Wolves Among Us (19 page)

After a long, empty silence, he looked around, his eyes noting the seat Rose had preferred. He had known her for more than ten years, since her husband came to work the land for the baron who owned much of this village. She had arrived in winter, and Stefan had gone at once to welcome them. Rose had clutched his hand and thanked him, over and over, for such kindness. To a frightened young bride in a new village, a kind priest was a lifeline.

She had attended every service, except when her husband’s recurring illnesses prevented her from leaving their home. He had declined fast after the wedding, leaving her with work and no children for comfort. After the funeral, Rose had continued to stay on in the village, a faithful, friendly face as he said Mass. Two springs had passed since she stopped attending so often, even struggling for words when she sat in the confessional.
I was a poor priest,
he thought,
to fail in giving sustaining words.
He had no idea what was wrong with her. Her faithful, friendly face turned dark and hard, sitting through Masses with an accusing eye.

Eventually he became glad when she did not attend.

But had she been a witch?

Behind the altar, in the back of the church, was a hallway. The sun came in through a single window. Stefan watched as the light illuminated particles of dust floating in the air. They swirled and flew up like sparks. Something had stirred them.

“Hello?” Stefan listened and heard nothing. “Who is there?”

He heard a scratching sound.

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 wood-block 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.

The afternoon warmth faded as evening approached. Mia stepped outside to close the shutters, pulling her cloak in a bit tighter. Alma’s afternoon nap stretched into the mealtime hour. Mia smiled. Alma had played hard today, chasing the kitten through the bursting green leaves, returning every few minutes with a new bloom for Mia.

She had smelled rain as she gathered wood earlier today, watching Alma.
It might rain yet,
she thought. Hard to judge from the dull gray sky, hanging low and listless above.

Bjorn came down the path. “Leave the shutters,” he called. “I’ll attend them.”

Mia stood with her hands at her sides. Her face turned hot, so she looked down, picking her skirts up so she could see the condition of her shoes. Bjorn’s work made him good at spotting a liar. He would be just as fast uncovering betrayal. They were the same thing, really.

He went to work fastening the shutters into place, then squinted up at the sky. “I smelled rain earlier today. ’Tis a shame it did not come in the afternoon and cool us off. I got soaked through with sweat.”

“It was that hot today?” she asked. “I did not think so.” She pressed her lips back together. “Were you working hard?”

“What goes through your mind? What else would I be doing?”

Mia flinched and stepped back.

Bjorn cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I had a lot of work today. Last night Bastion gave me a list of inquiries to be made. He wanted me out the door early this morning, to get it all done.”

“I did not mean to say I doubted you. I didn’t know.”

“Because I didn’t say anything, I know. But Bastion asked me not to. He even asked that I not tell you of that conversation. He didn’t know I would have to defend myself to you. He’s not married. Probably knows nothing about women.”

Mia rested her fingertips against her mouth, bringing her other hand to her throat. She said nothing.

Bjorn sighed. “Rose gave us names. I had to make arrests today, bring women to Bastion for interrogation later.”

“Did you see Bastion today?”

He slammed a fist against the window frame. “Of course I saw Bastion. I am following his instructions.”

“I only meant to ask of your day. I am not trying to provoke you.”

A light rain began. Bjorn put a hand on her back, lightly pushing her toward the door.

Mia tried a new approach. “Last night Bastion said many new things, things I have never heard.”

“Yes.”

“And today? Did he say anything of interest? Anything you would want to share?” Mia paused at the doorway.

“Who cares what he said today? I arrested seven women. I worked hard.”

“Of course.”

“Bastion told me that you would seem skittish today. A lot happened last night. Your mind needs more time to understand it all.”

He pushed past her and went in, heading for the pottage pot. Mia nodded to herself, grateful she had attended to it earlier. Her home looked perfect, swept and tidied, serene with its full pottage pot. She could not bear to be idle today; at every moment she had found work to do. She had not sat down once, save to feed Margarite and Alma.

“I wish Stefan was not so offended by this man,” Bjorn said. “I would like to talk of these things with someone.”

“You can talk to me,” Mia said, in her quiet child’s voice, though it didn’t suit her anymore, she knew. A different version of her had taken over, one who hungered.

Bjorn snorted. “You can listen. But do not offer anything to me in conversation.”

Mia tried not to feel the sting of his words. “I will listen, then.”

“Bastion says women are a necessary evil. He is a bachelor. What does he know of my pain?” Bjorn watched Mia’s face as he laughed. She kept her expression still and empty, and Bjorn settled down into his chair with a bowl of pottage, talking between bites. He didn’t look at her again. “Bastion is a true man of God. His words change me. Today I learned even more. The Devil may occupy the body, but not the soul. A man may be essentially pure and good and right before God and still be driven by lust to a mistress’s bed, all by the power of a witch—a witch with charms, or the Devil occupying his mind and body. ’Tis a wondrous thing. A good man who sins is not always guilty. There is a type of madness, a strange lust that does not come from his own heart, but another’s. It’s as if something possesses him, and in this mad fit, he does things he should not.”

“I don’t know if you are accusing someone or confessing to something,” Mia said.

“Talking with you is a fool’s errand,” he muttered.

Mia’s father had known this moment would come. That is why he hadn’t wanted her to learn those letters, to learn how letters made words and words made a new world. Master Tyndale had taught her the letters, and she had learned how to lay them in the wooden case to make his words and sentences. Mia also printed pamphlets for the church and for profiteers, even spent weeks on one volume titled
The Good Wife’s Guide.
She could read by that time, and she read that one so many times that she committed entire sections to memory.

“You’ll put your father out of business,” Tyndale had laughed. “You’ll stand in the market and recite it all, line by line.”

“Not so. I’ll be married. I’ll be so busy being a good wife that I’ll have no more time for books.”

Tyndale scowled. Mia wrinkled her nose back at him, inching closer to him so he could hear her whisper.

“Unless you would let me sell your book, along with the others in the market,” she said. “You can trust me with it.”

Tyndale took her by the shoulders. “I do not trust the world around you.”

“’Tis not fair.” Mia’s eyes filled with tears.

Tyndale’s tone changed into a soft, soothing comfort. “Mia, I will never have a daughter. Did you know that? I will never marry, never hold a child of my own. You are the only daughter I will ever have. I am afraid you will get hurt.”