, stones flew through the air like improbable birds.

    "A peasant struck a nobleman!" Martin shouted. "A peasant struck a nobleman!"

    "Murderer!" came the reply. "Murderer! Blackguard! Scoundrel!"

    Dust rose in the air, and with it confusion and madness. Above the din came the clear, penetrating blast of a horn. From atop the looming tower came a horn blast in reply. Figures above moved among the battlements in well-drilled precision. A voice bellowed out unintelligible commands.

    "Father! Look!" Tobias exclaimed.

    What I saw made my heart falter, and I herded my wife and son away. "Let's get out of here. Quickly."

    "Archers!" someone cried. "Ware! Archers!"

    "God save us!"

    Arrows fell among us. One whickered past my arm to stick quivering into the ground beside me. A fellow behind me, Robert Billingsley, was struck in the chest, the shaft burying itself up to the feathers. I threw my arms over my wife and son – what cover I hoped to provide, I am not certain – and we ran half-blind through the terrified, screaming, milling crowd, which broke in all directions. A second volley rained down upon us, deadly as thunderbolts from heaven. The guards, their resolve stiffened, advanced with their spears leveled.

    I saw a young boy shot through the back, squirming in the dust.

    I saw Badger killed by a guard, who drove his spear into Badger's belly, and then savagely kicked the body off.

    Away and across the fields we ran. A few arrows passed over our heads – cold-blooded reminders that we should be on our way. Soon we tired, stumbled back to our homes, passing through the fields like ghosts before the dawn. I remember us weeping for Badger – Cousin Joseph; my wife, demanding to know how they could do such a thing. I was crying silently, too, my eyes blurred by tears, so that the world ran and bled as Big Mary had, struck down by Martin.

    I do not know how many were killed. Perhaps as many as fifteen or twenty were cut down. Perhaps as many were thrown into the dungeon as a reminder to the other. All to preserve the order of things. But it was disorder that reigned that day, and horror for many to follow.

Thomas came to me that very night. In one hand he bore a covered lantern, which threw a muted glow. In his belt were tucked a small hammer, and an empty pouch. It was well after midnight, and the moon was low and silver in the black sky.

    "What are you doing here?" I asked, rubbing at my eyes. My sleep had been fitful. Terrible visions had pressed upon me, and who knows how long I had lay staring at the hearth and its smoldering, winking wood chips, the room redolent of smoke.

    "Come," he replied, "we have business." He took me gently by the wrist.

    "Business? Where? And what are you talking about?"

    He put a finger to his lips. "Not so loud! Now come along, or I'll go myself."

    I hesitated, chewed my lower lip, and then went back inside to dress. I returned to the door, struggling into my shoes.

    "Don't you know it's dangerous to be abroad at night like this?" I asked.

    "Well, it can't be anymore dangerous than what happened today," he replied. "Come on, then."

    He began to walk away. I followed.

    "Where are we going?"

    "To Stonecrop Hill. The cemetery"

    "The cemetery? Good God, what for?"

    "You'll know when we get there. Now be quiet."

    Stonecrop Hill and the cemetery Thomas spoke of lie deep within the nameless woods bordering Folkestone's land. The trees there are ancient, thick-limbed, scored by age and shaggy with moss. Many are dead and broken. Damp leaves and acorns lie thick on the ground, mast for the feeding of pigs, which is what we do by day, among the oak and aspen, fir and birch, and great banks of ferns and bracken. From there the ground slowly rises and the trees lessen until one reaches the top of Stonecrop Hill, where little grows besides thistles and wood parsley and sage, of course, stonecrop. The more venturesome womenfolk occasionally go there to pick herbs. Thomas has walked there before, but more often it stands alone, windswept and empty.

    There is an old, old cemetery at the crown of Stonecrop Hill, older by far than Folkestone Manor and the surrounding villages. The headstones are clustered about a great, dead oak, whose limbs are as thick as the trunks of smaller trees. My father once told me that it and the cemetery were here before the First Crusade and William the Conqueror, perhaps even before the Vikings themselves. No one had been buried there for generations. It was said to be cursed ground. Haunted. By day it is safe enough, but by night…

    We entered the woods by an old path, Thomas ahead of me, lantern in hand. Leaves stood in massed black relief against the sky, touched at the edges by the moon. Here and there its bluish light pierced the canopy above to strike the ground below. Darkness made the trees ominous shapes. They pressed close to the path, and eagerly squeaked and squealed and tapped against each other in the wind.

