The parchment was so very old, it had a near-mortal smell of decay, like a pile of black, wet leaves. The pages were thickly lettered and difficult to decipher. The priest used one finger to track each word and sound it out. He tried to spend the best light of the day in reading, so as to spare his eyes. If he stared at the letters for too long, they whirled and pulsed and he had to bind the covers shut and put the book to one side, as he did now. He stood and went to the open window to clear his head. The sky was a blurred gold in this hour before sunset, and the air sweet with midsummer.
And who would not want to live forever on such a day, or on any ordinary day? Whosoever believeth in me shall not perish, but shall have life everlasting. It was the central mystery and promise of his religion. As old as the book he had held in his hands was, the events it spoke of were older still, unimaginably distant in time, and had taken place in another language on the far side of the world. That the account had survived at all was surely evidence of the divine, beyond the reckoning of human understanding.
And had every scribe and every translation and every argument over doctrine been part of the Lord’s plan, sorting and shaking out the truth? Or had errors and frailty and bad faith corrupted it? If God’s word was conveyed through fallible men, could it ever be free of their taint?
Mary Magdalene had not recognized the risen Christ at first, had mistaken him for the gardener. Thomas needed to feel Christ’s wounds with his own hands before he was assured. Their confusion, and then their conviction, offered up as proof. Of course they had disbelieved at first, as anyone in any age would. The apostles at the empty tomb had not suspected a resurrection but a grave robbery. As anyone would.
The priest sighed and turned away from the window, because doubting thoughts came from the Devil. It was a dangerous habit, his fondness for argument and subtlety, a prideful pleasure in his own intellect. Anyway, he ought to be busying himself with the remainder of the day’s work, for there was much to do.
Tomorrow was Saint John and Saint Paul’s Day, with a special mass to be said. And right after, the blessing of all those going forth as part of the land agent’s new enterprise, with so many hopes and fears riding on their journey.
There was also a guest for the evening meal, the land agent himself, and that too counted as work. The priest did not care for the man, though he had not known him long enough to back up his dislike with proven history. The land agent had managed to get himself invited for dinner in some fashion that the priest could not entirely recall. He had the unpleasant feeling of having been outmaneuvered.
What complaint, exactly, could he lay against the agent? A certain glibness, a facile and overagreeable quality that spoke of calculation. Hardly surprising, since it was the agent’s business to coax, entice, promise, and whatever else he had to do in order to fill his quota of settlers. And he was good at his trade, that much was clear, although that did not mean one was required to admire him for it.
Now the priest chastised himself for being uncharitable, judgmental, as he inevitably was. How difficult, how exhausting, to be so constantly on guard against one’s own nature! And then to fall into the trap of selfishness and self-involvement, diminishing his usefulness to others and to the flock he was meant to lead and serve.
He made his usual rounds of the church, securing it for the night. Before the altar, he prostrated himself on the stone floor and prayed to both Our Lord on his cross and to Saint Nicolai for humility, wisdom, guidance. He loved the quiet and beauty of the church at these times, just after the sacristan rang the evening bell. The last sunlight made its passage through the high windows in lozenges of ruby and amber. The smells of wax, wood, earth, linseed oil, and incense were as familiar to him as any from his childhood. Only in such solitude did his soul go still, and peace pass into him like a balm.
Then it was time to return to the everyday world and prepare himself for his guest. He waited in the small room where he took his meals until the housekeeper knocked and announced the land agent’s arrival. “Our Lord’s grace upon you,” the priest said, in formal greeting.
“And upon you,” the agent replied, bowing in an elaborate fashion, one hand held over his heart. “How are you this fine evening, Father?”
“Very well, thank you.” The priest was relieved to see that the agent had put aside the outlandish clothes he wore when he gave his presentations, and was wearing a simple green coat. He held a cloth cap in his hands, and a leather bag was slung crossways around his body. “As I hope you are also.”
“Well indeed. So kind, your invitation.”
The priest murmured something meant to deflect such gratitude, and motioned to the agent to seat himself. The priest had arranged the chairs so that they did not face each other.
Out of distaste or squeamishness he preferred to keep the man at a little distance. An unworthy feeling but a genuine one. The agent had crimped, fox-colored hair, a mealy complexion, and a scant red beard that looked new grown, although he was past his first youth. His nose was sharp and his eyes an unreadable dark green, except for a kind of private amusement. Yes, better not to sit directly in the beam of those eyes.
The priest uncorked the wine bottle, spoke a word of blessing, and poured out two portions. They raised their cups. “Shall we drink to your enterprise?” the priest suggested, as he was meant to.
“May our Lord commend it,” the agent said piously. He tasted the wine, considered it, then drank deeply. “This is excellent.”
“It’s made from the vineyard on the old monastery grounds,” the priest said, by way of not taking credit for it himself. The agent’s cup was now empty, and after a moment’s hesitation, the priest refilled it.
“You will have fine weather tomorrow,” the priest said, since he could invent no other conversation. “You should have a good road.”
