50 The Secular and the Sacred

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The village of Eckley was deep in slumber.

On this moonless night, darkness blanketed every corner. Only a few buildings in the center of the village occasionally let slip a thread of faint light.

Inside a stone-walled room, a stray breath of wind found its way in. At once, the burning rushlights atop the low stone table flickered, and the shadows cast on the walls began to dance.

“Oh—”

From the left of the table, the main form within one of those shadows, Ifrit, the village steward, hastily rose and cupped his hands around the flames.

Once the fire steadied, the faces of the others seated around the table—Espiel, the constable; Baryes, the agricultural officer; and Playa, the priest—grew clear once more.

This was the priest’s quarters within the church. At this late hour, the four had gathered for one reason: the village’s draft oxen had suffered numerous injuries, and the pressing matter at hand was how to address the aftermath.

The small dish holding the rushlights had only begun to accumulate a thin layer of ash; their conversation had just begun.

“…In summary, thirty-six oxen are injured in various places, most are bleeding and won’t be fit for work for at least ten days. Five are badly hurt—the outlook… the outlook is uncertain… That’s the situation… Lord Baryes, Father Playa, my report is finished…”

“Mm…” Baryes nodded slightly, motioning Ifrit to sit, then turned to the priest, whose expression had grown grave. “Father Playa, that’s the situation. Any questions?”

“Alas, poor village, poor villagers… The Lord is almighty…” murmured Playa, gently intoning a sacred phrase and shaking his head.

“Indeed… The Lord is almighty…” Baryes sighed in turn. “Well, it’s happened. There’s much to be done. Father, your thoughts?”

Keenly catching the crux of Baryes’s words, Playa’s brow furrowed. “Much to be done? To what do you refer?”

“Summer labor. Plowing.” Baryes’s reply was direct, without any attempt at euphemism.

“Summer labor… plowing…” Playa’s frown deepened, his expression shifting from heavy to grave. “You mean…”

“It’s not what I mean…” Baryes gestured westward. “The baron’s position is that summer labor must not be delayed, and plowing must be hastened.”

“No.” Playa shook his head at once. “Most of the oxen are injured. The summer labor simply cannot continue—”

“And why not?” Baryes sat up, eyes intense. “The villagers are unharmed, and it is not strictly necessary for oxen to draw the plows.”

“No. The villagers cannot possibly pull the communal plows themselves.”

“We can use smaller plows.”

“Even with smaller plows, human labor would exhaust the villagers within a few days.”

“Father Playa, the people of Eckley are strong folk. You underestimate your own flock…”

“No matter how strong, they are still but sheep, and sheep cannot replace oxen in the fields. Lord Baryes, give up this notion—it is impossible.”

“Very well, Father Playa. The villagers are fortunate indeed to have a priest like you…” Baryes nodded, but his face betrayed little disappointment. “Perhaps you’re right—plows are meant for oxen, and we should not contravene their intended design…”

“In that case, I shall simply ask that all healthy oxen be temporarily removed from their owners and placed under communal care, lest the villagers, in their clumsiness, cause them further harm—”

“No!” Playa shook his head even more firmly. “This is the most crucial time of the summer. The villagers’ own plots must also be tilled. The last healthy oxen cannot do only communal work—”

“They must do only communal work!” Baryes’s voice rose. “Even then, it will not be enough!”

“You are correct!” Playa’s voice rose as well. “Even so, the work cannot be finished, and if it could, the remaining oxen would be ruined! It’s not the villagers’ clumsiness that injures the oxen—but yours!”

“…You… The oxen must be kept together! Let the villagers haul their own plows for their own plots. Perhaps when working for themselves, your flock will surprise you…”

“Before I am surprised, the Church will surprise you first!”

“All right, all right, dear Father Playa, perhaps we should calm ourselves. Our goal is not to quarrel.” At the mention of “the Church,” Baryes hesitated and retreated again. “Listen, Father, the villagers may continue to use their own oxen—but they are absolutely forbidden from lending them to others.”

“This…”

Imagining the consequences of a hundred families sharing the last ten healthy oxen, Playa pondered in silence for some time, then finally nodded, albeit uncertainly. “…Perhaps that will do…”

“The injured oxen must not be used by villagers until fully healed!”

“This…” Again, after a long pause, Playa nodded, hesitant. “…Perhaps that will do…”

“After recovery, oxen must first be used to complete all communal summer labor before villagers may use them for their own plots—”

“That is impossible!” Playa’s voice rose sharply. “With the oxen injured, the villagers’ own tilling is already delayed. If they must wait until all communal work is done, there will be no harvest next year!”