    I am not a brave man. Mischief and merry-making are one thing; venturing into the realms of the dead something else entirely. I kept close to Thomas all the while, startling when I heard the mournful call of an owl from further within the woods. An ill omen. Who knows who many spirits were abroad, how many foul things followed in our wake? I whispered a White Paternoster to myself. Last autumn's leaves scraped along the path before us, a mocking invitation to follow.

    The ground rose. We had begun the ascent of Stonecrop Hill.

    "Why the cemetery?" I asked again.

    There was a significant pause, and Thomas replied, "Because no one goes there."

    "Are me meeting someone there?"

    "…yes, and no."

    We stepped carefully over a small, fallen tree. In the sky, the moon followed, marking our progress. Night insects and tiny frogs sang unseen in the underbrush – a pleasant enough sound to hear safe in bed and behind walls, but out here, it made my skin creep.

    Something small and black swooped overheard. I cried out and covered my head, my heart hammering. It disappeared as quickly as it had come.

    "Bat," Thomas said. "No harm done." In the thin light of the lantern he looked drawn and pale. We continued on our way.

    "Who are we meeting, then?"

    "I can't say."

    "Why not?"

    He ignored me. I swallowed and asked, "What if we see a ghost?"

    "Don't say anything to it."

    "But what if it speaks to us?"

    "Just be quiet, will you?"

    It was odd – disturbing in fact – to see Thomas behave so furtively. But I wasn't about to go back alone through those woods. Not at night. So I doggedly followed him up the slope. The trees began to fall away, and cast long angled black shadows in the moonlight.

    "Have you ever been here before?" Thomas asked.

    "What, the cemetery?"

    "Yes."

    "Once. Years ago, when I was a boy, during the day. With others. We dared each other to walk across the graves. But never at night."

    Thomas nodded. "It isn't a place fit for man nor beast after sunset, I'll grant you that.

    "We're almost there, by the way."

    "How did it come to be cursed?"

    Again, Thomas was not quick to reply. "Black magic, from what I understand. Witchcraft, perhaps…watch that root there…I've heard many different things. Seems everyone is an expert on it, in one way or another."

    The slope began to gently level off as we neared the summit. Then – there they were, pale slabs of stone faintly luminous in the dark. Cracked stone crosses and leaning markers and cairns and mossy stones set into the earth. The grass had grown tall and rank. And in the midst of it all, the oak tree, dead, its massive limbs grasping at the sky, its roots having already toppled and broken several headstones – a hoary many-fingered hand intent upon its own. The lantern cast sickly yellowish light over the scene, an unsteady radiance that awakened looming shadows.

    I fancied that I could see faces in the knotted trunk of the oak – faces leering, faces gleeful, dead faces shifting and swaying. Tricks, I told myself. Moonlight and darkness, nothing more. Courage, Henry.

    "Come on, then," Thomas said. "There's work to be done."

    He led me to the oak tree. Tiny moths fluttered about his lantern. Something was attached to the trunk. At first I thought it a withered gourd of some sort, but realized it was a dead toad, driven into the bark by a nail through its belly. The fat body had sunk in upon itself. The limbs were stiff and dry as twigs. The eyes were gone, having collapsed into the head. The lipless mouth was set in a death-scowl. Thomas touched it, experimentally. The toad was as brittle as a dead leaf, little more than skin and bones.

    "What's the meaning of this?" I asked, full of suspicion. Toads are evil creatures. Agents of the Devil are better left alone.

    "You'll know soon enough," Thomas replied. With the claw of the hammer he pried the diminutive corpse loose. With a small knife he carefully cut into it, scraping the dry dead flesh from the delicate bones. The bones Thomas placed into the pouch on his belt.

    "Did you put it here?"

    "I did."

    Thomas tied the pouch shut. The hammer went back into his belt.

    "Here. You take the lantern."

    "Are we going back now?"

    He regarded me with patient sympathy. "We will. Soon. But we're not done yet."

    "Not done yet?" I repeated, my voice faltering.

    He pushed his way through the thick grass like a cow going to drink. "No. Come. The stream's at the bottom of the hill."