“Yes, I hope to make a strong start. Although the first day is often the most difficult, with complaints and wanting one or another thing that cannot be had. But they will come round soon enough.”
“They are only children,” the priest said, not liking the man’s tone.
“And those already in the settlements will welcome them as if they were their very own.”
The priest might have said more, but just then the housekeeper came in with the supper, and the agent’s attention was drawn to this in a hopeful fashion.
The priest was amused to see the man’s visible disappointment in the food, since he had not instructed his housekeeper to give them more than the usual plain fare. There was bread, and a wedge of yellow cheese, an onion, and a dish of ramps cooked with oil and eggs. In honor of the season, the housekeeper had thought to include a bowl of new strawberries, and at these the agent’s doleful face brightened.
“These look very tasty,” the agent declared, reaching out to take one but stopping short. He made as if to laugh at his own impatience. “Your pardon.” He bowed his head, waiting for the priest’s prayer.
“Our Father,” the priest began, “and His son, our savior, by your grace and power do we receive these your gifts. We accept them now with thankful hearts.” He could have gone on and made the agent sit longer before he started eating, but he told himself, sternly, not to put prayer to such a petty use. “In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.”
“Amen,” the agent echoed, and made a point of offering the bowl of strawberries to the priest, who indicated that the agent should go first. So much politeness, they were both likely to expire from hunger. The priest took his turn at the strawberries, then tore off bread from the loaf to dip into the ramps. The agent had a good appetite, the priest observed. One might call it greedy, the way in which he crowded so much onto his plate, then leaned over it, as if it needed defending. The agent’s sharp nose even had a bit of a twitch to it, the priest fancied.
The priest had only a middling appetite, although he finished his wine and poured out another cup for them bot
h. He got up to close the window against the night air, as it was growing chill. Immediately the room seemed to shrink in size, the candlelight drawing the walls in closer.
The agent made short work of his meal, then sat back and nodded in contentment. “My gratitude,” he said. “For a man such as myself, with no real hearth or home of my own, hospitality like yours is much appreciated.”
“I am more than pleased to share what I have with you,” the priest replied, correctly. He hoped the man would take himself off before too long. Instead the agent gave every appearance of settling in and getting comfortable. He took another sip of wine and looked fondly at the bottle. One hand picked absently through his red beard for bits of stray food.
Just as the priest was ready to invent some excuse to shorten the evening, the agent said, “You’re worried about the children.”
“I have concerns. I can’t deny that.”
“Nor should you. Your feelings do you credit. In a sense, a pastoral sense of course, all of them are your children.”
“I have been responsible for their spiritual upbringing,” the priest said, knowing how stiff, even forbidding, he sounded. He would not have known what to do with children of his own.
“But it’s such an excellent opportunity for them. A chance to make a life for themselves in a new place. Because surely, they have no such prospects here.”
This was true enough. The children of poorer families, along with the younger sons of the more prosperous ones, were the ones going. If they stayed, they would be trodden under, with neither land nor goods to sustain them. It was no secret that many of those making the journey had been offered up by parents who could scarcely afford to feed them. These included children hardly older than babies who would be traveling by wagon, even though the land agent had promoted the enterprise for only those old enough to go on foot and do a strong day’s work. The priest suspected that other corners might be cut as well. And this would be overlooked, since the expedition solved so many problems for so many people.
“But why only children?” the priest asked, out of some troublemaking instinct he allowed himself to give voice to. “Why not allow entire families? There must be those willing to go.”
The agent began to explain once more, in a patient, instructive tone, that the settlement of new territories was a young people’s task. That his master, the duke, was quite fixed on the notion of the settlers growing up as citizens of the new lands, without the sort of divided loyalties that those farther along in life must inevitably have. Of course, in time, once the work had progressed far enough, the children might indeed send for their other kin to join them. They would set their hands to labor and make of the place a garden, a marvel, a destination for pilgrims! There were echoes in this of the agent’s presentations in the town square, his jingling jangling come-on, full of boast and wonderful visions.
“You will be able to work the children as you wish,” the priest said. The wine was loosening his tongue. The room seemed close now, unpleasantly so.
For a moment the agent seemed caught off stride, but he recovered quickly enough. “I don’t deny how much we need the labor. Would you believe me if I did? Life is difficult in the new lands. The forest is barely cleared, the fields only just planted. We need shelters built before cold weather comes. There are a thousand tasks! We need those who have no choice but to stay put, not strike out on their own. Are you accusing me of wanting the new settlements to be a success? Then I stand guilty. Do I shock you with my honesty? At least I hope it will help you to believe me.”
The agent had leaned forward to speak, his chin nodding and a curl of his crimped, peculiar hair coming loose over his forehead. One hand fisted, striking the table. It was such a perfect picture of sincerity that the priest could not help, perversely, suspecting the man of putting on a performance. Before he could formulate any sort of response, the agent shifted in his chair, raised his hands in a brief, fluttering spiral, then let them drop again. He had a conjurer’s quickness in his movements. “Your pardon,” he said. “This work has become my very breath and bone. I think on it sunup to sundown, and the duke gives me no peace. Perhaps I’m too anxious on this eve of our departure. As for the children, they will be treated fairly. They will receive firmness and direction. For a child knows not what it needs, only what it wants.”
