Bent back Brandt

With one last snort the loyal beast’s legs went out from under it. The farmhand sparing the oxen along leapt, just as one ton of meat and muscle collapsed where he had been standing. Blood poured from its nose as it let out its final rasping breaths.

“Pushed you too hard, didn’t I fella’.” Janeck said patting the skin between the animals two great horns.

It was already mid-March and there was still another field that needing tilling. That sickly old beast had been their last hope, ill as it was it could still do the work of ten men. Ever since the young ones had up and left for the promise of good labouring at the walled town, the village of Hinderton had lacked able farmhands. Two oxen had been enough till last month when one was found on its back, torn apart and devoured. Even the priest couldn’t say as to what kind of devil did it, the gouge marks left in its hide spoke of a creature twice the size of a man.

The other hands came running up, goodwives and washer women looked over from the river. They found Janeck sat on his arse leaning against the huge carcass, staring out at acers of hard soil.

“Keeled over just now,” he told the panicked farmhands. Halfway down the field, a small old man, left behind by the others limped closer. In his gnarled fingers he held two dead chickens tied on a rope by their necks.

“Looks like bent back Brandt has brought us all some lunch!” One of the hands joked. Janeck gave him a hollow chuckle. They sat and waited for the hunched over man to finally make it, Janeck had to admire the man’s determination, the pain in his back written on his face.

“Suppose you’re here to take his place?” Janeck said when bent back Brandt finally joined them, giving the ox a nudge with his boot. The old man smiled through a grimace. It wasn’t that Brandt was hated, with his age and that bad back of his he couldn’t labour any longer. That wasn’t the problem, his strange disappearances had the village talking especially since walking put him in agony. Rumour spread he was having an affair with a local herb woman, until a young girl pointed out that Hinderton had no herb woman. After that people’s talks took a more sinister twist.

“What ho’ lads?” Brandt said holding up the chickens.

“You leave me here with these now and come morning we’ll have ourselves freshly tilled soil.”

“What devilry is this you old fool?” One of the hands, Marcus asked.

Brandt shook his head before steadying himself.

“None of that, just take the plough off the oxen and leave it behind my house.” Brandt said.

He let the two chickens drop, hitting the soil with a wet thud whilst keeping hold of the other end of the rope.

“We’ll ‘ave to wash ‘em now.” One of the hand’s complained.

Brandt dragged the chickens like a dog on a lead, pulling the birds over the dark earth. Janeck watched him shuffle forward, he wondered what the local priest would think of this black magic.

“They’ll hang ‘im if he’s caught doing anything… unchristian like.” Marcus remarked.

“A hanging should straighten out his back at least.” Janeck said.

The other hands chuckled before setting off.

“Whoa lads. Give us a hand would yeh?” Janeck said.

“We’ve not the wood for a pyre Jan, can’t risk the meat.” Marcus replied.

He was right Janeck knew, the meat was tainted with whatever illness had afflicted the poor animal.

“Let’s get this plough over to old bent backs.”

“Not getting’ meself caught up in that.” Marcus said, crossing himself as he turned to leave with the other hands.

Janeck sat alone, watching the old man carefully drag along his pair of chickens, stopping occasionally to pull them round in a small circle before carrying on. Janeck didn’t know what he was going to tell the bailiff, leading the animal when it collapsed would earn him a night in the stocks. In these dire times it may even call for a branding, Mrs Janeck didn’t need to carry the shame of a branded husband around.

When the ox had fallen, it had toppled the plough but hadn’t damaged it. Luckily for Janeck it was light and unhooking the wooden harness gave him only a little difficulty. He lifted the three tilling blades and wheeled the cart across the field, not long after he began walking, he had caught up with Brandt.

The old man would walk a few paces, making sure the chickens didn’t snag before looking up at the dipping sun. He plucked a few feathers and scattered them.

“What you reckon?” Brandt asked when he noticed Janeck approach, “Five, six hours before nightfall?”

“I would say so,” Janeck agreed.

He wished he had something to offer the old man, but his throat was parched, he had begun ploughing at sunrise leaving his water skin behind. Brandt let out a groan, pressing his knuckles into his back.

“You doin’ the whole field?” Janeck asked.

Brandt nodded.

“Brandt, they don’t want you out here with all this carryin’ on. Nobody will come runnin’ when you collapse.”

Brandt stopped for a moment. Looking over his chickens, now almost featherless and caked with dirt.

“Jus’ make sure your boys are fertilizin’ tomorrow morning. Everyone need be sowing in a fortnigh’.”

Janeck reached down and picked up a dry, packed handful of dirt, running it through his fingers.

“Want me to strap them in the plough?” He nodded at the two chickens.

Brandt let out a hacking laugh that doubled him over, causing him to arch his back in pain. When he got under control, he clapped a hand on Janeck’s shoulder.

“My ploughman needs a guide is all. Leave it over there.” Brandt pointed at the end of the field with a shaking finger.

Janeck didn’t have the strength to talk the old man out of it, instead he left him to his strange business. If the father did approach him with accusations of black magic, he would tell him how it was. He moved the plough for the old man, went home and washed his hands of it.

The night was blessedly free of stars; the only light came from the moon, full and ripe. This was an excursion best done in complete darkness, but Brandt’s curse didn’t care for it. Waking only to feed on a night like tonight. He snuffed out his hearth fire and stepped outside giving his old dog a scratch on the head. He looked around for any signs of life, sometimes the lads would set up an archery butt, shooting way into the night. On this night the village could have been dead.

He had spotted the nights watchman, Mallard made his patrol about a half hour ago. He had at least an hour before he made another pass. Not that he would check the field. He stepped out from the shadow into the moonlight, his back streaked with agony, three stripes of white-hot iron searing the flesh. He clenched his hands and breathed in the cool night air, he was no stranger to this suffering.

