Pastor 19

John Playa Ackford had been troubled lately.

Autumn was approaching.

He drained the last mouthful of water from his cup, cupped the wooden bowl in his hands, and sighed quietly. With autumn drawing near, it was almost time for the parish deacon’s regular visitation—just thinking about it left Playa anxious and unsettled.

Over the last two autumns, Playa had already hosted the parish deacon twice—more than enough to know that the large-nosed man soon to return was anything but easy to please. Yet this troublesome figure carried enough authority that the outcome of the third visitation could decisively shape Playa’s future.

“Pastor, the stream water is ready…”

A soft call came from the doorway. Playa nodded gently, set down the wooden cup, and left the small house.

Pastor John, Pastor Playa, Pastor Ackford…

A pastor…

Playa managed a wry smile. Called “Pastor” every day by the villagers, he sometimes felt awkward, for in truth, he was only an acting pastor—only after passing the third visitation would he be genuinely ordained.

But now, it seemed that passing this next visitation might once again require his family to pay an extra price.

Playa understood well enough that not all the blame could be placed on the deacon’s harshness. Whenever he searched his own heart, he had to admit that his performance at the church was far from stellar; even a lenient observer couldn’t call him fully competent.

But was it truly his fault?

He had spent three years now in this remote village of Eclie. The excitement and passion of donning the sacred robe had long faded. Day after day, faced with apathetic villagers and a life of hardship, Playa felt only exhaustion and a deep sense of failure: the feigned piety remained just as feigned, the ignorant villagers were still deaf to his sermons, and the tithe was still as lacking in weight and measure as ever.

In a word, the faith and offerings of the village had changed little, if at all, over the past three years.

For all his efforts, there was hardly any sign of progress or effect.

With such results, Playa could not help but question the choice he had made years ago.

“Pastor…”

Another gentle call brought him back to himself. He had already entered the church, where a small urn of stream water was set out and Andre stood with his head tilted back, looking up at him.

Time for morning prayer.

Playa sighed silently again, took out the holy text, and prepared for the daily ritual.

At that moment, the church doorway darkened slightly, and a small shadow slipped in.

Oh?

Playa turned his head. At the door, a boy of about thirteen or fourteen stood to the right of a pillar, right hand over his chest, gazing quietly toward the altar.

It was a textbook prayer posture. Playa nodded slightly.

The church did not forbid villagers from entering, but their time was precious and labor heavy—few had the leisure to come, especially for morning prayers, when there was no sacrament or other benefit to be gained.

But now, a young boy had entered—at an age yet untouched by many cares. Perhaps, with little else for amusement, curiosity or opportunity had led him to come in and rest.

This was Old William’s youngest son; Playa remembered the boy—his name was Ross. Lately, for reasons unknown, Ross had taken to washing his face and clothes daily, keeping himself very clean and inoffensive.

Ross’s posture was precise and quiet, so Playa paid him no further heed, turning back to his preparations.

There was not much to prepare. A few minutes later, Playa opened the thick parchment tome and began to chant responses with Andre, praising the great Lord.

This continued for about fifteen minutes. Andre struck a small bell, Playa closed the sacred text, lifted the altar, replaced the water with fresh stream water fetched that morning, and thus morning prayer came to an end.

With the daily duty complete, Playa produced another thick parchment volume and motioned Andre to sit on a bench for instruction.

This, too, was a task that demanded diligence.

In birth and circumstance, Andre was much like Playa—a knight’s second son, given to the pastor’s care at a young age to study theology, hoping to secure a holy office when grown.

Perhaps because of this similarity, Playa always taught with care, soon immersing himself in the lesson.

Time passed quickly. After some twenty minutes, the day’s instruction concluded. Playa closed the book, Andre stood, and just then the church door shifted slightly—young Ross quietly slipped out.

Only then did Playa realize Old William’s son had remained until the lesson’s end.

Curious about a theology lesson he surely could not understand?

It struck Playa as odd.

The next day dawned clear. The three roosters belonging to the Shirakel family next to the church began crowing early, waking Playa a good hour or two before usual.

He glanced at the sundial by the church’s side door—still early for prayer. He rose, left the church, and wandered onto the village path.

Perhaps it was the early hour, or perhaps his mind was troubled by the impending third visitation and tithe collection, but Playa walked farther than usual, ambling and pausing, formulating a few admonitions for honest tithing as he went. Unawares, he found himself near the wooden bridge on the west side of the village.

That bridge had long been a thorn in Eclie’s side. Old and worn, battered by rains from both banks, the log bridge was always unsteady—wobbling underfoot and hard to cross. The soft earth at either end had been repaired by several nearby villagers, but to little effect.

As he pondered this, a villager laden with hay approached from across the stream. Reaching the bridge, the man, instead of gingerly treading only on the right log as was customary, boldly stepped on both logs at once, crossing steadily without the bridge so much as shuddering.

Playa couldn’t help exclaiming softly.

The villager had crossed, and upon hearing the sound, looked up and respectfully bowed. “Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Avilia…” Playa placed his right hand on his shoulder and, thinking of the man’s steady crossing, asked, “When was the bridge repaired?”

Avilia, a well-mannered commoner, kept his eyes lowered as he replied, “The day before yesterday, sir.”

“Did you repair it?”

“No, sir.” Avilia shook his head. “I didn’t repair the bridge, and I don’t know who did. But Adra told me that the morning before yesterday, Old William’s boy was here, seemed to be hauling up a lot of stones from below.”

