The Editor's Choice
The Traveler: Part 2 of 2
A Tall Tale
By Sheridan Lardner
Spring 2010
Witches in Williamsburg were often tried at midnight. It was common knowledge: this was the hour where the Devil himself would attend so he could guarantee his wives’ plummet to Pandemonium. At least, that is if the accused was found guilty. Militia Captain Corbin had an impressive conviction rate, with ten of his last ten victims found guilty of membership in Satan’s blasphemous flock. Naturally, there were jealous whispers that Corbin employed barbaric interrogations to extract confessions and coercion to persuade witnesses, but such success was bound to breed envy, so these rumors remained rumors. Besides, not a soul in Williamsburg doubted Talbetha’s guilt. Her moonlit trysts with bewitched husbands were the talk of the town for months, and there were quieter whispers of Babylonian rites performed in dark forests at darker hours. Even if you dismissed these stories as spurious nonsense, you could not deny that Corporal Jonas had been gorily squashed by a falling tree as he attempted to investigate Talbetha’s unhallowed cabin. Witchcraft brought the limb crashing down, spells invoked by the succubi mistress. It took half an hour for Williamsburg to decide that Witch Talbetha would swing on Earth and then blaze in Hell. With the town-square performance concluded, it was time to transition to the eagerly awaited trial.
“Prepare the accused for gallow transfer. Keep her hands bound and her mouth gagged, lest she conjure a Siren’s song,” Corbin cautioned his top lieutenants, as he dispatched them to the gaol. Not that there was anything to worry about. Corbin mastered mage-murdering years ago. Even if the accused were to commence invocations, he would be standing by her, sword in hand, blade poised for the chop. As a boy, he had witnessed an English beheading, from risen axe to spurting blood. Now that was justice. Besides, saving the Governor from magical annihilation would undoubtedly earn him a long overdue promotion.
The Traveler entered the King’s Cross Inn, glancing only once at gallows and its rapidly growing audience as he walked up the stairs. He did not even peek at the Governor lounging on the porch, and with little ado, he requested a room for the night.
“Most sorry to inform, fine fellow, but all rooms with fair overlook of yon’ trial are booked to the brim. ‘Afraid all I can offer is on the side, although it needn’t stop you from sittin’ outside, so to hear the witch’s screams as the Devil takes back ‘is own,” quipped the innkeeper, a portly man like all innkeepers tended to be in this age.
“Sleep is all I seek tonight, so the room shall do nicely.” The Traveler concluded the transaction with a handful of coins. As he strode to his room, the innkeeper pocketed the money, noting, and then dismissing, a sharp, sulfurous smell from the assorted currency.
The Traveler bolted his door and drew the window curtains. He had no view of the gallows, or of the rapidly assembling crowd, clamoring to seize the best seats. By his estimation, the inn building was only a dozen or so yards from the scaffold. He rapped upon the walls and the doors. No more than an inch or two thick.
“Aye. This will do nicely.” He began to unpack.
“Your time has come, witch. Rise before God.” Corbin’s four lieutenants, strapping young lads even by a Prussian’s standard, stood in the cell portcullis gazing upon a sleeping woman. Just at a glance it was clear she was a witch. She had been described as the Helen of Williamsburg, perhaps even of Virginia. But where Helen’s hair was golden, Talbetha’s was dark, and where Helen launched a thousand ships, Talbetha beckoned a thousand devils. Say what you will of her deeds, she had the figure of a gypsy princess or of a Pope’s harlot. Upon rising from the gaol ground, she neither walked nor glided, but slithered like a Gorgon in human form. Lithe shoulders and lither arms appeared to sway to a silent rhythm as she crossed the cell to her awaiting escort.
“Take no chances, says Corbin to me. Shackle her fast and be on with it.”
Chains clamped around her wrists, and she let out a faint exhale as she arched her head back, eyes closed, tongue flickering between her lips.
“Eerie wench, ain’t she?”
“Be sharp and keep your eyes off her. She belongs to the Devil in an hour.”
Grasping the accused by her arms, the four militiamen marched to the town square and the awaiting mob. Later investigation indicated that one guard imagined hearing a sultry mutter slip from her trembling lips on the walk to town. The language was alien and sharp to the ears. Even in light of what happened next, this was determined to be a baseless and uncorroborated observation.
