The Scribe(15)
“Be grateful to God that in His boundless mercy He has taken pity on us today,” he decreed. “Accustomed to living in complacency, to abandoning yourselves to the pleasures of your desires, you forget with despicable ease the reason why you were put on this earth. Your pious appearances, your prayers and offerings, your clouded understanding. These things make you believe that what you possess is the result of your own efforts. You insist on desiring women who are not your own. You envy others’ good fortune. And you allow your ears to be pulled from your head if it means obtaining the wealth that you so covet. You think that life is a banquet that you have been invited to, a feast in which to savor the finest meats and liqueurs. But only a selfish brain, a weak soul oozing ignorance, is capable of forgetting that nobody but the Holy Father is the owner of our lives. And just as a father thrashes his children when they disobey—and just as a bailiff cuts the tongue from a liar or severs the limbs of a poacher—God corrects those who forget His commandments with the most terrible of punishments.”
The church was filled with murmuring.
“Hunger calls at our door,” he continued. “It seeps into our homes and devours our children. The rain floods our crops. Disease decimates our livestock. And still you complain? God sends us signs, and you lament His ways? Pray! Pray until your souls cough up the phlegm of your greed and hatred. Pray for the glory of the Lord. He has taken lives today, including Caelius and Theresa, freeing them from the sinful world that you have built. Now that their souls have left the corruption of the flesh, you tear your hair out and cry like women. Heed His warnings, I say, for they will not be the last. God is showing you the way. Forget your hardships and fear Him, for you will not find the feast that you crave in this world. Pray! Beg for forgiveness, and perhaps one day you will sit at His table, for those who renounce the Lord will be consumed in the abyss of damnation, until the end of time.”
Wilfred went silent. Over the years he had come to understand that, whatever the cause, the best argument was eternal damnation. Nonetheless, Korne frowned and stepped forward.
“If you will allow me,” he said, raising his voice. “Since my conversion, I have always thought myself a good Christian: I pray when I rise in the morning. I fast every Friday, and I follow the Lord’s commandments.” He looked around at those gathered as if seeking their approval. “Today God has taken my son Caelius: a healthy and robust boy, a good child. I accept the ways of the Lord, and I pray to Him for my son’s soul. I also pray for my own, for my family’s, and for those of almost everyone present.” He swallowed and turned to Gorgias. “But the culprit of this tragedy does not deserve a single prayer to ease her punishment. That girl should never have set foot in my workshop. If God uses death to teach us, perhaps we should use His teachings. And if it is God that judges the dead, let us be the ones to judge the living.”
The church filled with shouts and cries: “Nihil est tam volucre quam maledictum—nihil facilius emiltitur, nihil citius excipitur, nihil latius dissipatur.”
Wilfred interjected at the top of his voice. “Poor illitterati: Nothing moves quicker than slander. Nothing issues forth from us so easily. Nothing is accepted so readily. And nothing spreads farther across the face of the earth. I have already heard the rumors surrounding Theresa. You all say the same thing, yet none of you know the truth of what happened. Give up this falseness and ignominy—because there are no secrets that do not come out sooner or later. Nihil est opertum quod non revelavitur, et ocultum quod non scietur.”
“Lies, you say?” responded Korne, waving his arms around. “I suffered the wrath of that daughter of Cain myself. Her hatred caused the fire that has destroyed my life. And I will say it here, in God’s house. My son Caelius would have borne witness to it had he not died because of that girl. Everyone who was there can attest to it and I swear before the Almighty that they will do so when Gorgias and his family face judgment.” And without waiting for Wilfred’s consent, he lifted Caelius’s body onto his shoulders and left the church with his family following.
Gorgias waited until the rest of the congregation had left the building. He wanted to talk to Wilfred about Theresa’s burial and he knew that there would not be a better time. Wilfred’s words had come as a great surprise to him. Rutgarda had told him about the rumors that pointed to Theresa as the perpetrator of the fire, but the count’s warning seemed to suggest it was far from an established fact. While Rutgarda waited outside, discussing preparations for the burial with some neighbors, Gorgias approached Wilfred and was surprised to see him stroking the backs of his hounds. He wondered how a man without legs could handle those ferocious beasts with such ease.
“I am sorry about your daughter,” said Wilfred, shaking his head. “In truth she was a good girl.”
“She was all I had—my whole life.” His eyes filled with tears.
“People think there is only one death, but that is not entirely true. Every time a child dies, the death is also felt by the parents, and this in turn gives rise to a painful irony: The emptier life is, the heavier it becomes. But your wife is still young. Perhaps you could yet…”
Gorgias shook his head. They had tried many times, but God did not want to bless them with another child.
“My only desire is that Theresa receives a burial worthy of the Christian that she always was. I know that what I ask of you may be difficult now, but I beg you to heed my request.”