He waited for the priest to duck his head in agreement, which he did, even though he had the nagging sense that the man had answered nothing. The agent passed his hands over his eyes, as if fighting off weariness. “It can be the most demanding and exasperating work, the repopulation effort. And you can’t expect to see success—that is, the entirety of success—accomplished within one’s lifetime. Rather like your own work, the salvation of souls. Only in the next world can your results be measured.”
“I suppose so,” the priest said, although he did not much like having his priestly duties likened to the agent’s dubious enterprises. As if a priest would go capering around on a stage in the public square, tootling on a horn and clowning about!
“Now, Father, indulge me in one more matter, if you would be so kind.”
“Certainly,” the priest murmured, wishing that the agent would take himself off. He felt unwell. More than ever he disliked the man, more and more he found reasons for distrust and alarm. The agent was looking so fixedly at his empty wine cup that the priest poured the rest of the bottle into it.
“Why did you take holy orders? Did you feel a calling in yourself?”
The priest hesitated. The agent said, “Again, your pardon. An impertinence on my part.”
“Not at all,” the priest answered, though it was, if not an impertinence, at least a liberty. “I suppose I wanted . . . that is, I strove to perfect my faith. To become stronger in it.”
“Ah.” The agent nodded. “Only the saints are able to rise above all our human weaknesses. To trust without doubt, to accept without exerting one’s own will!”
“Yes,” said the priest, losing track of the man’s words, agreeing foolishly to he knew not what. A headache had nailed itself to his forehead.
“. . . in the matter of Jesus walking upon the water. A miracle? Or perhaps one of those occasions where the sun on the water tricks the eye and makes all distances suspect, so that a man walking on the shore appears to be in the middle of the sea. I have seen such things in my travels.”
“But surely you have not seen the blind made to see, or the lame to walk, or the leper cleansed,” the priest said, reproving him.
“Ah, Father, there can be such bold fakery among a certain class of beggars, it would break your heart to see it. No matter! If only I could turn water into wine, as our Lord did at Cana! Now that is a trick worth knowing!”
“It was not a trick,” the priest said, but the agent was still pleased with his own joke.
“The one miracle I can perform? Turning the wine back into water! Ha!” The candlelight cast its long, drooping shadows over his face. One corner of his mouth turned up in laughter and the priest saw, as he had not before, that the agent was missing several teeth. “Such foolishness on my part,” he said, recovering himself, reaching for the wine. “But our Lord gave us the gift of laughter, did he not? As well as our unsettled minds, a weakness we must guard against. Because who would think such blasphemous things, if they could keep from doing so?”
“The Gospel,” the priest began heavily, but he could not finish his thought. It was as if the man had found some chink in him and was prying and picking at it. What if there were no miracles? No angels of the Lord in the empty tomb, one seated at the place where the head of the body had lain, and one at the feet? What if there was only the teller’s desire to make his story better? “I’m sorry,” he said. “Some passing weakness in me . . . a moment’s faintness . . .”
The agent was out of his chair in an instant. “I’ve overtired you with my idle talk. I’ll take my leave, with you
r permission, and pray for—”
The agent went silent, and turned his sharp nose to a dark corner of the room where a small scratching could now be heard. Noiselessly, he drew something out of his leather bag and took a few steps closer. Quicker than the priest’s eye could follow, he darted after the rat that had emerged from its hole. He cast a long, stiff noose round the rat’s neck and tightened it with a flick of his wrist. The rat squealed and flailed and then lay still.
“Nasty creature. Difficult to believe that it too is part of God’s creation. Don’t worry, Father, I will dispose of it for you.”
He bowed and left, the rat curled up and dragging on the end of the noose.
The priest remained in his chair. When the housekeeper entered to clear away the meal, she might have been surprised to see him still there. But like all women who attended the priests, she had been selected for her advanced age, undoubted piety, and absolute lack of curiosity. The priest roused himself to drink a cup of water, then watched without energy as the housekeeper went about her chore. When she was turning to leave, he asked her, “Do you think it is a good plan, the children leaving for the new settlements?”
If the woman was surprised at having her opinion solicited, as had never happened before, she gave no sign of it. “If it pleases our Lord, he will favor it.” And then she swept the table clean of crumbs and departed.
The next morning the church was filled in honor of the saints’ day, the two martyrs. The priest looked out over the upturned faces of his congregation, each of them waiting (with differing degrees of attentiveness) for him to instruct, inspire, bless, absolve them. The sun shone in glory through the high windows. A fresh-scrubbed day, full of solemn promise. The priest spoke of the saints’ humility and resolve, their willingness to sacrifice their lives as testament to their faith. “Can you even for one moment imagine yourself kneeling, waiting for the sword to cleave your head from your body? And can you then imagine yourself filled, not with fear, but with the greatest joy?”
The Witch Page 9