Governor Arnolds was puzzled. Not in ten years of government had he seen an accused witch sit in silence. Most pled innocence even as they dropped through the hangman’s trapdoor. Others wept and dared offer prayers to God. Still others blurted obscenities in forgotten tongues, abyssal sonnets to their infernal husband before they left this world. But Talbetha’s silence was something new. Did she have no defense against Corbin as he called the previously-bewitched husbands to testify as to their drugged copulations? Could she not muster a refutation of a horse-doctor’s autopsy of flattened Corporal Jonas? Had she no protests against the warrantless ransack of her cabin? Apparently not. Her lips did not so much as part even as Corbin read the verdict. “By the power vested in me by the blessed Governor Murphy Arnolds of this fine state, and having heard and deeply considered the testimony of these honorable witnesses, and having consulted with local experts in the arts of philosophy and jurisprudence, I do solemnly and sincerely propose sentence regarding these charge of Witchcraft in the First Degree against one Talbetha of Williamsburg. The verdict is guilty. The punishment is death by hanging, to be carried out immediately and without hesitation by the noble militiamen of this town. God have mercy on your soul.”
Uproarious cheers mingled with hissing as the crowd collectively rose, blanching its approval. Governor Arnolds scoffed. He was a refined man, having received a London education in government and a Parisian education in philosophy. It was difficult to care for the bumpkin mob and their brutality, but public office had that bothersome “public” part, and witches really were a menace to reelection. Besides, Corbin was a popular man, and honoring him was a sure guarantee of Williamsburg’s continued support. As the young soldiers fumbled with the noose around Talbetha’s neck, and Corbin and his four strapping lieutenants stuck out their chests like geese, Arnolds contemplated napping, hoping that the neck-snapping would be quieter than usual.
Corbin’s hand twitched against the sword hilt. It was a pity that Talbetha had tried no tricks. He was thoroughly convinced that a cut from his blade was a more heroic kill than a drop from the gallows. Impressing Governor Arnolds was of paramount importance, and although the trial had been conducted with professional (and unusual) swiftness, his personal bloodlust was unsatisfied. The crowd was happy with the hangman’s plunge, but Corbin had wanted a decapitation. No matter. He could hunt a more aggressive witch after Talbetha swung.
“Hangman at the ready!” Corbin saw a priest read from the Bible, Governor Arnolds look on proudly, and one of his lieutenant grab the lever. Then his eardrums shattered.
The roaring blast tore through the side of the inn like it was made of flowers. A concussive wave knocked down half of the shrieking crowd, with bits of mortar and wood fluttering atop their bodies. The inn’s broadside, the wall facing the town square and the trial, was unharmed. Only the northern face of the inn, in which the Traveler’s room lay, was obliterated. The explosion’s force tossed Governor Arnolds from the inn’s porch into the crowd. Corbin crashed into his four lieutenants, a pile of flailing appendages and weapons on the gallows stage. Injured bystanders shrieked as they crawled away from the town square, writhing on top of still unconscious neighbors in an effort to flee.
Corbin was the first to fully steady himself on his feet, but he heard only an ever-ringing bell in his ears. His face was marred in shrapneled pockmarks, and the ear that had been facing the inn was oozing dark, dusty blood. Smoke enveloped his already watering eyes as he dreamily surveyed the scene. Everything was slanted to the left, and he could not shake off the throbbing pressure in his head. But he clearly made out Talbetha. The accused stood immobile, noose still wrapped around her nick, her expression blank. Then her eyes widened, her lips curled into a smirk, and her tongue emerged from between her too-white teeth. Corbin followed the woman’s curious look, and that was where he saw…the man. Heavy short sword in one hand, flintlock pistol in the other, and a dingy cloak obscuring his body and face. “You again?” Talbetha hissed at the approaching figure. Corbin mustered what strength he could, clutching his sword as he steadied himself for combat.
The Traveler stalked up the stage’s wooden steps, stepping over stunned and unconscious audience members. As he had learned from an old Hassassin knife-master in Damascus, the best bombs contained the most refined gunpowder. His hands still had blisters from the endless hours of grinding and re-grinding the powder. Yet the plan succeeded admirably; the explosion produced a lot of boom but not a lot of blaze. Covered in the grimy robe, he looked as a dark specter come to claim the witch.
“You again?” Talbetha hissed.
“I owed your teacher a favor,” he replied. She smirked knowingly.
“Halt devil!” a haute looking militiaman blurted to the Traveler, sword in hand, somehow still on his feet despite the various charred, bleeding wounds on his head and arms. Heroes are such bothers. The Traveler raised his longbore pistol, hammer cocked and powder primed. At that instant, he heard a piercing and familiar click from behind. He squatted low as he spun around, pistol leveled towards the sound. The crouching militiaman fired his musket where the Traveler should have been. The Traveler fired back. CRACK CRACK went the two weapons and thud went the militiaman as he sprawled back, shot in the chest. The Traveler’s one shot expended, he turned to face the injured swordsman, flipping the pistol over to use the heavy barrel as a club. Corbin had wasted no time during the brief shootout, and already he had closed more than half the distance. The Traveler met Corbin’s swing in an X block, blade and pistol butt catching the captain’s saber. Using the curved pistol butt, the Traveler pushed down on Corbin’s sword, deflecting it to the right as his own short sword arced down from high.
