Snake Eyes

We pushed our way through the iron gate and up the path to the imposing thatched household that was Leopold Prattle’s home. I could never understand what priests did that warranted such grand accommodation. Surely they just needed a cell with a cot and a fireplace for the winter—not that we’d had anything approaching a frost or snowfall for as many seasons as I could remember. Why all the accoutrements and luxuries? Weren’t priests supposed to be men of simplicity and contentment? Prattle’s priest lodge had many rooms and even a small courtyard. He had three staff too—a cook, a cleaner and a gardener. All female. All young. All examples of eager, dimpled pulchritude. It made me sick.

I didn’t bother to knock because I knew there was no one home. Using my shoulder I eased the front door open. We walked through the reception hall and out to the courtyard where a spreading Cyprus tree gave shade. We placed the head, the jaws of which were snapping shut repeatedly and with great malice, out in the open on the dirt and sat down at a table to watch it and recover our breath. Some of the outer leaves on the cypress tree died in the presence of the head but most seemed unaffected.

“I love Leopold’s place, don’t you?” said Velvet as though she was a regular visitor.

“It’s a hovel. Anyway, when have you been here before?”

“Oh, I haven’t really. Just once or twice probably.”

“Whatever for?”

“It was a long time ago, Delly. I think I came for spiritual guidance.”

“From that unwashed reprobate? Tell me you’re jesting.”

“I think he washed more often back then. And he was very supportive.”

“Well, patch my pink pyjamas. I would never have believed it.”

Velvet ignored my disgust. She looked around the courtyard and through the windows of the house with appreciation.

“I could live in place like this,” she said.

“Oh, pigswill, Velvet. It’s a glorified lean-to. Our place is much nicer—the garden, the open country beyond—”

“The half-witted neighbours, the long walk to market…”

I shut up. She was right; Prattle’s place was a palace compared to ours and it had privacy, too. I took out the Ledger and scanned it for information on ridding your village of a demon. At the front door there was a commotion and several people spilled through into the courtyard with us. I saw more gathered behind them, afraid to follow. One individual, his black robes unable to hide the dirt or keep in the reek of his body, stumbled right into us.

“Nyev, nyev, nyev. You can’t put it here,” shouted Prattle as he waved his sticklike arms at me. “Take it away now.”

I brushed some grime from my shirt and tried not to breathe through my nose.

“This is the proper place for it,” said I. “It’s a spiritual matter and you’re responsible for it.”

He couldn’t publicly deny either point, so he stood there and put his hands on his hips. When he could think of nothing else to say he turned to the demon head and pretended to assess it, stroking his chin as though he was near to a solution. But he said nothing. Eventually, the small crowd of people in his courtyard approached. Among them were the joint owners of the demon, Rickett and Wiggery, and a bruised, dust covered Reginald Cleaver back in possession of his knife and looking like he wanted to use it some more.

“I say we kill it,” said Cleaver, demonstrating in a single sentence why he’d advanced no further in life than butchery.

“You going to cut off its head again are you, Reg?” I asked. Folk sniggered. Cleaver was indignant.

“No, we cut it up into small pieces and burn it to ashes.”

This was too much.

“Reg,” I whispered, “It’s a demon. From Hell. You can’t burn something that thrives in the hottest flames ever created.

“Yeah, but couldn’t we…”

The hand with the knife in it dropped to his side. The whiteness left his knuckles. Puff Wiggery smacked the heel of his palm against his forehead.

“So that means, no matter how much we cook the demon steaks and chops, they’ll still be raw, right?”

Several people made disgusted retching sounds.

“I’m going off eating the thing, I can tell you,” said Blini Rickett.

“I think we need to talk to it,” said I, “Find out why it came here.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Prattle as if the idea had been his.

He approached the demon head and several people backed away, not certain what it might be capable of. Not one of them thanked me for bringing the head a safe distance from the body so that neither could be effective. No one said ‘you were right about this demon, Delly Duke.’ Instead, they watched Prattle kneel down at what he believed to be a safe distance from the demon and address it.

“Vile abomination, why do you come here? Tell us your purpose lest we destroy you.”

The demon opened and closed its mouth and moved its lips in what might have been language but no sound came out. Prattle leaned in a little closer.