Large-Hearted Boy. Part Seven.

Selden entered the church and was reminded of his childhood. He grew up in a village something like Cald Mere. Their church had been even simpler, with a hard mud floor instead of the large stones that were pieced together here. They, too, had a vast fireplace that would struggle to keep everyone warm in the winter. Folks wore their coats inside in the dead of winter. There was no need for the hooks that lined one wall. In fact, the coat hooks were rarely used. Perhaps in spring or autumn–but only when it was raining would people wear coats. Otherwise, they basked in whatever sun might shine. They knew too well that the winters were long, and deep, and unforgiving.

The priest approached the altar and knelt down, though his bones complained. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and recited a prayer that all knew, even children:

O Lord, turne not away thy face from him that lieth prostrate
Lamenting sore his sinneful life before thy mercies gate
Which gate thou openest wide to those that doe lament their sinne
Shut not that gate against me, Lord, but let me enter in.

Selden rose and took a place in the choir and, seated there, began to feel the tension leave his shoulders. He knew if he remained there for a time, even his headache would go away. It was the hope for Communion. His faith was not so weak that he stopped hoping. Still, it was easier when he was young.

Everything was easier. Understanding was easy because he never really considered anything deeper than common doctrine and teaching. Yes, he’d had all sorts of theology, but his real interest had always been with numbers. And numbers had their mysteries, too. His duties were easier, too, because so little was asked of him. Now, the Archmage seemed to rely on him more and more. Selden couldn’t understand why.

And of all the people to select to come to Cald Mere. His magic was so weak in comparison to the others, he could hardly defend himself. Even wolves might be hard to influence if they arrived in a pack. He and Geoffrey might never have survived an attack from the men who had followed them earlier. Geoffrey had only the sword and dagger ... and he had his weak spells. A village witch might do as well!

Outside, Geoffrey grew restless. He was thirsty and aching and anxious to meet some of the people in the village. Selden was not a man given to much talking and Geoffrey loved to talk. He rambled on about anything and loved hearing others’ stories. He’d especially like to hear more about the Bitterfolk and he reminded himself to call them by one of their proper names. He knew that they called themselves the First People. It was true, he knew. All this land was once theirs alone. His people, Selden’s people, came from far way.

Geoffrey approached the church doorway and peered inside. His eyes hadn’t adjusted yet to the darkened nave, but his ears could hear just fine and ... what a surprise. Selden was singing!