    Exasperated, uncertain, fearful, I followed him. The dim glow of the lantern was scant comfort in that graveyard and I took pains not to step upon the graves. Many had sunken in upon themselves like toothless mouths, their headstones at curious angles. As we walked, the markers became fewer and fewer. We began to descend again, and the gnarled mossy trees rose to receive us.

    I had a curious, uneasy sense of pursuit, that soft footsteps dogged our own. Whatever guarded that unholy place had taken note of us.

    Steeling myself to turn and look, I saw no one. Nothing.

    "This is madness," I muttered, and hurried after Thomas.

    The creak and trill of night frogs grew louder and louder. I glanced above me, and saw the faint glittering cold dust of stars, the dead impassive face of the moon. Here the path was overgrown. Creepers and unseen branches clutched at my sleeves and cloak. Twice my face was struck a stinging blow.

    Thomas was a tireless shadow before me. I could hear the stream now, a muted, secretive chuckle of water that echoed through the trees. And I could smell it, too – the vague fishiness of mud and wet stone and moss. Last, there it was, glinting in the moonlight like the scales of a fish.

    Bramble and nettles and scrub grew thick along the banks of the stream, so that we were forced to follow it for some time until Thomas found a break in the undergrowth. He removed the pouch of toad bones from his belt, emptied it into his hand.

    "Henry, come here," he whispered, as if he might be overheard.

    I crouched beside him on the stream bank. Small rounded stones marched away from us into the gurgling water, into the darkness.

    "Now listen," he whispered. "Whatever happens tonight, you must tell no one. Understood?"

    I nodded.

    He grasped my arm, suddenly, tightly.

    "Do you swear it?"

    "Yes, I swear it. By God, I swear it."

    He offered me a strange, disquieting smile and patted my shoulder. "You're a good fellow, Henry. There's not many like you these days.

    "Here…shine the lantern on the water.

    "Now watch. And be quiet."

    Thomas rose, and threw the handful of toad bones into the water. Almost immediately, the pitiful remains were carried downstream, bumping along the smooth stones and gravel, the watercress and trailing crowfoot. They quickly disappeared from sight.

    But one of the bones did not follow the others. To my astonishment, the toad's skull was instead drifting upstream. I gasped and rubbed my eyes. The little skull worked its ghostly way against the current, over and around stones, through the black water moss. And then, it, too, was lost to the shadows, returning perhaps to the stream's headwaters, to the deep places of the earth.

    "How is it-"

    "Shhh!" Thomas whispered. "Now cover the lantern, and brace yourself."

    "But-"

    Thomas clapped his hand over my mouth.

    For long moments we waited. Then I heard it – a long, trailing, inhuman shriek from farther upstream, where the toad's skull had gone. Higher and higher it rose, a high-pitched hysterical gobbling scream that ended on a glassy, piercing note.

    I could feel Thomas' hand trembling. I was shaking myself. There was no need to keep my mouth clamped shut – all I could produce was a dry, airless whistle of terror. Better that he had placed it over my heart, to keep it from bursting forth, it hammered so.

    It was deadly silent, but for the hushed trickle and rush of water. Somewhere in the shadowed bramble a cricket stirred, and then another. The frogs tentatively resumed their eerie chorus. The wind sighed in the leaves, and the pitiless stars remained in their dark courses.

    Finally I found my voice – a croaking thing I hardly recognized.

    "What in God's name-"

    "I don't know," Thomas whispered. His eyes were wide, luminous, and badly frightened, but his tone was steady enough. We might have been conversing in the fields below Knockmeal Hill. "But we'd best be getting back now. We're done here."

    "But what about that - that thing we heard?"

    "It's best not to ask, Henry. Now be quiet. Voices carry, here."

    My heart lurched upon hearing that: voices carry, here. God only knew what might be listening to us, watching us, waiting…

Our task was not over yet, as I had hoped. Not by far. Lantern in hand, heart fluttering like a trapped bird in my throat, I followed Thomas back up Stonecrop Hill. At every other footstep I glanced over my shoulder, certain something followed – hollow-eyed tormented spirit; staggering skeleton clad in winding shroud; werewolf; serpent. Perhaps the toad bones rolling and creeping after us. But there were only gaunt shadows and silent trees and moonlight and darkness…and this was somehow worst of all.

