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He walked into the room and was met by an angry silence. It was not an uncommon response he’d found. He was a stranger and while his clothes might be travel worn and a few seasons out of fashion, they were still a cut above the riffraff here. And while they may denote sophistication and breeding – not to mention money – fear of the unknown, the stranger amongst them, was the overriding reaction no matter the size of the town. These were dangerous times and sure to get worse before they got better.
Still Marten should have known something was wrong when he first stepped into the tavern. This was the sort of thing the ‘elders’ warned him about but as usual he wasn’t thinking of them, or their many rules. He was more interested in getting royally drunk and looking for his next meal.
The room was mainly full of farmers from the outlying countryside, humourless people eking out a pitiful existence. He knew that the sullen looks and muttered conversations were for his benefit, but he assumed that was because he was an outsider – a traveller through the village. It was a pathetic attempt to scare him into leaving as soon as possible. Its not like they really knew anything.
He sat down at a far table and waited for the serving woman to pass him by. When she did Marten flung an arm out and grabbed her by the elbow.
“Your finest ale and whatever passes for a meal around these parts.”
The harried middle-aged woman took in his drab clothing and unkempt beard. “Can you afford it?”
He flashed her the colour of his coin and she nodded curtly, snatching her arm back from his grasp. “It will be along in a moment, sir.”
Marten sat back content. He was the only wolf in this room, the rest of the people here were sheep and like sheep were easily led and affected. He slipped the wooden tokens back into his pocket. People believed what you wanted them to believe, especially with a little persuasion.
When the woman finally returned she sat a mug of ale on the table. “Pay now, the food will be a few more minutes.”
“Of course,” he placed a few ‘coins’ on the table. “Tell me, do you have any rooms for the night?”
The money disappeared into the pocket of her apron. “I’ll check for you.” She said before walking away.
A sip of the ale resulted in a small choking fit as he spat it back into the mug. His actions caused some delight in the patrons around him. Looking to his left he caught the eye of a large farmer who took delight in gulping a mouthful of his ale and, after swirling it around his mouth, swallowing. He even had the gall to smack his lips together afterwards in a show of appreciation. Either this rabble had lost any sensation of palate or taste long ago or he had just been served the remnants of the dishwashing water. That is if they even washed their utensils in this place.
The background murmuring increased when a small group of well-dressed men entered the tavern. The locals must have known them as they were greeted warmly, unlike him. They looked briefly to his table before seating themselves down across the room. While Marten’s attention was diverted a plate dropped in front of him, its contents splashing about and some spilling onto the table. “Yer meal,” the serving woman said. “Master Bolton will see you about lodgings soon.”
She didn’t wait for any reply but hurried off to serve the other customers.
“Too kind,” Marten said quietly as he gazed at the food. Congealed bits of fat floated alongside some limp pieces of vegetable in a liquid that looked suspiciously like his ale. He wouldn’t hazard a guess what kind of meat was involved. Hopefully it was at one time domesticated. Though he wouldn’t have put it past them to use rat. All in all it looked disgusting, not even pigs would eat this swill.
“Enjoy yer meal,” the large farmer raised his mug and saluted him. “Good ya? Yer like?”
“Indeed, thank you,” he raised his mug and gulped some of the ale. Determined not to show his distaste in front of the man.
“Ya, he like!” the farmer emptied his drink down his throat and slammed the mug on the table.
Marten copied the farmer’s actions before turning away. No peasant was going to outdo him. He had supped on the finest of wines and drunk aristocracy under the table. He glanced down at the plate, no the food was another matter. He toyed with the spoon; it was fortunate that he wasn’t intending on eating any of it. It was all for show, this was not the meal he was after. Not the food he craved. For that he would have to look elsewhere.
He started feeling sick and swallowed heavily. The noise in the background was beginning to rise and fall in a rhythmic way, like the room was spinning around him. He was afraid to look up in case the faces around him had changed somehow, had become twisted in some demonic way. Which was funny since he was rarely afraid of anything, in fact things were more afraid of him.
The tingling began in his fingers and feet before travelling throughout his body, when his lips went numb he finally worked it out. Drugs! They had drugged him!
As the room fell silent, all eyes upon him, Marten fell face first into his food.
“Ya,” the farmer told the attentive room with relish. “He liked the meal!”