“The baron will compensate the Church’s tithe next year, even double it if need be—”

“That’s not the point! If there’s no harvest, half the villagers will starve. The baron may make up next year’s tithe—but what about the year after, and the year after that?”

“But—”

“No ‘but’s… none at all…”

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Playa shook his head resolutely, his face brooking no discussion. “The Lord is almighty… Lord Baryes, abandon this dreadful idea. Even if you care nothing for the Church’s tithe or its wrath, think of next year’s summer labor, and the communal plowing in years to come…”

“I know what you’re thinking: buying slaves. Slaves are cheap now, but what if there’s no war next year? Or if the slaves revolt? Leave a shred of mercy, Lord Baryes, search your heart—perhaps you’ll find a little compassion! If all the villagers die, what good does that do for you or the baron?”

“My lord!”

Faced with such reproach, Baryes’s face darkened to iron. “Father Playa, my dear nephew, you are merciful indeed. You merely refuse to let the villagers pull the plows they pull every year, refuse to let the few pitiable healthy oxen be gathered, refuse to let the villagers fulfill their proper summer labor… Oh, and you graciously allow the villagers not to use their damned injured oxen for now!”

“Leave a shred of mercy! My dear nephew! Yes, perhaps the villagers starving is no use to you! But what of your uncle, your aunt, your cousins, and the baron who gave you or at least helped you to your position—if they all starve before your eyes, does that do you any good?”

“You—” Playa flushed with anger. “Is this my fault, in any case?”

“No, it is not your fault. Nor does the baron seek the cause of the oxen’s injuries, only a solution to the summer labor in the wake of such losses.”

“The villagers cannot possibly finish all communal labor before working their own plots!”

“Is that so? Perhaps we can—”

A new round of negotiation began…

And so, beside the low table, the conversation ebbed and flowed, sometimes gentle, but for the most part fierce and angry.

The little flame in the center flickered at times; the ashes in the rushlight dish grew ever deeper. Time slipped by, while worldly interests and sacred duties clashed again and again, and yet little progress was made toward a solution.

The topic of their debate—be it discussion, negotiation, or outright quarrel—inevitably drifted, ever more caught up in “the reasons the baron does not care about now,” and the true origin of the disaster: the injury of the village’s oxen…

Then, beside Baryes and Playa, a timid voice suddenly piped up: “If the oxen are hurt, Father, can’t you heal them?”

Chapter Fifty: The Secular and the Sacred (Part II)

Nonsense!

Sensing trouble, Playa was about to scold, but two figures had already leapt to their feet.

“What did you say?” The agricultural officer’s breathing quickened, visibly excited; healing the oxen meant hope for summer labor and next year’s harvest.

“Heal what?” The steward, too, was flushed and eager; healing the oxen meant saving losses and reversing the village’s misfortune.

“I… I…”

With both officials staring, young Andre, clutching his little jar of stream water, shrank back a few steps and looked helplessly to the priest. “Teacher… Didn’t you teach little Ross how to heal the cow…?”

“Andre!” Playa’s voice rose sharply.

But it was too late. Baryes, Ifrit, and the ever-silent constable Espiel—all six of their eyes were now fixed unwaveringly on the priest.

The stone room fell silent. After a while, Baryes broke the stillness. “Father Playa, my dear nephew, did I hear your pupil mention healing?”

Playa remained silent, his expression shifting, mind racing through the day little Ross had come to him for advice.

What should he say?

Was it simply a perfunctory gesture from him? Was Ross merely fooling around?

No, that would not do…

After a long while, turning the matter over and over in his mind, Playa finally sighed deeply. “Dear Uncle Baryes, you did not mishear. There is something to it…”

“But the matter is not simple. It’s not that I meant to conceal anything. Yesterday, as with many others, a devout lamb came seeking the Lord’s salvation for an ox that would not stop bleeding…”

“Uncle, you know well—the Church does have methods for treating bleeding… But medicine is required. In a remote place like Eckley, it’s difficult to reach the parish church, and the medicines for bleeding are so costly they can exceed the value of the ox itself—certainly beyond what poor villagers can afford…”

“I see…” Baryes looked suddenly enlightened, then puzzled again. “But then, what sort of treatment did your pupil mention?”

