“Yes,” replied the boy. “Whenever Father curses these weak arms of mine. But I don’t know whether he would like me to be a priest. And then there’s that other matter, as you know,” he murmured.
“Dispensation can be sought for your birth,” said the priest calmly. “Perhaps we might journey south together sometime, Orm, you and I.”
“Tell me more, Uncle,” Orm implored.
“That I will.” Gunnulf put his hands on the armrests of his chair and stared into the fire.
As I wandered there, seeing nothing but reminders of the tortured witnesses and thinking of the intolerable torments they had borne in the name of Jesus, a terrible temptation came over me. I thought about the way the Savior had hung nailed to the cross all those hours. But his disciples had suffered inexpressible torments for many days. Women watched their children tortured to death before their very eyes; delicate young maidens had their flesh raked from their bones with iron combs; young boys were forced to confront beasts of prey and enraged oxen. Then it occurred to me that many of these people had suffered more than Christ himself.
“I pondered this until I felt that my heart and mind would burst. But finally I received the light that I had prayed and begged for. And I realized that just as they had suffered, so should we all have the courage to suffer. Who would be so foolish not to accept pain and torment if this was the way to a faithful and steadfast bridegroom who waits with open arms, his breast bloody and burning with love.
“But he loved humankind. And that’s why he died as the bridegroom who has gone off to rescue his bride from the robbers’ hands. And they bind him and torture him to death, but he sees his sweetest friend sitting at the table with his executioners, bantering with them and mocking his pain and his loyal love.”
Gunnulf Nikulauss?n hid his face in his hands.
“Then I realized that this mighty love sustains everything in the world—even the fire in Hell. For if God wanted to, He could take our souls by force; then we would be completely powerless in His grasp. But since He loves us the way the bridegroom loves the bride, He will not force her; if she won’t embrace Him willingly, then He must allow her to flee and to shun Him. I have also thought that perhaps no soul is lost for all eternity. For I think every soul must desire this love, but it seems too dearly bought to let go of every other precious possession for the sake of this love alone. When the fire has consumed all other will that is rebellious and hostile to God, then at last the will toward God, even if it was no bigger in a person than one nail in a whole house, shall remain inside the soul, just as the iron remains in a burned-out ruin.”
“Gunnulf—” Kristin rose halfway to her feet. “I’m afraid.”
Gunnulf looked up, pale, with blazing eyes.
“I was also afraid. For I understood that the torment of God’s love will never end as long as men and maidens are born on this earth, and that He must be afraid of losing their souls—as long as He daily and hourly surrenders his body and his blood on thousands of altars and there are those who reject the sacrifice.
“And I was afraid of myself because I, an impure man, had served at his altar, said mass with impure lips, and held up the Host with impure hands. And I felt that I was like the man who led his beloved to a place of shame and betrayed her.”
He caught Kristin in his arms when she fainted, and he and Orm carried the unconscious woman over to the bed.
After a while she opened her eyes; she sat up and covered her face with her hands. She burst into tears and uttered a wild and plaintive cry, “I can’t, Gunnulf, I can’t—when you talk like that, then I realize that I can never . . .”
Gunnulf took her hand. But she turned away from the man’s pale and agitated face.
“Kristin. You cannot settle for anything less than the love that is between God and the soul.
“Kristin, look around at what the world is like. You who have given birth to two children—have you never thought about the fact that every child who is born is baptized in blood, and the first thing a person breathes on this earth is the smell of blood? Don’t you think that as their mother you should put all your effort into one thing? To ensure that your sons do not fall back on that first baptismal pact with the world but instead hold on to the other pact, which they affirmed with God at the baptismal font.”
She sobbed and sobbed.
“I’m afraid of you,” she said again. “Gunnulf, when you talk like that, then I realize I’ll never be able to find my way to peace.”
“God will find you,” said the priest quietly. “Stay calm and do not flee from Him who has been seeking you before you even existed in your mother’s womb.”
He sat in silence for a moment near the edge of the bed. Then he asked calmly and evenly whether he should wake Ingrid and ask the woman to come and help her undress. Kristin shook her head.
He made the sign of the cross over her three times. He bade Orm good night and went into the alcove where he slept.
Orm and Kristin undressed. The boy seemed deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. After Kristin was in bed, he came over to her. He looked at her tear-stained face and asked whether he should sit with her until she fell asleep.
“Oh, yes . . . oh, no, Orm, you must be tired, you who are so young. It must be very late.”
Orm stood there a little longer.
“Don’t you think it’s strange,” he said suddenly. “Father and Uncle Gunnulf—they’re so unlike each other—and yet they’re alike in a certain way.”
Kristin lay there, thinking to herself, Yes, perhaps. They’re unlike any other men.
A moment later she was asleep, and Orm went over to the other bed. He took off the rest of his clothes and crept under the covers. There was a linen sheet underneath and linen cases on the pillows. With pleasure the boy stretched out on the smooth, cool bed. His heart was pounding with excitement at these new adventures which his uncle’s words had pointed out to him. Prayers, fasts, everything he had practiced because he had been taught to do so, suddenly seemed new to him—weapons in a glorious war for which he longed. Perhaps he would become a monk—or a priest—if he could obtain dispensation because he had been born of adultery.
Gunnulf’s bed was a wooden bench with a sheet made from a hide spread over a little straw and a single, small pillow; he had to stretch himself out full length to sleep. The priest took off his surcoat, lay down wearing his undergarments, and pulled the thin homespun blanket over himself.
He left the little candlewick burning that was twined around an iron stake.
His own words had oppressed him with fear and uneasiness.