GNO Chapter Excerpts Page ~ B1C12 Quick-Browse

Chapter Quick-Browse For Graven's Grotesque: A Gothic Epic

Chapter 12 Excerpt Teaser
Description: Cardinal Blasi and the Merchant from Marseille ~ 7 Paragraphs

“Je m’ appelle, Jean Labatut,” the cart owner called out, introducing himself; “I am a prominent merchant from Marseille. Forgive me for troubling the master of the manor; however, I would deeply appreciate an audience with him, if I may be so honoured.” He wiped his brow against his sleeve. “You have my gentleman's word that I bring no ill will—merely my prayers and a promise of good intention, of which he might greatly appreciate in these troubling days.”

Blasi neared the cart, scrutinizing him. “Make known your good intention.”
The man fell into a coughing spell, merely nodding and jabbing a pointing finger at the base of the poplar tree before managing a raspy reply; “You prepare fresh graves.” He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “‘Tis consecrated ground, yes?”
“‘C'est ainsi,” Blasi affirmed.
“Blessed properly—by a priest?”
“C'était ainsi,‘” he again confirmed.
The man sniffled and carefully studied the grounds as if searching for something particular to him. “And how much a part of these grounds are consecrated?” His eyes came back to rest at the tree and he looked it over, from its highest boughs to its roots.
“Enough; what do you seek?”
“If the master allows it, I wish to barter with him, a simple service for all of my wares.”
Blasi stole a glimpse of the château entrance. “He speaks to no one, save me. Tell me of your proposition and I shall promptly convey it.”

“Yes. I wish to—if the master is willing—” The man grimaced and scratched his scruffy beard, considering how best to present his good intention. “Please inform him that a merchant has arrived with a trader’s cart filled enough with wares to supply his entire manor for several seasons.” He peered over his shoulder and scanned his goods before reciting his inventory as any effectual merchant, honed finely by many years of crafty dealings; “I have fresh grains, dried fruits, salt-meats and sweetmeats. I have lamp oil, scented powders, balms, cloth, leather, and medicines. I have a plentiful supply of salt and all manners of curing and healing spices. I have cooking irons, porcelain pieces, and serving dishes of silver and gold, fit for any noble abode. As well, I have an untapped cask of the finest wine in all of France.” He turned about, looked squarely into Blasi’s eyes, nodded, and passed a presenting hand over his steed and wagon, solemnly saying, “And this fine mount and sturdy cart are also a part of my barter, should the master be willing. Please inform him—all of this, I shall give him, should he grant me but a simple request.”

Even in his less-than-presentable condition, the merchant exhibited such a pristine presentation as to capture the concentration of an equally crafty Cardinal. Blasi examined the equine’s legs, teeth, and eyes to find the beast to be a fine young muscular steed with an unblemished coat that seemed to cast a crimson sheen against a glare of sunshine. He narrowed his eyes, suspicion brewing within. “And what, might be this simple request?”
The man shifted himself in his cart. He cleared his throat and said, “The pestilence has me. However, in exchange for all that I own, I merely ask that I may be granted a bit of hallowed ground for a proper burial.”
Blasi retreated several paces and clasped his fingers before him, considering the unusual request. He cast glances betwixt the poplar graves and the sickly merchant before attempting to dismiss the plagued stranger’s proposition. “I no longer believe—
The man interjected, “I beg of you!” He pointed toward the rear of the grounds. “I can remain outside the château, in the cart; back there and near the wood-line. I require no care at all.” He dabbed a cloth against his neck and continued his plea; “My time is short; perhaps a day more and I shall be no further burden. I ask not even for a stone by which to mark me—only a plot on holy ground.”

Blasi thoroughly inspected the merchant’s cart, which carried an impressive cargo and appeared heavily modified from an original design. Numerous vertical planks stood tall, strapped to its every side, all of them containing metal fasteners from which a web of ropes traversed betwixt, and through the high stack of tightly packed provisions stowed within the cart. Wondering how the wheels of the cart were capable of supporting such weight, he noticed the uncommon width of them. Blasi’s eyes came to rest on the topmost edge of a miniature wine cask that seemed to peep out at him from behind a bundle of burlap sacks. He drew a deep breath and looked over his shoulder, past the rear of the château, over a thick field of weeds, and to a more distant row of woods that marked the darker borderline of the estate grounds. He turned back to the man and searched his face in a good light, sensing the tradesman’s offer as genuine. After all, Death did seem to have staked its claim, itself completely waxed and ripe in the man’s angst-ridden gaze. Blasi knew the signs and the mark—an unmistakable aura of fate, mortality, and holistic obscurity outwardly cursed the man’s presence like a lingering black radiance.

The Cardinal motioned him forth as he returned to the old tree. “Move your cart to the line of woods.” He retrieved his shovel and strode toward the back entrance of the château as he called out; “Remain there till I return with reply.” The driver complied, parting a sea of weeds as he carefully steered his cart through a field of tall brown canes that crunched beneath his wheels.

Blasi entered the château and stepped inside the hearth and kitchen area; he propped the shovel in the corner before closing the door. He stood and rubbed the gritty sweat from the back of his neck, ignoring the enduring stench of vomit and bile that engulfed him as he contemplated what to do with his new deathbed-guest—one who owned enough cargo to provide him with ample reserves for the coming winter months. Blasi knew that, with the pestilence now devouring the nearby city of Reims, the man carried on his cart, perhaps more provisions than those that existed in all of the town’s shops. Yet, even with keen attention paid to reason; and with all that the merchant had promised him, the wine cask stood foremost in his mind as a tempting elixir, which Blasi felt to be a staple ingredient of his interim existence, if he was to drown the plaguing memories of Michael and Alsae. More than food or life itself, the wine was enough to still his guilt—to quell his conscience, if even for a short season...

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