“Burn him! Burn the devil!”
The chorus was taken up by many of the villagers present. It would be fitting to send the child of Satan to his master with a foretaste of the flames that would torment him for eternity.
The group stood in the village clearing not far from the tavern. All the men from there were present plus almost a dozen more from surrounding houses. The unconscious form of the stranger lay bound near their feet. Off to one side were a few women huddled in their thin shawls standing next to a horse and cart. They were all from the countryside and wished this deed over so they could return home.
“No,” a tall-distinguished man stepped forward. His name was Monsignor LaPorter and he was a member of a select order who investigated strange phenomenon for the Holy Roman Catholic Church and a member of the small party who had arrived late to the tavern. “We will not cleanse this demon in flames. He is not worthy.”
“Then what will we do with him, milord?” Boll, the large farmer, spokesman for the village and the one who had dared Marten into drinking the drugged ale, stepped forward.
Monsignor LaPorter looked around the villagers, noting how few would actually meet his gaze. He noted Father Volpe, the local preacher, standing to one side and nodded one man of God to another. The priest looked out of place amongst the villagers – while the long and benevolent hand of Christ had reached even to these far lands He was not always appreciated. In fact was usually tolerated at best and shunned at worst. It wouldn’t hurt to drive the fear of God into these people.
“What you see before you,” LaPorter indicated the stranger at his feet. “Is one of the many minions of Satan. One of your pagan gods in league with the devil, sent to trouble your souls.”
The villagers stirred at the mention of their old gods. LaPorter seeing this as confirmation that these people were returning to their pagan ways continued. “His fair face entices the innocent and his glib but forked tongue deceives many a just and God-fearing man. But those who have turned their backs on primitive ways and have embraced our Lord shall not, as you have not, be deceived. For the Lord God shall protect you as He is doing now. Believe in Him and you will find a place in Heaven, but turn your back on Him and worship the Great Deceiver and, like this pitiful creature here, you will burn in the everlasting pits of Hell.”
“I have heard,” Father Volpe spoke quietly, almost to himself, “that in the old days villagers would sacrifice their own to the gods of the swamps. If this demon is such a creature of the old ways wouldn’t it be fitting to return him to that place?”
A few of the villagers started to nod at the suggestion. LaPorter wasn’t as pleased. It seemed that some pagan ways might be rubbing off on the priest, something to consider and report back to the Diocese. Also he had been hoping to return to the capital with the creature for further study. Still the Church’s hold in this land was tenuous at the moment and he was enough of a politician to know when to bow to the wishes of the local populace. Better to appease them with this small deed than sow the seeds of discontent, besides he could always find another demon to study. “God moves in mysterious ways, if you believe this way is just then by all means proceed.” He said.
“What of my daughter?” an older man stepped forward from where he had been standing by the horse and cart, where his child’s body lay. “What does God say of her?”
Monsignor LaPorter walked over to the man and rested a compassionate hand on his shoulder. “My son,” he said. Although he was several decades younger addressing the man in a pious manner. “Your child is in the hands of God now, but her body is tainted. She has been touched by the demon and, I’m afraid, she cannot rest in consecrated ground.”
A wail rose up from the women present, friends and relatives of the girl.
“Say it isn’t so, milord,” the distraught father said.
“I am sorry, but I have seen this before,” LaPorter said. “Do you want your daughter’s soul to wander in torment for eternity?”
“Nah, never!”
“Then we must dispose of the body the same as the demon’s and we must all pray for her soul.” This last was directed to all the villagers who nodded in agreement. “We must do this tonight before the moon sets. Does anyone know where to do this deed?”
The villagers looked about; none of them wanting to step forward and admit they still visited the old holy places to leave offerings of food and flowers. Finally Boll stepped forward. “Aye, I just might know of such a place. My gamma used to tell me of it. It’s near where old Davidson cuts the peat.”
“Then let us proceed.” LaPorter ordered.


The cart running through a large pothole in the road woke Marten. Whatever soporific they had used its effects had worn off early. Still the heavy rope that bound his form was enough to hold him in his weakened state.
He could hear a man’s voice speaking in Latin, occasionally interspersed by a group response, and sneered to himself, priests! A bane on any thinking man’s existence. Well, that explained the well-dressed party that entered after him. They had been following him for quite some time, and now they had finally caught him. Dare to speak out against God and you usually paid the price.
