Hyde Draws the Perfect Lot #2
I had come to save Psyche, the young lady of the House of Agarpe—.
At my frank answer the gate guard’s face twisted into a scowl. A moment later he leaned toward his companion and muttered under his breath.
“Doma, what do we do? The travel pass and the identification are genuine, but the whole thing still feels a little off.”
“The Count’s orders were to let any healer through. And a man who can recite scripture without even looking at the book… he’s probably the real deal. Just let him in.”
They weren’t even trying to keep it quiet.
Being eyed with suspicion was nothing new. My East-Asian features apparently resembled the outsiders of the Midbar Wasteland, and in this kingdom most of those people were either bandits or con men. Even the Lord Himself, when He walked the cities preaching, was constantly accused of being a fraud until they finally nailed Him to a cross. A priest’s path was always a string of doubt and proof; I had long since stopped fretting over suspicion and wariness.
The estate guards kept switching their gaze between my face and the letter of guarantee.
“…A letter of guarantee from Galatea, knight of the Bronze Badge. Galatea—the master of the famed sword Divine Punishment, isn’t she? Ahem. Very well.”
“‘Very well’ meaning…?”
“Monk Hyde, welcome to the Agarpe domain. So long as you cause no trouble, the city will welcome you.”
And just like that I was allowed inside.
Without the travel pass and the Wood Badge identification I would have been stuck at the gate for two days straight. Thank heaven for small mercies.
“So this is the Agarpe domain!”
The roads were reasonably straight, and the houses—whitewashed with plaster—made for a handsome little city. Faces and clothing were far cleaner and more respectable than anything in Sodomy. Step by step the pavement stayed firm underfoot; no sucking mud. In Sodomy people simply flung their night-soil out the windows. Here the sewers looked properly maintained. Plumbing, in this barbaric world! And where Sodomy’s laundry lines had hung like spiderwebs, ruining every vista, this place had none of that clutter. You could actually see the clear sky.
“I wonder what the church of a city this fine looks like.”
I asked a group of children playing nearby.
“Kids, which way to the church?”
A scruffy little girl with pumpkin-colored hair looked up at me. Seven years old, maybe, and clearly the alley boss.
“You mean the chapel? The chapel’s down that alley over there.”
In this world they preferred the word “chapel” to “church,” did they? I still liked “church” better. “Chapel” only meant a building and a place; “church” meant the building and the community. Paul, the king of evangelists, always sought out the local church community first whenever he traveled the world. I wanted to do the same.
“Hey mister, are you a priest? Your skin’s super clean and white—are you a noble?”
“…Oh? Do I look like one?”
Children’s eyes were pure. They had recognized me as a priest at a glance! Those pure, upright little pupils had seen straight through to the steel-hard faith inside me. Truly, the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these—the verse rose unbidden.
Kids are pure. I like that about them.
I smiled and answered,
“Half right, half wrong. I am a priest, but I’m not of noble birth.”
I reached out and ruffled the pumpkin-haired girl’s hair.
“If you’re not a noble…”
She began to tremble, then shrieked to the others,
“Another rotten priest’s showed up!”
“You bastard!”
“Get out of Agarpe right now!”
“Give back the oil and the offerings you stole from our moms!”
The children spat curses full of malice and fled in a pack. A few even threw stones. I stood there stunned, as if a troop of chimpanzees had just ambushed me.
What the hell did I do to deserve a one-sided verbal beating?
But kids were always like that. Little shit-stirrers. That was exactly why I hated children—impossible to reason with, rude, willful, fickle, and savage!
“What in the world was that?”
I looked around. People who had been watching me coughed awkwardly and hurried off. Open windows slammed shut; housewives even flung cold water into the street toward me.
“….”
The message was clear: I was not welcome.
Because I was a black-haired foreigner? No—Agarpe bordered foreign lands, so people who looked like me were everywhere. This wasn’t xenophobia. It was because I was a priest.
“Why?”
In this world the priesthood was a promising career, a respected intellectual class—not something people shunned. Was it because I was only a Wood Badge monk, the lowest of the low? Even so, what grudge could these people possibly hold against a mere traveler?
I would have to go to the church and find out.
“This is supposed to be a church?”
I was surprised—and not in a good way.
Given how neat the buildings and roads of Agarpe were, I had honestly expected something impressive. What stood before me looked more like a ruin: windows shattered, paint peeling from the stone walls, floors cracked or collapsed.
“Excuse me.”
Creak, clack—.
I pushed open the tattered door and stepped into a surprisingly spacious interior. Even at midday the place was gloomy; only a few candles flickered. Men who had been chatting loudly on the long benches fell silent at once.
“Brother Manaan, it seems we have a guest.”
“Who?”
Unlike the dilapidated building, the priests were neatly dressed. Two Iron Badge priests and one Bronze Badge.
A Bronze Badge priest. For a second the face of Nomad, abbot of Emeris Monastery, flashed through my mind and a vein threatened to pop on my forehead. This one, at least, looked far more solid. Gaunt and severe, yes, but not bald—his ash-gray hair was still thick.
