Erick offered the cup to each woman, running back to Stefan for it to be refilled. Stefan prayed the wine would hold out. The women gulped, wine running down their chins, drinking and gasping for air, not enough wine in the world to satisfy their thirst. Erick ran back one last time to have the cup refilled, and Stefan obliged.
Stefan heard people gathering outside for the burning. Stefan looked down at his altar, crumbs of bread and drops of wine making it an improper mess. He once would have been ashamed to let the bishop see his altar like this. He looked out at the women, who were rubbing their stomachs in awe, having been filled beyond measure after their great hunger. Stefan looked down at the mess and understood.
It was enough. God had always been enough to satisfy all their hungers and all their questions. He had been enough, even when prayers seemed unanswered and lies grew in power.
He nodded, chuckling in reply. Little arms wrapped around his legs. He bent down and hugged Alma back as she kissed his cheek.
“I must do something for you now,” he told her. “Whatever happens, take good care of your mother for me.”
Alma stood, walking to the picture of Jesus, her upraised face illuminated in the flickering torchlight. She looked as if she belonged to another world. Love radiated from her face as she took in the image of her Lord.
Stefan smiled as he watched her, washing his hands and face in the water bowl behind him, straightening his robe. He took off his belt and bag and laid them on the steps beneath the altar. More torchlights floated into view, fuzzy yellow orbs illuminating the windows. The crowd outside grew.
He went to Erick’s side, whispering in his ear so none of the women would hear. “I am going out there. Lock the door behind me. Let no one in until it is over. Do you understand?”
“You can’t go out there.”
“Do not unlock the doors until it is safe. No matter what happens. Do you understand?”
“Burn the witches!” came a cry. “Let the burnings begin with Mia and her cursed child!”
The women inside did not move. Stefan watched their terrified faces, like foxes caught in a trap at the sound of a hunter’s footfall. He could not make them understand, not with their fear. He did not even try to speak. He walked to the church doors and threw them open to wild cheers from the people, the crowd of a size he would expect for an Easter Mass. They were hungry, their lean faces menacing in the torchlight.
“Come on, then,” someone called.
Stefan walked down two steps, holding his palms out, motioning for patience. He heard the doors slam behind him, the heavy bolts sliding into place. Good boy.
“Do you want a death?” he called, and they answered with screams of encouragement. “Do you want curses broken? Debts settled? Justice paid in blood?”
“Yes!” the people yelled, their torches dripping, their eyes dark pools.
“Sin demands blood; in this you are right. But you are wrong to demand it of those poor women. God has already given you the blood that washes away all sins.”
“Come down here, Father.” Bastion lurched through the crowd, still drunk from the sleeping tincture Stefan had given him, his eyelids swollen and half lowered, pushing aside the people in his way. “Come and join your people, you frightened little worm.” Stefan marveled at the man’s strength to overcome the tincture Stefan had given him. Bastion was here for blood, and Stefan had nothing else to stop him.
“No.”
“Bring us Mia!” Bastion called. “We want her first!”
“No.”
Bastion staggered up the steps, his strength punching through the stupor. He grabbed Stefan by the collar, throwing him against the doors. The handles gouged Stefan’s back, expelling his breath. He pushed to the side, away from them.
“Open your church. Bring out Mia.”
“Never.” Stefan saw flecks of black swimming in the sides of his vision.
Bastion turned to the crowd. “Father Stefan called for me, begging my help, and now he will not let me have a witch to burn. Why is that?”
No one had answers. Stefan did not recognize many of the faces. Most were not his people. But they were anxious for blood or the amusement of another’s suffering.
“What if?” Bastion called. Stefan thought he had not heard correctly, so he shook his head, careful to keep his back to the church doors.
The crowd leaned in.
“What if … the Devil has made a disciple of this priest?”
Gasps raised up from the crowd. Some nodded, eager to believe, eager to know what punishment would be inflicted.
“Prove yourself to us, Father Stefan. Who is your god? Who do you worship? Bring me the witches, and we will know you are a good Christian.”
“No.” Stefan would not debate him. Bastion’s fury did not disturb him as much as the fear of Bastion’s slippery words. Stefan dug his feet in, bracing his back against the wood, his legs straddling both doors.
“Is he one of them?” a woman called out from the crowd. “Is he tainted?”