“The Lord is almighty…” Playa intoned solemnly, the rushlight’s glow reflecting on his face. “The merciful Lord abandons no lamb… In accordance with doctrine, I taught that poor lamb the Church’s method for stemming blood. But, since he could not afford the medicines, I also instructed him in gathering herbs from the forest…”

“I see…”

Baryes considered this, frowning. “Herbs from the forest… Will they work?”

Such a question no priest could answer directly.

Lightly touching his own shoulder, crossing himself, Playa murmured, “The Lord is almighty…”

“Ahem…” Realizing his error, Baryes cleared his throat and tried again. “Father Playa, is it not difficult for villagers to find the right herbs themselves?”

“Extremely difficult…” Playa sighed. “That is precisely why I never mentioned it to you.”

“I see…” Baryes pondered. “And did this lamb go looking for them?”

You ask me; who am I to ask?

“The Lord is almighty…” Playa murmured again, “His light is everywhere…”

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“He certainly did!”

Beside them, young Andre’s clear voice piped up again. “This afternoon, Ross carried a big bundle of leaves and roots past the church door!”

“Oh?”

In the rushlight’s dim glow, the agricultural officer’s eyes narrowed. “Forest herbs… Did this lamb truly find them? In that case…”

“Sir Baryes…”

Ifrit hurriedly leaned in. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll have Old William bring you the herbs—”

“Tomorrow morning?”

Baryes paused, turning to the steward. The look on his face, and the gaze he cast, were nearly identical to the way he usually regarded the village simpletons.

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Half an hour later.

Outside a humble wooden hut on the eastern edge of Eckley.

“This is the ox that was hurt two days ago? How is this possible?”

Baryes’s voice was filled with disbelief.

Nervous Old William wrung his hands and quietly nudged aside the wooden wedge at his feet.

He had just dropped it.

A moment earlier, hearing a strange noise outside his door, William had snatched up the tool he’d prepared for tomorrow’s work and flung open the door—expecting the usual moles or foxes that plagued his tiny pea patch, but instead finding three blazing torches and a crowd of well-dressed gentlemen.

The Lord is almighty!

Never in his life had William seen such bright torches, or so many grand folk, or been so near to real people of importance. He was at a loss, his head spinning.

Fortunately, the kindly steward Ifrit soon came over, wearing an unfamiliar, gentle smile and speaking in a tone William had never heard before, assuring him that the agricultural officer simply wanted to see his injured cow.

Carefully, William led out his cow into the torchlight. For a long while, the agricultural officer remained as he was—utterly astonished, unable to believe his eyes.

“How is this possible? How can this be the ox injured two days ago? Ifrit…”

Finally coming to himself, Baryes caught Ifrit by the arm, dragging him close. “Ifrit, are you sure this is the same cow you mentioned earlier?”

“This… this…” Ifrit, too, stared wide-eyed, his mouth agape, examining the cow from head to tail and back again, again and again, before finally nodding with effort. “Yes, I’m certain, it’s her.”

“How can this be?” the agricultural officer cried again, pressing Ifrit almost onto the cow. “Am I seeing things? Or has my mind gone? The wound on the belly you mentioned on the way here—where is it?”

“Here… here…” After a long search, Ifrit finally pointed with a trembling finger at a few faint reddish marks on the cow’s belly.

“And the marks on the back?”

“Here… here…” Again, with much effort, Ifrit found some uneven patches of hair on her back.

“The wound on the ribs?”

“Here… here…”

“And the arm’s-length bloodstain?”

“Here… here…”

“Ifrit! Are you sure what you’re pointing to is a bloodstain and not a patch of smooth hide? Are you sure these spots match what you described to me on the way here—even remotely?”

“But… but…” Ifrit, flustered and red-faced, quickly sought help from the constable.

“L-Lord Baryes…” Espiel finally forced himself to speak. “Ifrit is not mistaken. Two days ago, this cow was exactly as he described, and moreover…”

“All right, enough!” The agricultural officer raised his hand, silencing the constable. His piercing gaze turned to William. “William Moore, you tell me—when your cow was hurt two days ago, what was her condition?”

Two minutes later, having listened to William’s confused and jumbled account, the anger vanished from the agricultural officer’s face, but his disbelief only deepened.

Lightly tracing the faint red marks on the cow’s belly, the agricultural officer looked to the priest, his eyes full of astonishment and awe. “Father Playa, my dear nephew, you were right. Forcing the villagers to pull plows, gathering the healthy oxen, prioritizing the communal work—these are all the most foolish of ideas. The only thing I should ask of you is to heal the oxen of this village!”