    Below, the black stream muttered to itself, and its furtive voice grew ever more faint. Soon all we heard were the wind and night sounds, the dull tread of our feet.

    Soon we were back among the stained stones of the cemetery. The grass and tangled vines seemed to clutch at my feet, and there was a subtle but rank smell in the air I had not noticed before. Without warning Thomas halted.

    "Look!" he whispered pointing toward the great dead oak.

    Fearful of what he had seen, I reluctantly raised the lantern, and groaned at what the wan light revealed.

    A still shape stood upon one of the lower boughs. It was taller than a man, but resembled one in only the vaguest of particulars. A grayish, tattered, hole-pocked robe and cowl hid its face and much of its form. It was hunchbacked – terribly so – it shoulders concealed beneath a short glittering black mantle. There were no hands to be seen. The arms of the thing were bound tightly within its robe. But the wind-plucked garment did not cover its thin sore-ridden legs, which were long and loosely wrapped in the rotting, stained bandages of a leper.

    The feet were those of a demon or dragon. Three long greenish toes tipped with hooked claws sunk deep into the bough.

    A faint but unmistakable sound came from the shape – buzzing. With horror I realized that the black mantle was moving. It was alive, a thick mass of clinging flies. They crawled slowly over the thing's robes, its diseased legs. A few flew in and out of the hood – blue and green and black flies.

    I could not speak. I could not move. How long I would have stood there rooted in horror, I do not know, if it hadn't spoken at last.

    Its voice was hollow, sepulchral, disembodied, and resonant, seeming to well up from a deep, deep shaft. I shuddered to hear such a thing.

    "Are you the one called Thomas Cobb?" it asked.

    "I am," Thomas answered.

    "Then you will come hither."

    A second voice spoke then, much softer than the first, hardly more than a whisper. But it came from behind us, and that made it even more fearsome.

    "Come closer, pretty things."

    I whirled about in fright, convinced that something horrible had crept up from behind. The cemetery was empty. Grass swayed in the wind. The stones maintained their eternal vigil.

    Thomas did as the thing commanded, but I grasped him by the shoulder.

    "Henry…let me go," he said firmly.

    "Are you mad?" I hissed. "That's the Adversary!"

    Henry pulled away from me and continued on toward the waiting shape. Summoning what little courage that remained me, I let fly with a challenge.

    "In God's name, what are you?"

    "My name is Lemure," the cloaked shape replied.

    "One of the Thousand Forms of the Crawling Chaos," the softer voice said – again, from behind.

    "This council does not concern you, Henry Carpenter."

    "It shouldn't come between us, pretty thing," the soft voice threatened, "or it will suffer."

    "He came with me," Thomas said.

    "Then both you, come hither," the resonant voice commanded.

    Trembling, I followed Thomas. My throat was tight and dry with fear. The thing – Lemure – seemed to take no notice of us. It was as unmoving as one of the many stones about it.

    "Why do you wish a council with me?"

    "Speak, pretty things. We will not wait long for their reply."

    "I come here," Thomas said, "to divine the future, to seek advice, to know what is coming. It is said that you know these things, and with proper ceremony and sacrifice, you will reveal them."

    "It wishes to know, it does," whispered the soft voice.

    "Thomas Cobb," the resonant voice replied, "hardly a day passes that man does not wish knowledge of what is yet to be. Priests look to the heavens. Scholars seek answers in the past. Prophets peer into the future. It is all for naught, for it is not for them to know."

    "Naught, not, naught, not, they will never know," the second voice said.

    "No," Thomas replied, beard bristling. "We will know. I have cast bones into the water, as you desire. And one drifted upstream, back to the dark places of the earth where waters are born. Where you dwell, Lemure, sightless, unseen, and rotting of flesh."

    "Sightless we are, yes," the soft voice agreed. One of the clawed feet plucked at a bandaged leg.

    "It rots and runs, it rots and runs…"

    Flies rose in agitation, and settled again.

    "What do you wish to know then, Thomas Cobb?" the first voice asked.

    "I wish…I wish to know what will become of us in the days ahead. Terrible things have already happened. A good friend of mine lies dead among others. With him lies his wife, at the hands of the nobility. We are sick of them and their crimes. We wish to be done with them – with their taxes, their wars, their laws – everything!"

    "And you came to me seeking answers?"