“I see. You may go, Avilia,” Playa said, dismissing him with a benevolent wave. He then approached the bridge and inspected the once-wobbly log, easily spotting several stones packed with earth beside it.

Hauling stones? Could young Ross repair a bridge?

Playa found it odd.

After his walk, it was soon time for morning prayer. Andre brought the stream water, and as preparations finished, the church doorway darkened once more. Playa looked up—there stood Ross again, beside the pillar, right hand to his shoulder, head slightly bowed.

Oh?

Playa paused momentarily, but with prayer about to begin and Ross quiet as ever, he opened the thick tome without much thought.

Over the next few days, every morning as Playa began prayer, he found Ross quietly in place by the pillar, only leaving after the lesson with Andre had ended.

Playa’s curiosity grew.

Yet, despite this, he never spoke a word to Ross.

For this was not the first time he’d seen villagers attend morning prayer daily. When he first arrived in Eclie, several villagers had done so—only for Playa to discover, after getting to know them, that their attendance was a ploy to gain some advantage from him.

To serve the Lord and pray sincerely was every lamb’s basic duty, with no cause for special favor.

Though he doubted a boy of thirteen or fourteen could harbor such schemes, Playa had no intention of showing undue enthusiasm or favor.

Children are naturally odd; perhaps Ross was curious, perhaps merely posturing. Playa did not want to be soon disappointed. If Ross’s devotion was sincere, the Lord would bless and watch over him in His mercy.

The Lord is almighty.

Playa pressed his hands gently to both shoulders.

Another afternoon, as the sun began to set, Playa sat on a bench near the center of the church, gazing at the altar in silent contemplation, when a villager tiptoed in.

“Reverend Pastor.”

Playa turned slowly. “Good day, Wolf. What is it?”

Under the pastor’s gaze, Wolf grew nervous, his right hand unconsciously reaching for the bench beside him.

“Ahem…” Playa coughed softly.

Wolf quickly remembered that only in the most important situations could someone of his station touch the church furniture. He withdrew his hand awkwardly, rubbing it with the other. “Reverend Pastor, my wife fell in the middle stream fetching water last night. This morning she’s been talking nonsense and hasn’t woken up. Please, sir, grant us holy water.”

“It is the Lord who grants the holy water.”

Long used to such superstitions and misunderstandings, Playa shook his head helplessly, went to the altar, and after a few minutes of chanting from the sacred text, ladled out a cup of holy water and poured it into the small wooden bowl Wolf respectfully held out.

“The Lord is almighty.” Wolf bowed, slowly turned, and prepared to leave.

“Wait.”

Wolf turned back. The pastor pointed to the rake in his right hand. “It’s time to cut hay, isn’t it? Why are you using that? Has your sickle broken? The church has a few you can borrow.”

Wolf’s grim face brightened. “Thank you, sir, but I’ve already finished cutting hay—my sickle is fine. I brought this to clear the brambles at the west field’s edge.”

“The brambles at the west field?” Playa recalled the stubborn thickets there—impossible to cut, dig up, or pull out by oxen. He eyed Wolf’s rake. “That’ll do the job?”

“No, sir,” Wolf shook his head quickly. “It’s just handy for gathering leaves and weeds. Old William’s Ross thought up a way—piled up some grass, dug holes, set fires in several places at once. Their brambles burned away days ago and haven’t grown back.”

Ross again?

“I see. You may go, Wolf,” Playa said, waving, his curiosity growing alongside his puzzlement.

That subtle, growing curiosity reached its peak near dusk.

As Andre prepared supper and Playa took his customary pre-meal walk toward the east side of the village, he was surprised to see Holset, Freeman, and Richard, with their sons, sweating as they moved stones and earth, blocking the road with their work.

Seeing the pastor at leisure, all the men quickly stopped, bowed deeply.

“Old Holset, what are you doing?”

“Sir,” Holset raised his hand to his balding head, pretending to tip an invisible hood. “We’re fixing the road before supper.”

“Fixing the road?” It was only ten or so paces, and with so many working, it wouldn’t take long—but roadwork concerned the whole village. Why were just these three families at it?

Playa couldn’t hide his surprise. “You three families are fixing the road alone?”

“Not just us, sir,” said Freeman, bowing again. “Avilia, Wolf, and Old William are working ahead too.”

“Oh?” Playa was even more astonished. “Why the urge to fix this rough stretch now?”

“Sir…” Freeman bowed once more. “Laziness is a sin to be avoided. Laziness makes one ugly and forever denies beauty…”

Laziness is a sin to be avoided. Laziness makes one ugly and forever denies beauty…

Those were his own words, but had they only remembered them today?

Playa was at a loss for words until Richard, ever forthright, cut in. “Sir, we’re all hauling the last hay these days. Old William said we should patch the road, so we don’t have to keep fixing the carts—it wastes too much time.”

Old William…

Thinking of William’s usual taciturnity, Playa couldn’t connect the idea of road repairs with the old tenant. Considering Freeman’s scatterbrained ways, he doubted the man could recall his sermons.

Given all this…

The unusual behavior of Old William and Freeman, together with the fact that his recent lessons for Andre had been about commandments and sins, led Playa naturally to think of the small figure who had been quietly attending every morning in the church.

Perhaps, it was time to speak with the boy at last?