The cart rocked again, throwing him against its sides. Where were they going? This surely couldn’t be the main road back to the capitol? They weren't that badly kept, not even out here. Good roads meant better trade, which meant more money to fill the King’s coffers. Another bump threw him in the opposite direction and left him face to face with the dead girl.
She would have been barely fourteen, small for her age with fine features and hair that fell almost to the small of her back. It had been the hair that had attracted him in the first place; he always had a thing for redheads.
Her name had been Marie, she’d told him that when they met in the orchard. He the slightly dashing stranger, she the breathless romantic who had stole away from her home to meet him. How could she not? After he had dazzled her with his manners and charms and she had been forbidden to even think of him by her father. He had stopped for some water, not expecting anything interesting in this backward place. But finding instead a small red-haired diamond in amongst all the peasant chaff. He had charmed the mother and daughter then been chased off by two brothers. Marten had then spent the next two days stalking the farmstead until he had managed to find her alone and coax a promise to meet by moonlight somewhere private. And there he had killed her.
Someone had taken the time to wash her clean. Had shown great tenderness and love, even leaving a chain of daisies in her hair. She was wrapped in a pale linen shroud that covered her from feet to chin. It also hid the deep lacerations in her neck and where he had disembowelled Marie so he could get to her liver, a delicacy to savour. He smiled at the sight; she had been a fine meal. But now it seemed she might be his last.
The cart stopped. “We have to walk the rest of the ways.” It was that large farmer from the tavern.
Some of the men moved back towards the rear of the cart. They were carrying torches to light their way. One of them looked in.
“Its awake!”
There was a worried murmur from the villagers as Monsignor LaPorter and Father Volpe moved closer to look.
“So it is,” LaPorter noted. “No matter at least this way it can walk and we don’t have to touch it.”
“Humph!” Boll reached in and dragged Marten off the cart and onto the ground. A couple of the villagers thrust torches in his direction, hoping to scare him a little. All he could do was lie there; the ropes were wound too tightly around his body for him to move, only his feet were free. Marie’s father picked up his daughter in his arms while the farmer slung a canvas bag over one shoulder.
“Get it on its feet.” LaPorter instructed.
Marten was not too gently manhandled until he was upright and facing the Monsignor. LaPorter thrust a heavy crucifix in front of the man’s face. “Lucifer will not save you now, demon.”
Marten rolled his eyes. Where did these fools get their ideas? He leant forward and kissed the stained wood. A gasp rose up from the villagers.
LaPorter’s expression changed to one of rage as he smashed the crucifix across Marten’s face. “You would desecrate His Lord’s image?” he shouted.
Marten fell to the ground, blood pouring from his broken nose. He licked some off his face before laughing quietly. “Could a demon touch your holy relics, priest?” he spat up at LaPorter.
“The spirit of our holy Lord will protect us from your blasphemy.” LaPorter spoke gravely.
“Holy? Holy! You worship one who rose from the dead, and you call me a demon.” Marten looked at the mob surrounding him. His only hope was to convince them he was but a wayward lost soul. If only they knew how true that was. “I am but a man, same as you.”
“You killed my daughter!” Marie’s father cried out. “You drained her blood and cut her open and you dare to call yourself a man?”
Marten laughed again, his bloodstained teeth causing the more fainthearted to step backwards. “Yes, a fallen one, maybe, but still a man. I can touch holy objects; I walk in the daylight. I am not a demon!”
“No God fearing man would act in this way,” Father Volpe said. “Mayhap you are a pagan?”
“Mayhap,” Marten conceded. Although it was a lie it still might save him from the fate the villagers had for him. Marten was vain but not vain enough to ignore a gesture of goodwill that the village priest was foolishly offering him. An offer that LaPorter was obviously displeased about.
“Listen to me,” LaPorter rallied to sway the villagers’ back to his side. “I have followed this demon all across Europe and have seen the trail of death and destruction he has left. Would you set him free to savage your daughters? Slaughter your sons? Defile your churches?”
Each question was met with a resounding cry of ‘NO!’
“Then let us send this creature to his day of judgement. Let God decide if he is man or demon.”
With a roar of approval Marten found himself being lifted up and carried further into the swamp.


