Wolves Among Us (32 page)

“This is a sanctuary, Mia. Once inside the church, the law has no more power over you. You are safe from condemnation. You will not die.”

The women looked at each other, reaching for each other’s hands, embracing, weeping. Erick bowed his head in prayer, and Stefan gave thanks as he sighed, trying to catch his breath.

Stefan waited for Erick to lift his head before speaking.

“There is a story. I found it in a book.” Stefan smirked, catching himself still afraid to admit that one secret. “I have a Bible. One of the forbidden ones. A Tyndale.”

“You never told me,” Erick said.

“A man left it here, long ago. I never found out his name.”

Stefan saw Mia trying to sit up and listen.

“There is a story about a grain of wheat, a seed of what could become a harvest, food for many hungry people. But it was only a seed when our story opens. The seed must choose between life and death. Is it better to remain whole and avoid death? Or is it better to allow the farmer to cast it to the ground, to force it under the earth, where it will be subject to heat, and flood, and the pain of its hard outer shell splitting?”

Erick frowned. “The answer depends on who is listening to the story. If someone is hungry, they want a harvest.”

Stefan nodded and wiped his brow. Although the room was cold, heat was creeping up from his chest, making his cheeks burn. “And the seed has no reason to desire its own death. Unless it desires a harvest that others will eat more than its own life.”

Erick shook his head. “I do not understand.”

“Neither did I. You will, in time. But run now, and bring Alma to Mia. We still have work to do.”

Erick brought Alma from the cellar, where he had hidden her. Alma ran for her mother at once, kissing her face and stroking her hair while Mia tried to hold back her sobs.

Stefan could not watch without tearing up himself, and he needed a clear mind. Looking at the plain window of the church, he saw the gray sky pressed down in a long, single layer over the last of the afternoon’s white clouds, streaming pink rays to the earth below. Stefan looked out the window from inside the church, grateful now he had never had the prestige and money to afford stained glass treatments for every window. He only had one stained glass window, and he had not been thankful for even that back then.

He wondered what color the sky had been in Gethsemane, what Jesus thought as He looked up. Jesus knew what hid behind the dull, gray clouds of earth. Jesus knew the splendor of a raging sun. Stefan wondered if that made Gethsemane harder, or easier, to bear.

He returned to caring for the women. Erick stayed near his side, diligent in his attentions, not minding the stains that smeared across his clothes, the sweat that rose along his hairline as he lifted the weak to help them drink. Stefan realized then that Erick had always known the Shepherd’s secret. He watched as Erick continued, carrying water for washing faces, fetching vinegar for the wounds. He tore apart his linen belt, using it to hold up Mary’s arm, which looked broken.

His tenderness surprised Stefan. He had never taught him that, never done that himself. But he was grateful. Erick had been listening for God all those long years while Stefan slept. Erick had grown into more than a man. He had become a shepherd. The thought brought Stefan another outpouring of peace.

Mia nuzzled Alma with her cheek, clearly thankful Erick had washed her face. She still couldn’t move her arms. Alma looked up at Stefan, a curious expression on her face. She did not look afraid, though her mother was in pain and had been abused, though angry villagers waited outside the church. Alma just smiled at the image of Jesus in a painting hanging from a wall near the altar. Alma looked at it as if it was a holy relic, a shy awe on her little face.

“The women are hungry,” Erick told him. “What should we feed them?”

“Give them what we have with us. Do not go to the dormitory for fresh supplies. Do not leave them again.”

“We have nothing left, save the bread and wine for the Sacrament.”

“There must be something else. Check in the cupboards.”

“Already did.”

“Ah, Lord,” Stefan muttered. “I had hoped you would make this easier on me.” He could preserve his proper office or give life.

He motioned to the altar. “Fetch the Host and wine. We will give them the Sacrament.”

Stefan fetched a clean white linen and laid it across the altar, waiting for Erick to bring the bread. He opened the wine, inhaling the aroma of earth and grapes and sun.

The women smelled the bread as it went past, reaching for it, groaning in pangs of hunger. Stefan watched Erick pick his way through the women, gently removing the grasping fingers that caught him by his shirt hem.

“Almighty God,” Stefan began, “the body of Christ, broken for our sins.”

He motioned for Erick to begin tearing the bread. There was not enough to feed these starving women. Stefan had counted eight when he left the jail, and until their faces had been washed, he had struggled to remember each as she truly was. Now with the others, he saw they were all his women, the women who had sat through many Masses and sermons and lectures, the women who probably knew his words by heart and had profited none.

“Divide it between them,” he whispered. “The body of our Lord Jesus Christ, given for thee,” he said for the women to hear.

Erick began circulating the bread among the women, trying to hold his legs steady as they reached for bread. Dame Alice took a larger share but dumped it in her lap and began feeding it to Mia. Mia only took one bite, turning her head to resist more.

“Feed Alma first,” she whispered.

Stefan knelt in front of her. “Alma has been well fed by Erick. Do not worry any longer about her. It is time for you to regain your strength.” He took a piece of bread from Dame Alice’s hand and pressed it to Mia’s mouth. She did not raise her eyes to look at him, so he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand as he spoke. She looked exhausted, and he worried she had no more strength to eat.

“Eat, Mia.”

He fed her, then stroked Dame Alice’s arm before he stood to attend to the others.

All the other women ate with ferocity. They kept reaching for more, making the panic rise in Stefan’s belly. He had nothing else to feed them. With nothing else to do, he moved on to the cup.

“The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, shed for thee.”

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?”

Bastion held up his hands for silence. “This is a serious accusation. We must let Stefan reveal the truth by himself. By his own actions, he will decide if he lives or dies. As you are all my witnesses, I will do nothing until Stefan tells us who he really is.”

Everyone’s faces turned to stare at Stefan, eagerly devouring every little twitch and bead of sweat on his forehead. They were all he ever could have wanted in a congregation. The irony of the moment made the corner of his mouth twitch.

“I could tell you who I am,” Stefan said. “But of late, I have discovered someone more interesting. He is the Good Shepherd, and He chooses to protect His sheep with His life. He offers forgiveness for sins and grace, which is a far greater wonder than any magic you could imagine.”

Bastion pointed at Stefan and cried out, “Either open those doors and bring out those women, or you will stand convicted of witchcraft. You will be the first to die.”

“Do you know the difference between you and me?” Stefan whispered. “At first, I thought it was education, or study. Or wisdom. But now I know. You are compelled to do things you should not do. I am invited to do what I must.”

Bastion whipped around, grabbing a torch from a man standing below. Pointing it at Stefan’s face, he waved it side to side.

Stefan turned away from its searing heat, his eyes watering. He heard the silence sweep over the crowd. He heard only the sound of the torch snapping and popping and the hiss of flame. Bastion’s leering face, distorted by the flame, shimmered in its waves. Stefan stretched himself further across the doors, the wood digging into his back as he wrapped his arm through the handles. He prayed Erick would stay strong and resist coming after Stefan. Stefan had to do this. He had to keep those doors closed until Bastion was gone and the women were safe.