The Inquisitor's Tale

Scene I

 "Name?"

The Inquisitor scratched down the name the middle-aged man dressed in plain, worn clothes gave him in his leather-bound ledger.

"Profession?"

"Miller," said the man. His gruff voice carried a touch of sourness.

"Any living relations?"

"I have a brother that lives up in Blackwall. He's a draper. I haven't seen him in a few years."

The Miller picked at the wooden table with a frown on his face as the Inquisitor scratched a few more words into his ledger.

"I don't know why I'm here, Inquisitor," said the Miller, still picking at a splinter.

"You are the Miller of Chaswick?" asked the Inquisitor, without looking up from his ledger.

"Of course I am," said the Miller, angrily. "I just said so."

"Four days ago an outbreak of the plague claimed the life of every person in Chaswick within the course of the morning," said the Inquisitor, curtly. "Every person except you, the priest, and the tailor's daughter."

"And that's my fault?" demanded the Miller. "I don't know anything about that. I was at home all day, minding my own business. You should learn to do the same."

"Witchcraft," said the Inquisitor, eyeing the Miller suspiciously, "is an extremely serious matter, Miller. I suggest you answer with appropriate consideration and sobriety."

"Hah! Witchcraft," said the Miller, snorting. "What do you and your order of liars and swindlers know of it?"

The Inquisitor's eyes darted up at the Miller.

"You churchmen," said the Miller, haughtily, "You think you know all about Gods and devils and angels. But you don't know a thing! I've read books from faraway lands where they worship other gods and follow different churches. I've read books of science and philosophy. My father was a benandanti. He kept Chaswick safe from the witches while the old priest drunk himself to death! So don't tell me what I ought to take seriously. I haven't done any witchcraft. I don't have to prove that to you, church dog."

The Inquisitor stared at the Miller intently.

"You deny the authority of the church?" the Inquisitor asked calmly.

The Miller sat thoughtfully for a moment. For the first time, he stopped picking at the wooden table.

"You say that God came from nothing, that he always has been?"

"Yes," said the Inquisitor. "That is the doctrine of our church."

"Impossible," said the Miller staunchly. "All things come from other things. Cows give birth to calves and seeds grow into wheat. I've even seen the worms being born of the rotting cheese. This is the way of the world. The church's own men of science agree to this."

"Correct," said the Inquisitor.

"I don't believe," said the Miller, "in your witchcraft, Inquisitor. I believe that plague festers in bad soil and spreads through night air. No power in the world, whether of gods or witches, can call up plague out of nothing."

The two men stared at each other in silence for a while. The Miller perplexed the Inquisitor. He clearly fancied himself an intelligent and widely-read man, but the Inquisitor suspected that, like many such heretics that found themselves before the courts of the church, his ideas had been formed by whatever books happened to fall into his hands by chance. He knew science, to be sure, but not philosophy, and his understanding of religion was filtered through his own small-minded view of the world. Breaking his gaze, the Inquisitor glanced down at the papers the novices had left on the table when he entered for the first time.

"You've been before the inquisition before, Miller," said the Inquisitor, flipping through the small pile of loose leaves. "Do you really want to do this again?"

The Miller leaned back in his chair defiantly.

"I've said nothing that isn't the truth. There's no witchcraft in Chaswick but rotten soil and bad air. I don't care what the others say. You'll find no dark woman."