The trek took them from heavy woods to what appeared to be open grassland complete with a scattering of stunted trees. Along the way they left most of the villagers behind. Only the young and the strong continued, along with Marie’s father who refused to let anyone else carry his daughter’s body.
At last after about forty minutes of walking they came to the place Boll had told them about. It was a flat land full of stinking water and the occasional man made hole, where villagers had removed peat for winter fuel.
“‘Tis here,” Boll said, dropping his satchel to the ground.
LaPorter gave a small sniff of distaste. “Pagans,” he muttered. “God is too good for them.”
Marie’s father gently placed her on the ground.
Boll removed from his satchel a wooden hammer and stakes. “Find a decent sized pool to put ‘em in,” he said. “And some large branches.”
A few of the men wandered back to the edge of the grassland to retrieve some dead tree limbs, the rest of the reduced mob spread out, looking about themselves not quite sure, now, if their actions were justified or not. Feeling the cold fingers of doubt setting in now they had time to think.
Sensing the growing state of unease LaPorter and Volpe launched into some inspiring hymns to boost failing spirits.
“This is murder!” Marten cried out. “Doesn’t the Commandments say ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”
“God also exhorts man to be aware of the Devil and to resist the Evil one’s work.” LaPorter replied. “Now be silent!” he kicked Marten in the side and moved away.
“Over here.” One of the villagers cried out.
The mob moved towards the villager, leaving the distraught father to watch over Marie and Marten. The pool was only about a foot deep and spread out over a large part of the swamp area. It was also quite a distance from the small track that had led them there and therefore not likely to be disturbed, or dug up, anytime soon.
“Aye, this’ll do,” Boll gave his opinion.
“Go fetch the girl,” LaPorter instructed. “We will give her a proper burial before putting the demon in, make sure there are two men left behind to ensure it doesn’t escape.”
Two villagers nodded and moved away back towards the track. Several minutes passed and Marie’s father returned carrying his heavy burden.
“Set her down here,” LaPorter said before stepping aside to let Volpe conduct the last rites. He paced restlessly back and forth angry at losing such a perfect specimen yet anxious to see this matter closed so he could return home.
Finally Volpe finished with a nod and Boll stepped forward. Marie’s father placed one last kiss on her forehead then helped Boll pick her up and carry her into the pool. There they placed her gently down, straightening her limbs and folding her arms over her chest in a peaceful repose. Now it was time for the demon.
A few sharp blows to the head knocked any fight out of Marten and he was dragged over to the pool.
“Do we just put him in?” one of the men asked.
“This one deserves no words of comfort,” LaPorter said. “No absolution. God will judge him and find him wanting. We just have to send him to the Almighty.”
“Please.” Marten tried to plead around broken teeth. “I beg you.”
“As Marie begged you?” her father asked. “Did you find it in your black heart to save her then?”
“Hungry,” Marten whispered. “I was just hungry.”
“Take his arms and legs,” Boll ordered, picking up his hammer and some stakes. The stakes were about a foot long and hooked at one end.
Four men grabbed a limb each and followed Boll into the shallow water. Marten tried to struggle but it was no use. They dropped him into the water near Marie’s body then hurriedly knelt down to hold him in place.
The coldness of the pool briefly took Marten’s breath away as he raised his upper body up out of the water. “You can’t do this!” he sputtered. He looked over at LaPorter. “Priest, you know what I am. You have been following me long enough. You would let them do this?”
“I know what you are,” LaPorter nodded. “You are dead and finally your body will know this. You will wander no more. That is as it should be in the eyes of the Lord.”
Boll took one of the stakes and placed the hooked end over Marten’s left knee, he then hammered it deeply into the peat underneath until the stake pinned the leg to the ground. The right leg quickly followed the left and then Boll moved up to Marten’s arms. He was forced under the water as stakes were hammered around his elbows. Then heavy branches were stacked on top of him to keep Marten under.
Looking up he could make out the indistinct shapes of the men as they turned away and disappeared from view. He was unable to move an inch and his lungs were starting to burn as he fought to hold his breath, turning his head to the right Marten saw the reason for his predicament. Marie lay near his side, like a bride with her groom, her long red hair floating in the brackish water. Her face turned towards his as an everlasting reminder of his foolishness.
He could hold his breath no longer. Marten breathed in.