Roanoke: The Price of Power

The Folk Tale

"It was a case where my openness of mind proved very useful to him," Doc said, settling back into his chair.

He separated a small stick from the bundle on his desk and held the tip into the flame of one of the two lit candles on his desk. Huffing air through his pipe, he held the burning twig to the bowl and set it to smolder.

"When I was a lad, the township that I called home was far-removed from the Church. There was little in the way of practice or order in the matters of spirit. There was, of course, ample of those things that seep into a people in the absence of religious guidance. Superstition, legend, tales of miracles and magic.

"Do you know of such things as magic, Sir Arnold?"

"It's not something we speak about as gentlemen of the court, no."

Doc nodded. He'd expected such an answer, of course.

"As small folk in a small village, such matters were also taboo around certain people," said Doc. "However, when I was a young boy, my grandfather would tell me a story. It was one of my favorites, although the very ideas within it would sometimes haunt my dreams and rob me of sleep. But who cares of such things, when young and strong enough in heart and will to face down the entire world?"

Doc laughed softly and drew on the stem of his pipe. When he continued, his words were framed with a gray streamer of fragrant smoke.

"Imagine that you are a man who has obtained everything this world offers. Wealth, power, family, land, titles. What do you fear most?"

"Death, I suppose. Same as anyone else."

"Of course. Your own death, the death of those you love," Doc nodded.

He leaned back, enjoying his smoke. He shut his eyes and looked for a moment that he would drift off to sleep. With a deep breath, he looked back to Arnold.

"Now, my grandfather's tale. We lived in a barony far from London. Ignored (as a matter of convenience, not tradition) for hundreds of years by whichever king or conqueror claimed his dominion. Such claimants changed frequently as borders and alliances shifted, but within our village in the shadow of the baron's modest keep, we the small folk hardly noticed.

"Grandfather's tales were not about the baron, for during my youth he was a reclusive man who made for poor storytelling. Instead, grandfather would speak of his wife, the baroness. She was a sheer vision of beauty, a lovely woman who would ride into the village and mingle with the women while they worked at loom or churn.

"I saw her face myself a few times by then," Doc smiled. "Even as a boy of my age she could put my sensibilities to the torch.

"But what grandfather spoke of was not simply her beauty, but of the timelessness of that beauty. You see, my grandfather was the eldest living man in the barony. And he claimed that the baroness had looked exactly the same when he was a young boy. Different hair and dresses, perhaps, but the same woman beneath the adornments."

"That would be a trick," Arnold grinned. "There isn't a woman alive who wouldn't kill to learn it."

"That was just it!" Doc said. "My ancient grandfather said that he knew the trick. The secret, he told me, was dark and not to be spoken of . . . but he told me because he said that someone needed to know the truth. Some day, he'd said, the truth might become far more important than the comfort of the lie."

"So what was this trick?" asked Arnold before taking another swig of beer.

"My grandfather was told by his grandfather that long before he was born the baroness was overcome with a terrible sickness. She was consigned to her bed for weeks, stricken to the edge of mortality. Her husband, the baron, sent messengers to every point of the compass seeking aide for his beloved. Healers came, and alchemists and wizards. All of them frauds, of course.

"All except for one," Doc drew from his pipe and stared for a moment before releasing streamers of smoke from his nose. "A man came, according to my elders, who taught the baron a bit of magic. A ritual that would save his beloved baroness. And, according to my elders, the baroness was soon recovered and spry as ever, whilst the baron, to the shock of all, died suddenly in his sleep within the same week."

"Black magic," muttered Arnold. "In the tales it always comes at a cost."

"Black magic, yes," Doc nodded. "But, more precisely, blood ritual. Grandfather told me of the children that went missing during that time, of the animals slaughtered in the night. While the baroness was saved by the traveling wizard, the land turned dark. And the baroness . . . well, if you believe the tale, she continued practicing the ritual for hundreds of years, drinking blood to keep her youth and life."

"Drinking blood?" Arnold gasped. "But Doc, you said she was fair woman, lovely and kind to the people. What sort of monster drinks blood and then cavorts with the women in the common square?"

"A mad woman, most likely," Doc shrugged. "I don't suspect a woman, a mother herself, could drink the blood of children and keep a firm grasp on her mind."

Arnold shook his head and leaned back in his chair.

"I don't know, Doc. It's a fine tale for scaring children but I can't see how it fits into a murder on the other side of the world."

"I believe it relates directly with what's happening here," said Doc as he rose to his feet. "But you will need to see Mr. Swift's body for me to explain how I came to this conclusion. If you would."

Arnold scratched at the stubble on his chin, looking deeply drowned in consideration. After a moment, he stood.

"You're right. I need to see it," he said. "We'd better make haste. For all we know, Dare is already having it buried."