    "Yes…"

    "It is not my place to right wrongs, Thomas Cobb. Nor is it my place to tell Man what he must do. I am here only to offer advice. I am here only to give prophecy. Both are dangerous gifts. And it is even more dangerous to request my blessing of me. You are well aware of this, aren't you?"

    A few flies had begun to circle us. I watched the little beasts warily.

    "Yes."

    "It knows, it does…"

    "Very well, then.

    "You will rise against your masters, in numbers unimagined. There will be war. Lord Folkestone shall pay for his folly, as will his son and many others. Cruelty will be matched by cruelty. And, for a time, you will be done with them, and you will rejoice. But a young man will eventually be your undoing. He will unravel your dreams. He will come like frost in spring."

   Martin, I thought. Of course. He'll have a hand in this, somehow.

    "I will stop him," Thomas said. "I must stop him."

    "How, Thomas?" the resonant voice patiently asked. "You are but a simple man, and soon dust. Kingdoms endure."

    To my mute surprise, Thomas stepped forward.

    "Then you will help me. Your curse will be as a blessing to me."

    "Curses, curses, all are cursed," the soft voice hissed.

    Thomas bowed his head. The thing reached forth with a single yellow talon, and drew it slowly, delicately down the length of his face, from forehead to chin.

    "As I am, so shall you be," the first voice said.

    "As you are, so shall I be," Thomas said.

    Thomas stepped away. He was shaking badly. With his hand he traced the path of Lemure's claw. A fly or two settled upon his face. He did not seem to notice them.

    "W-what is to become of us, then?" I asked.

    "It frets, it does, it wants to know…"

    "One shall depart," the resonant voice intoned. "One shall die. One shall remain, and of Three, one I shall claim.

    "Now go. Swiftly."

    "Hurry, pretty things. The flies, the flies…"

    As one the flies rose in a cloudy mass, and came toward us. We swatted at them, but they eluded our blows and settled upon us. Up our sleeves, dancing before our eyes, into our nostrils and mouths they swarmed, until finally Thomas and I fled into the night. The soft voice laughed, louder and louder, and its laughter became shrill screams.

 What Lemure revealed soon proved true. There was rebellion in Kent, and then in Essex that June. The Peasants' Revolt had begun. Forth came peasants armed with clubs and scythes, pitchforks and wood axes, whatever could be pressed into service. Manors and monasteries alike were put to the torch. Any servant of His Majesty unlucky enough to fall into their hands, be he Chief Justice or a lowly tax clerk, was given a terrible choice. He could join the rebels, or die. Some, like Charles Coffin, were merely killed, their heads mounted on poles to be carried at the head of the peasant army.

    We knew of a column of Essex rebels a day or so before they arrived at Folkestone Manor – the dust of their march rose high into the air, over the trees, like smoke. Martin and Rohan considered their position, the fact that they had only twenty or thirty men-at-arms, and they hastily gathered as much of their family belongings as they could into several heavy wagons. They fled in the night. Dawn arrived to find Folkestone Manor deserted but for the rooks that inhabited the main tower, and the rebels but an hour's march away.

    The rebels arrived, perhaps a thousand or so strong, and thus began the sack of Folkestone Manor. It lasted the better part of the day. Martin and Rohan had taken much, though we did find several casks of good wine in the cellar, and later amused ourselves hurling stones through stained glass windows and setting fire to the tapestries. The rebels filled the peacocks and turtledoves full of arrows.

    The rebels implored us to join them, to march on London and demand justice of His Majesty. Every man was needed. Their leader, a huge bearded fellow in a chain jerkin, was especially emphatic. His face was florid, his nose broken in some long gone contest, and a silver ring was in each ear. I took him to be a blacksmith or maker of armor. He gestured a great deal with a large hammer, and spoke of smashing things: iniquitous clergymen, attorneys, game wardens, tax-collectors, any and all servants of the King! Cheers and uproar never failed to greet his bloody-minded words.

    In the end, many of our men went with the rebels, among them Thomas, who looked somewhat wan despite his enthusiasm, and Cousin Joseph.

    I, however, was to remain with a handful of men, to guard the manor. Brigands were about, and it would be just like the French to take advantage of the situation and raid the English coast, which is not far from us.