Corbin flicked his blade up to parry the vertical slash. With only wrist strength holding back the force of impact, the saber fell from his hand, clattering on the stage. As Corbin ducked to grab it, the Traveler’s boot clamped firmly on the blade, pinning it to the ground. Before Corbin could react, the pistol slammed into his temple. The militia captain flopped onto the gallows floor as bolts of pain ripped through his head.
His foe downed, the Traveler crossed to Talbetha, undoing the noose around her pale neck, and sawing through the bindings around her graceful wrists. “Such a gentleman,” she crooned as she rubbed her chaffed wrists.
“There’s a horse tethered in the inn stable. You’d do best to not return.”
“Such sageful advice,” she sneered as she stepped down off of the stage, stepping swiftly through the crowd of stunned and downed townsfolk. The Traveler watched her depart, and it was only by sheer luck that he happened to turn to check on the downed militia captain. For at that moment, two of Corbin’s four lieutenants had recovered from the initial blast, collaborated on a plan of attack, and commenced their bayonet charge.
“Get ‘im Walters!” one of the men shouted as his partner plunged his bayonet at the Traveler’s sternum. In pitched battle, it is hard to register details, but the Traveler noticed immediately that Walters was a big lad, built like a Muscovite lumberjack or a Scottish rebel. The Traveler swatted the thrust aside with his pistol, but the militiaman’s momentum carried him through the parry. His bulky shoulder smashed into the Traveler’s now exposed flank, throwing him back off the stage and onto the dirt ground. Remembering his lessons, he slapped the ground hard with his outstretched arms, absorbing the impact as best he could. But he was still fallen and on his back. The two charging militia hopped off of the stage, lunging towards the fallen Traveler. He rolled under the skewering bayonet thrust of hulking Walters, whipping his shin into the side of the militiaman’s knee.
“Me leg!!” he shrieked as the knee buckled with a satisfying crunch, the upper body muscles weighing down the twisted joint. Walters tried to prop himself up on his bayonet, but the Traveler was already on his feet. He walloped the man in the jaw with his pistol. Walters was unconscious before he crashed to the ground.
His partner snarled as he swung his musket with a caveman’s desperation. The Traveler intercepted the blow with a mighty sword block. He then slid down the parried musket’s barrel with his blade, cutting into the militiaman’s shoulder. Flint and Spark Hit, he recited. His heavy blade dug deep through the Williamsburg uniform and into his opponent’s flesh, severing the tendon and breaking the collarbone. The Traveler finished the soldier with a swift, sword-arm elbow to the nose. Blood squirted down the man’s contorted face as he collapsed. As the man fell, The Traveler pivoted to see Corbin, back on his feet with blood streaming from his temple. He had a pistol in his hand, was standing at least a dozen feet away, and judging by his smirk, the gun was assuredly loaded.
Witnesses disagree as to what happened next. Some say a stiff breeze pushed Corbin’s gun, deflecting the shot. Others say that a cackling crow rammed into the pistol’s barrel, angling it away from the Traveler. The most wild-minded citizens swore that a greasy hand coiled from the air itself, clutching the gun and yanking it to the left. Speculation aside, four things were agreed upon in subsequent investigations. First, Corbin missed. The shot whizzed past the Traveler’s cowled head and embedded in the ground. Second, the Traveler cleared the distance between him and Corbin in less than second. Third, the Traveler’s sword gutted Corbin through the stomach. And fourth, Talbetha had watched the whole scene from afar, mounted on a black stallion while mumbling in an unidentifiable tongue.
The Traveler kicked Corbin’s body from the blade and stalked over to Talbetha. Those who were conscious had also seen the battle at the stage, and elected that it would be healthier to let the man depart rather than challenge him further.
Governor Arnolds had watched the whole thing from a heap of knocked out bodies and broken wood. His wig had vanished, his clothes were torn, his powdered face was smeared in soot, and he was grinning like a toddler. He was firmly convinced that it was the most exciting night in the history of Virginia governorship.
The Traveler approached Talbetha on the town square’s edge, wiping the gore from his blade.
“So I suppose we are even then?” she mused as she looked at the sky.
“Not even close.”