“I’m… it’s master.” He told himself over again until the pain quieted. Regaining control, he made his way round the back of the hut. The plough was where Janeck had left it. He had expected it to have been taken or smashed to splinters. The village had begun to resent him more after his wife passed. Another useless mouth to feed. But they had bigger concerns than the strangeness of a bent back old man.

He pulled his tunic off over his head and kicked off his boots, leaving him completely naked. The wooden beam that held ox to cart was too heavy for Brandt to lift, a few years younger it would have been no challenge, he lamented. Instead, he tied the binding ropes around his waist and shoulders. The field seemed endless, spanning on it had the promise of nourishment, but his plan had to work first. He waited.

The change began internally, it never started painful but the dread it gave him was worse than any hell damnation. Being so close to humans the fear multiplied. His bones broke and extended, old curled up fingers grew into huge claws. His back snapped and creaked whilst pitch black fur coated his body. His screams stifled by his protruding jaw, as if his face was being crushed inside the hand of a giant. Mouth and nose extended into a snout. Needle sharp teeth ripped through his gums and a black sheen spilled out over his eyes, defining every aspect of the beast’s hunting grounds.

It threw back his head and howled at the moon. Brandt retreated deep into the wolf’s mind, to a distant place of reason it had no use for. Meat, cold but fresh assaulted the beast’s nostrils, it had to be found. The prey was close, through rotten vegetation and disturbed earthy sweetness. More distant prey, larger, fresher. Follow the scent.

With its probing nose to the ground, the hulking beast seemed little more than a black shadow. It moved across the field in slow lines, trying to decipher the chicken’s path. The beast’s hunger, so all-consuming the plough it dragged went unnoticed. All through the night it searched. Tracking the length of the field, sniffing and starving until amid the saturated scent of chicken its black eyes locked onto a festering carcass. It abandoned the chicken scent, instead it fell upon a new colossal feast, ripping and tearing its thick hide before devouring the ox’s steaming innards.

Brandt awoke with the sickly tang of blood and meat in his mouth. He had been relying on the rising sun to wake him early, but the beast had fallen asleep with its head inside the remains of the ox. Sticky, congealed blood had crusted round his eyes, he had to wipe them before they would open.

At least I aint wakin’ up in human innards. He thought.

It would have been easy for his plan to have gone awry; the wolf might have picked up the scent of a villager. He didn’t think that was likely though, he had spent near enough all day towing those chickens throughout the field, making sure the beast would move slow and stealthy unsure of how close the prey was.

He braced his arms against the ox’s rib cage. Careful not to slip he pulled himself to his feet, his back letting him know he would pay dearly for his involuntary midnight excursion. Something pulled at his back, panic sprang up in him till he remembered he was still tied to the plough. With a relieved laugh he untangled himself. His trial was not over yet. He would need to walk downriver a while before washing this blood off.

Looking out at the field it occurred to Brandt that the ferocious wolf creature he became at the full moon made a lousy ploughing ox. The earth had been churned in streaks and patches, not the aligned rows relied on to maximise field space. It would do, the farmhands would fertilize, sow and reap. His village would be fed; he could die and take this foul curse with him.

Brandt straightened his back warily, pushing through the needling pain. At the far end of the field two dozen villagers stared at him in horror. Women shielded the eyes of the young children, men crossed themselves whilst sending there boys off to grab pitchforks. When Brandt turned, a shock wave went through the crowd. He crouched down to hide his nakedness from the onlookers, the aching back pain forgotten in the sheer terror. He stayed there for a while hunkered down and trapped, when he heard footsteps approaching him.

“Come out from behind that ox, now.” Janeck shouted.

Brandt rose; his hands came up first followed by his blood smeared face. Janeck had his pitchfork poised and ready to lunge. He threw a small metal cross at him. It landed in amongst dirt and blood.

“Pick it up and hold it for me to see.” Janeck called over.

Brandt tried to protest. His throat felt like sun-bleached driftwood, to hoarse to form an explanation. Janeck jabbed his pitchfork. Looking down at the tiny cross it may as well be at the bottom of the sea. He couldn’t bend down to grab it; his body had simply undergone too much punishment. He waived his arms around the field, gesturing at the tilled dirt.

“Come out now demon, you’ll swing from the great oak for this.”

Brandt stepped out from behind the shell of the ox, his frail body shaking in the morning breeze he covered his genitals with his hands.

“Janeck… please.” He rasped.

Janeck jabbed his pitchfork toward the village’s heart. A colossal oak tree. It towered over the church, easily the tallest building in Hinderton and was clearly visible from miles away. Brandt trudged through the field, Janeck’s pitchfork a few inches from his back. In his deepest nightmares the villagers had shouted and spat on him after finding out his secret. Waiving their torches in his face before ripping him apart limb from limb, all the while he screamed about the deep slashes on his back and the creature that had left them.

Now they didn’t say a word, only parting as he passed by. In that moment he wanted nothing more than a loincloth, some soiled rag he could wrap around himself. To ashamed to ask for one he simply walked through the village until he stood before the oak, its low branches curled up as if beckoning him. The nights watchman had already tied the noose, throwing it over a tree limb in a practised arc. Many outlaws had hung from the tree, if legend was to be believed a nobleman turned rebel had kicked and spasmed for two days before he finally died.

Janeck dropped his pitchfork taking hold of the rope, he pulled the loop wide and placed it over Brandt’s shaking neck.

“If you want their belly’s full come January, you’ll get them out sowing that field by noon.”

He prayed Janeck would heed his words. The farmhand did not meet his gaze, merely giving a nod to the watchman stood behind him. The rope grew taught and bent back Brandt was lifted off his feet.