    I feigned disappointment, but in truth, I was rather relieved – I dreaded the idea of coming face to face with Death, of squaring off with a knight armed with no more than a cudgel or pitchfork. Say what you will of the corruption and largesse of the nobility, but remember: many of them are formidable fighters.

    And so Thomas went forth to fight, and I took up guard and waited. It was lonely work. When I was not on watch I was in the fields, and when I was not in the fields, I was on watch. Neither brigands nor the hated French appeared. The days grew hot, the sun a flaring hammer, and no news of the rebellion.

    Once I wandered the garden of Lady Marguerite de Saxe, lately Folkestone. The flowers lay dead and trampled, the fountains and delicate statuary smashed to pieces, the slender trees slashed and cut down. Were once there had been the scent of violet and rose now was the stink of carrion.

    Bemused and oddly saddened by what I saw, I was at first unaware of a low, ominous sound: that thrumming buzz, that collective mindless whine. Scattered among the dead flowers were small, black bundles crawling with frenzied movement – the dead peacocks and doves, now far into decay. Flies. Countless numbers of them. They darted through the air, tiny dark dots. More and more of them, they rose to greet me, to welcome me. They alighted upon my hands, my arms, my face, no matter how vigorously I brushed them way. Their buzzing filled my ears. Their buzzing filled the world.

Near the end of June Thomas Cobb and Cousin Joseph returned to Folkestone Manor. Cousin Joseph was footsore, weaponless, and bedraggled. Thomas was even worse – ill, his frame wasted, his eyes burning as with a fever, his hands and feet wrapped in bandages. He spoke little to us. His smile trembled like a leaf at the edge of autumn. Often he simply stared into empty air. When asked of his illness, he dismissed it as a passing thing acquired during the march on London from Canterbury.

    The March on London! Now there was news!

    We pressed them eagerly for information. They were reluctant to talk, at first. But eventually Cousin Joseph did speak, and though we thought it good news, he did not share in our joy.

    We did, however, pass round the wine – what little was left in Folkestone's cellar. I had perhaps more than is good for me, and declared that I should have gone forth with my cousin and my good friend. Drink affects me that way. I become loud and brave and perceptive. I am the shrewd expert on the human condition. Three mugs of ale and I am The Warrior-Poet. Six and I am under the table with the dogs.

    Cousin Joseph drank, and said that after several days of eating dust on the march and drinking from puddles, wine was a most welcome gift. Then he told us of what happened. Thomas remained quiet, occasionally nodding in support.

    The rebels, under Wat Tyler, had entered London. King Richard, like Lord Folkestone, had almost no men to spare, and many in London sympathized with the peasants' cause. Tyler's men seized the Tower of London, slew the Archbishop, the Chancellor, and a number of Flemish and other foreigners, and anyone deemed a traitor. But Tyler seemed mad with power, and ordered that there be burning, and destruction, and more killing.

    Young King Richard's hand was forced, and he rode forth with a small retinue to negotiate with Wat Tyler. A mere boy he was, Thomas noted, in purple robes, smiling and remote – like a false spring. Not a peasant would touch him. He granted whatever they requested, signed whatever was presented – all at his word, all at the stroke of a quill.

    What of Wat Tyler and John Ball? Both dead, was Cousin Joseph's reply. Ball was sent to the gallows. During negotiations with the King, Tyler was killed by one of Richard's men during a quarrel. It was said that Tyler had drawn a knife, and had been struck down with a sword. The rebels saw this, and there might have been a battle had not King Richard called for order. Then, while the parley was underway, armored knights thundered up and surrounded the rebel camp. None of the rebels, despite the brave talk of a few days before, were ready to face the flower of chivalry in its full might. Ordered to lay down their weapons, the rebels did, and they returned to their homes no longer lions, but meek lambs.

    I could not understand Cousin Joseph's gloom. King Richard had renounced virtually all the laws of hierarchy and villeinage. We were free men!

    Thomas spoke then, and his voice was ashes.

    "He is King, Henry. Above him there is only God. And since when does God listen to us?

    "Remember what was said. He will come like frost in spring."

    A terrible blasphemy…but sometimes I think it truer than I could ever admit. I recalled Lemure's words: one shall die, one shall remain, and of Three, one I shall claim…

    And I thought of flies.

    What was wrong with him? Cousin Joseph didn't know.

