Stefan grunted loudly, ignoring his quivering hands, and stood, walking past the altar, approaching the hallway. The sound intensified. He stepped into the hallway, his hands curled into fists.
A cat scratched at the door at the end of the hall, wanting to be let out. Stefan’s shoulders slumped down, and he laughed, scooping it up, ruffling the fur around its ears. The cat meowed in outrage. A big female, probably just had kittens, too, Stefan judged by her loose, flapping belly. He opened the door and placed it on the ground, letting it flee before he shut the door once more. He didn’t turn around. What he really feared, the course of all his deepest dread, rested behind him.
In the forlorn hours of the night, years ago, a stranger had come to the church. Stefan had fallen asleep on a pew before the altar, too tired from his midnight prayers to walk back to the dormitory. A noise disturbed his sleep, and he woke to find a cloaked man placing something on the altar. Stefan sat up.
“What are you doing?” he had called.
The man turned, and Stefan looked into his face. He would never forget the man. The stranger had haunted eyes with dark circles underneath. His face looked gaunt, his body thin like a saint who fed on suffering. Stefan reached for his bag to offer the man a coin, but the man fled back down the aisle and out into the night. Stefan rose to examine the gift left by the stranger on the altar. It had been a book. Stefan opened the cover and looked inside, as the hairs rose along his arms. He could be excommunicated if caught with this.
Stefan considered burning it, simply walking down the aisle and throwing it into the fireplace in the dormitory. No one would ever know. The flames would destroy all evidence. He would only have memory, and memories could prove nothing.
Stefan stood, his palms pressed against the altar, staring down at the book he had been so thoroughly warned against. Tearing the empire apart even now, the book ripped apart churches and families. No one disputed that it was God’s Word. But the Word became a sword flashing back and forth across all kingdoms, and people disputed God’s will. Was it wise to read it? Was it best left to the educated priests?
Stefan lifted the book to carry it to the dormitory, but his legs did not move. He held it in midair, deciding.
He felt a clear and certain piercing in his soul. Truth was the one incurable wound in this world, the rip in the wineskin. If he opened the book, if he set his mind on understanding God as revealed in these words, there might be no end to the suffering in this village. Men like Bastion persecuted witches, but other men burned those who dared read this book.
Stefan carried it into the hall and hid it in an empty cupboard. Stefan had always hated that cupboard. He prayed for riches to fill it with serving pieces or relics like the other churches had. God never seemed to hear those prayers.
Remembering that night, Stefan lifted the heavy book and set it on the top of the cupboard. The table sat under a good window, and the sun allowed for perfect reading. Straightening his shoulders, he opened it. He thumbed through the pages for the first time, examining the Tyndale Bible that caused so much outrage throughout the empire. Stefan stepped back, rubbing his hands down his legs.
“I cannot believe I am doing this,” he said, kneeling. “God, treat me as a child. And forgive me as such, if what I do here is wrong. I have no idea where to find what I need. I do not even know if it is in this book. But I know that Bastion’s words do not seem right, yet no one can argue with him. If this is indeed Your true nature, to burn and scourge, to ask your saints to punish the sinners, then show me. But if Bastion is wrong, if You are indeed a kind and gentle God, even to the worst among us, show me that.”
Stefan stood and opened the book once more. His eyes fell to a woodblock illustration, a scene of sorrow and grief. A blade had carved into soft wood to show Christ crucified, His mother mourning at the foot of the cross, His disciples staring helplessly. In the background, a triumphant rooster crowed.
Turning the page quickly, he saw another woodblock of an empty tomb. A huge stone rested against the edges of the frame. Inside the tomb a great, gaping hole slashed into the wood by the unseen artist, Stefan saw darkness. Nothing remained inside it except for grave clothes, discarded. His stomach twinged. He flipped the pages once more and saw another woodblock, an illustration of Christ, triumphant, broken hands stretched out to the people. Stefan worked to sound out the strange words, words in his own language:
“Peace be with you. As the Father has sent Me, I am sending you.”
Stefan glanced over his shoulder, thinking of his village. They had no peace. Their graves remained filled. Where was Christ in this village?
Erick rang the bells for Mass. Stefan replaced the book and went back to his work. He had to tend to people, not riddles.