I addressed the wary priests.
“I am Hyde, a wandering monk.”
When I showed my identification and travel pass their manner softened a little. Without those papers I might have spent days just explaining who I was.
“Wandering monk Hyde. I am Manaan, senior priest of the Agarpe church. You have come a long way. The Agarpe church welcomes you.”
The Bronze Badge priest Manaan offered me proper courtesy. In a world where people casually used informal speech to strangers, this level of manners marked him as genuinely cultivated. No wonder he had been appointed senior priest of a historic city.
Manaan, ash-gray hair already flecked with white, mid-forties, asked,
“What business brings you to this city?”
“The calling of one who would become a pastor. I will help Lady Psyche recover from her illness.”
I declared my ambition without hesitation.
A snicker answered me—the Iron Badge priests. Their open mockery was starting to sour my mood when Manaan spoke again.
“Ho, a pastor’s calling. You seem to hold firm convictions, brother. I, Manaan, would like to hear your teaching. What are the two most important things for a cleric?”
The two most important things for a cleric? Answering that was child’s play.
“Obviously holy power and a spouse, is it not?”
The importance of holy power needed no explanation. The second was equally obvious: a spouse. Even in the open-minded churches of the twenty-first century you could not be ordained without one. No solo pastors allowed.
Manaan’s eyes lit with interest.
“I expected you to say ‘Scripture’ and ‘faith.’”
“That answer is for amateurs.”
“Ho…”
Manaan stroked his roughly shaved, stubbly chin. I seized the quiet moment.
“On the way here I met some children. They called me a rotten priest and ran off. The townsfolk didn’t seem glad to see me either. Do you know why?”
“Is it not because this domain of Agarpe is cursed? The people here neither believe in God nor attend Sunday worship. Thoroughly impious folk.”
Could that be true? I was genuinely surprised. I knew exactly who Psyche Agarpe was—one of the most excellent and devout believers I had ever met. So devout that on the day the royal palace fell to the cultists she fought them to the bitter end. Honestly, I had fallen for her at first sight. No point hiding it now. Psyche Agarpe was my first love, my unrequited love. Our stations had been so different we had never even managed a proper conversation.
Anyway. Because this was the church of the domain where she lived, I had expected a place of passionate faith. The disappointment was sharp.
The Iron Badge monks opened their mouths and barked roughly,
“The young lady of Agarpe’s illness is divine punishment for their impiety! They took the royal family’s side long ago and raised their banners against the Church!”
“It is the Lord’s own scourge—no one can cure it.”
From the conversation I now had a fair idea of the situation. The Agarpe domain was politically hostile to the Church. How on earth had a girl as faithful as the young lady of Agarpe emerged from a place like this? I wanted to meet her and talk all the more.
“Priest Manaan, I wish to see Lady Agarpe. How should I proceed?”
“Go to the manor, state your purpose, and they will give you a wooden token with a waiting number. Many have come claiming to be healers; you may have to wait several days.”
So that was how it was.
I bowed to the Bronze Badge priest Manaan and left the church.
Creeeak—.
Thud—.
The moment the old door closed behind me I heard them.
“Honestly, the House of Agarpe is reeling, so every Wood Badge mongrel from who-knows-where comes sniffing after the scraps. Holy power and a spouse as the most important things for a priest? What nonsense is that? When frauds like him swagger around calling themselves priests, the rest of us get dragged through the mud.”
“Exactly. Completely rejecting Archbishop Archibold’s doctrine of ‘Scripture’ and ‘faith’—how ignorant can you get? Priest Manaan, what do you think? Can a fellow like that possibly cure the young lady?”
“Pwahaha! I nearly burst trying not to laugh! Something even we can’t do—how is some Midbar man supposed to manage it? Let’s just prepare to receive the healers Archbishop Archibold will be sending soon!”
Mongrel? Fraud?
Their mouths were filthy as hell. You’re out. But since three of them ran their mouths, multiply by three—three outs.
“This is a change-up pitch.”
Now I understood why the people of Agarpe hated priests. Hypocrites like these had nested in the church, so even a decent priest like me got painted with the same brush. Same as the twenty-first century: a few muddy-water pastors made the eighty-plus percent of clergy who served for less than minimum wage take the collective blame.
Bang—!
I flung the ramshackle church door open again with force and strode back in. Facing the priests who looked stunned by my sudden reappearance, I shouted,
“You brood of vipers! Do you not even know the teaching of James 4:11—‘Do not speak evil against one another’? It’s because frauds like you have taken root that the church is falling to pieces!”
“What? Vipers? F-fraud? Th-that, that man dares—huh!”
“How dare you speak so insolently! To curse inside the sanctuary itself!”
The Iron Badge priests flushed crimson with open rage. I drove the finishing blow straight into their faces like a wedge.
“If I cure the young lady of Agarpe within a week, you pack your bags and leave this church. This church becomes mine.”