    I saw very little of Thomas afterward, as did anyone else. He remained within his home, and would let none call upon him.

    Before long, we began to fear him.

Martin's return to Folkestone Manor that June was cause for great consternation. Conspicuous was the absence of his mother, Marguerite, and Rohan. Whether they had succumbed to bandits, the elements, or Martin himself, none could say.

    With Martin came a curious and disreputable lot: black-toothed brigands who would murder one of their own for a shilling. A pair of fallen knights, arrogant and unkempt. Several of the household men-at-arms, now given to banditry, briar-scratched and unused to sleeping outside four walls. Most repellant were the camp followers: noisy black-nailed harridans with hair like crows' nests.

    In manner, he acted as of old, as if he had never been forced to flee in the night. He would have rode up to the very gates of the manor, and entered, had a village boy spotted him from the main tower.

    "Ware!" the boy shouted. "Foes approach!"

    Cousin Joseph and I guarded the gate. Each of us bore a stout oak cudgel. My heart faltered at the sight of Martin and his band. We were no match for them. But I issued a challenge, nonetheless.

    "Halt! Who goes there?"

    One of the men-at-arms replied, "The rightful ruler of Folkestone Manor, His Lord Martin Folkestone!"

    "Go back! We are free men here, and do not answer to murderers and thieves such as you!"

    Martin rode forward, and pointed at me. "You! The both of you! Get away from here! Get away or I'll have you shot dead where you stand!"

    "Folkestone Manor belongs to you no more!" I declared, hoping my bluff would last until help arrived. I glanced to the south, and saw figures coming from the fields. Neither Martin nor his band had noticed them yet.

    "We are our own men now! You have fallen into banditry! Go back to whatever hole you live in, Martin Folkestone!"

    One of the knights aimed a heavy crossbow at me. "Shall I shoot him now, my liege?"

    "Yes! Shoot him!" One of the camp followers cried gleefully.

    But Martin did not reply. His attention was elsewhere. Many men approached from the south. Peasants, armed with cudgels, scythes, pitchforks, whatever they could find. The Miller led them.

    "Be off with you, murderer!" the Miller said. "You're not wanted here!"

    "Kill him," Martin said calmly. The knight fired his crossbow, and the Miller fell with a bolt buried in his chest.

    But if Martin had expected us to run, he was wrong.

    "At them, lads!"

    It was the first battle I had ever been in, and God's blessing, I hope it is my last. Oh, the bloody curses and the shrieks and the shouts, the confusion and fury and pain!

    We took Martin's lot by surprise, at first, and had the advantage. Otherwise, we would have been cut to pieces. Cousin Joseph smashed the teeth of one brigand with his cudgel. I hit one of the men-at-arms a blow across the knees so hard it broke my club.

    "Ahh, you miserable bastard!" the man-at-arms screamed and collapsed, a bundle of agony. The Miller's tearful, enraged son drove a pitchfork through his side.

    Martin was quickly unhorsed: a cudgel blow broke the animal's nose, and blood sprayed in a brilliant mist. It reared, stumbled and fell, nearly killing him. The knights, belabored on all sides by furious peasants, hacked furiously and killed or wounded several of us. But hands knotted in their capes, clubs beat upon their armor, and down they went. Their horses shrieked in panic.

    Within moments it was finished. Both knights and half of Martin's band lay dead or dying. The others fled, chased by curses and stones.

    But Martin remained, bloodied and unbowed, back to the wall. A wary ring of peasants half-encircled him. Behind him was his inheritance – cold stone and empty promises. He had already cut down two men unwise enough to press him. Their blood gleamed on the blade of his sword.

    "Surrender now, Martin!" Cousin Joseph said. "While there's still time to talk!"

    "I didn't come here to parley with barnyard animals," Martin replied.

    He lunged forward, swinging wildly, and the ring broke. Men stumbled over one another in their haste to get away. He knocked away the rude weapons menacing him. He was utterly within his element. Lord Folkestone had trained his only son well. I don't doubt he might have made a fine soldier, had he not been the Devil's own.

    "Come on you, you dogs! Fight!"

    In his fury he saw Cousin Joseph and I. He came at us.

    "Fight, damn you!"

    He swung wildly, grunting with exertion. I stumbled backward, narrowly avoided having my entrails spilled. Then I stepped on something treacherous, and fell with a cry – the broken half of my cudgel.

    Martin filled the sky like an angel of vengeance, sword high. I cried out and hid my face from my fate.

    "Leave him in peace, Martin," a voice commanded.

    It was Thomas Cobb, or something akin to him.

He wore Thomas clothes' at least, though they were so stained and threadbare that none could guess at their true shade, unless it was that of rot and decay. For the smell clung thick to him, as thick as the flies that circled his bandage-wrapped face and hands.

    The bandages were old and stiff with grime. Holes had been cut for his eyes and mouth. He leaned heavily upon a crude crutch, his gait a hopping shuffle. Martin backed away from him. Death thus distracted, I scrambled to my feet.

    "We are done with you, Martin Folkestone," Martin said, and his voice that of a very old man.

    "Who are you?" Martin demanded. A few strands of his hair hung in his eyes.

    "I am Thomas Cobb. Once I was one of your servants. But no longer. I cast the bones. I belong to a greater power now. Much greater than yourself. Go now. Leave us in peace."

    "I will not be ordered-"

    Thomas thrust a shrouded finger in the young knight's face. "GO!"

    There, for a moment – and only a moment – it seemed that Martin would walk away. The mad light left his eyes, and he became a sullen boy again, beaten and humiliated. But, as all things were with him, it was but a ruse. He spun on his heel, and brought his sword down, and took Thomas' arm off at the elbow.

    I will never forget that single, terrible moment. It will follow me to the far corners of the earth. It will be beside me as I lie upon my deathbed.

    A collective sound erupted from all gathered, something between a moan and a scream. "God damn you, Martin Folkestone!," Cousin Joseph cried.

    Thomas made no sound at all, however. No. He glanced with little real concern upon the severed stump of his right arm. There was no blood, only dripping greenish putrefaction. The flies swarmed and hovered angrily. A horrid, spoiled stink filled the air.

    Martin gaped in horror. His red-lipped mouth worked, trembled. For once in his supremely assured, short life he lost all words.

    And when Thomas grasped for him, he lost his mind.

    Whether the crutch had been a ruse all along, or if Thomas' decaying body had drawn upon some last reserve of strength, I do not know. But forward he sprang, and with his remaining hand seized Martin by his face.

    "As I am," Thomas declared, "so shall you be."

    Martin tore loose with a cry, and dealt Thomas a terrible blow, a slashing stroke to the midsection. Indeed, Thomas was nearly cut in two, in a great gout of black and yellow liquefaction. The body tumbled to the earth. Both clothing and bandages collapsed into the spreading pool, which in turn was slowly absorbed by the dry soil.

    But it was Martin who held us in thrall. He dropped his sword and howled loud and long, his hands covering his face. When they came away, we saw that reddish-yellow fever blisters had already erupted upon his cheeks and forehead. Thin weeping fluid ran from them when they broke. His expression was a rictus of agony.

    The flies took to him as their new master, and thronged about him in countless numbers. They glittered like tiny dark jewels in the sunlight.

    Mad with pain, Martin turned and stumbled away, past the corpses of his fallen men. Cry after cry broke from him, and I winced at the awful sound, trapped somewhere between heaven and the indifferent earth.

    I do not know where he went. None dared follow. Someday his bleached bones will be found, deep within a forest, or at the bottom of a bramble-choked ravine, and no one will know him. No one will remember his name.

    Because I had seen such things before, I was the first to stir.

    Warily I approached Thomas' stinking corpse. I held my cloak over my nose. A few flies harried me, but having fed well, did not persist.

    With my broken cudgel, I prodded the remains. Lumpish spoiled entrails. Blackened tripe. Flesh so far gone into decay its original nature could only be guessed, pliable as rotten fruit. And bone, protruding from the mass like yellow teeth.

    The others gasped, crossed themselves, muttered prayers.

    My courage was fading rapidly. Sickened, numb with horror, I prodded at the loose filthy bandages covering the face. They gave away with wet, rotten ease. Beneath was terribly little, and tears came to my eyes to behold such a thing. The shreds of hair and flesh and sinew…the hollow cavity of the nose…the bare forehead and grinning row of teeth, set forever in wicked soundless glee.

    The empty staring sockets, so like those of the dead toad.

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Copyright © 1998 Michael Minnis. All Rights Reserved.