Spreading the Faith (3)
People often nursed fantasies about the great cities.
Every day something new would happen; names no one had ever heard would rise like morning stars and shake the world. They imagined a place where interesting things never stopped, where boredom simply could not exist.
But even a great city could not produce novelty every single day. If it did, the streets would never settle long enough for anything to function.
"I'm bored out of my mind."
A man stared up at the same old ceiling and grumbled. He had thought age would make boredom familiar, even comfortable. It hadn't.
Another man passed by, arms full of a heavy crate, and called over his shoulder.
"Tom, if you've got energy to mutter, use it to move cargo. The boss landed a pretty big job."
"I thought work had dried up. Abaro was complaining about it over drinks just a few days ago."
Tom took half the load, puzzled but willing. Boredom was one thing; slacking was another. A man with a family to feed had to put in at least the minimum effort.
With the weight lightened, the other man's tongue loosened.
"You know Victor?"
"Sure. The broker who's tight with Abaro. I even worked on that house of his."
"He handed us the job himself. Said an acquaintance bought an old church on the outskirts and wants it renovated."
"There's a church out there?"
Churches were supposed to rise in clean, safe districts so the faithful could visit without fear. The high clergy preferred grand buildings on prime land, the better to display their authority. Tom had never imagined one tucked into a forgotten corner of the city.
"It's ancient. Stood there since my grandfather's grandfather's day."
"Miracle it hasn't collapsed."
"The church used to maintain it, then some rich fellow bought it and lived in it like a house. Victor's acquaintance bought it from him."
"Previous owner must've been a strange one."
Had the man been especially devout? A flicker of envy crossed Tom's mind. If he'd had money, he too could have paid his tithes on schedule and reserved a seat in heaven. It was a bitter world where the gates of paradise were hard to knock on without coin.
But bitterness wouldn't put bread on the table. Better to earn.
Tom and the rest of the crew who had clocked in loaded up their tools and headed for the church on the outskirts.
And then—
"What the—? Victor's acquaintance is a priest? Why are there so many people?"
"I... never heard anything about this."
The forgotten church, abandoned by time, now thronged with people as if the years had run backward. Most of them looked shabby—hardly surprising, given the location—but no abandoned church should have drawn a crowd like this.
Startled, Tom and his coworkers scanned the grounds.
"Hey, Abaro's talking to someone over there."
"Look at the boss's face. Did he eat the wrong mushrooms?"
Their famously stony-faced foreman was laughing with a young woman. The moment Tom saw her face, he found himself nodding without thinking.
Talking to a beauty like that, a man would either laugh or cry—one or the other.
If someone forged a woman out of pure gold, she would look exactly like this. Even the sun overhead seemed to shine for her alone. How could human hair gleam like spun gold thread?
Abaro spotted them, bowed politely to the woman, and strode over.
"Boss, who is that young lady? Prettiest girl in the city, no question."
"Who is she? Our employer, Victor's benefactor—and mine."
"Benefactor? Did you borrow money from her or something?"
Thwack!
Abaro flicked Tom hard on the forehead for the cheek. The pain felt like a rock had struck him; Tom clutched his brow.
"Ow! You could've just said so!"
"You little brat, spouting nonsense out of nowhere... It's not that. She helped my daughter. If any of you so much as look at her wrong, I'll kill you myself."
Abaro doted on his daughter with a ferocity that didn't match his rough exterior. Once Tom and the others heard the connection, they all nodded quietly. Everyone knew Abaro's daughter had recently lost her husband in an ugly affair.
So that's why the color's come back to his face lately?
Tom studied the young woman with open curiosity. What kind of miracle could a girl that young work to ease the grief of widowhood?
Curiosity peeked out, but they had come to work, not to gawk. He shoved the questions down and joined Abaro in the renovation.
They tore down the crumbling wall and rebuilt it with bright new brick. They ripped out rotting pillars, window frames, and floorboards and replaced them with solid timber. Naturally the job could not be finished in a day, and throwing more bodies at it did not magically speed the work.
"Miss Yoanna has arranged lunch for everyone! Drop what you're doing and fill your bellies first!"
"Now that's what I call a proper job—working for rich folks is the best!"
Lunch was a thick meat stew, fresh bread, and apples. The rich, greasy aroma set Tom's mouth watering as he wandered about looking for a place to sit.
Eating right in the middle of the work site feels wrong...
Then a woman's voice drifted from behind the church. They hadn't touched the rear grounds today, so there would be no dust or debris—plenty of room to sit.
Thinking no further than that, Tom rounded the building—
"Today I will speak of love toward others. Love—what, truly, is love?"
Under a sunlit tree, Yoanna was talking with a circle of people. Old chairs dragged from inside and weeds grown thick as a carpet; the long-neglected back garden was hardly in better shape than the rest. Yet no one seemed to mind the least bit.
Intrigued, Tom found a seat and watched. What on earth could she be saying that held them so rapt?
"Honor your neighbors. Be strength to those who suffer. The hand of salvation you offer will spread like ripples from a pebble cast into a lake."
It was the same old sermon one heard in any church. Yet Tom forgot his food and listened, face blank, to the sound of her voice. Ordinary, upright words somehow rang inside the heart the moment they left her lips.
Yoanna's talk lasted until lunch ended. When afternoon work began, Tom returned to the site in a strange mood.
I feel... odd.
He had simply lived hard to feed his family. Hearing a young lady of good birth call that right and worthy made his shoulders straighten of their own accord; a soft, buoyant feeling filled his chest. Even the dullest labor became something he could throw himself into. Being told that everything he did had meaning made strength well up from nowhere.
He worked so hard that the sky was already painted with sunset before he noticed.
"All right, wrap it up and head home!"
"Yes, sir!"
At Abaro's order the laborers began packing tools. Emily, who had been watching for her moment, slipped outside.
"E-everyone! Please take a book with you on your way home!!"
She stood at the church doors and called out to the departing crowd. The courage it cost her to shout was rewarded.
"Ohh, is that the thing she mentioned before?"
"Is this... a scripture?"
People drifted toward Emily with open interest. Tom picked up a copy with a dubious look. Scriptures were usually stuffed with praise for a god's majesty and authority. Why revere a god who had never shown the slightest interest in him?
"Still, for Miss Yoanna's sake..."
"Reading it won't hurt, will it? A god served by someone like her has to be different."
"Gods are all the same in the end..."
"They fed us while we worked. Reading a book is the least we can do."
In a world with little else to occupy free hours, a scripture could serve as entertainment well enough. Once she saw people accepting the books, Emily gave them a hopeful look.
"Thank you for listening to the Saintess's words. While you read, would you like a sandwich to keep the hunger away?"
"Oh my, you really needn't—"
"If you keep giving everything away, what's left for you?"
Each sandwich held a slice of ham, a leaf of lettuce, and egg, all between freshly baked bread. The scent of warm bread and savory ham was impossible to refuse.
As if spellbound, people took sandwiches, found spots on the ground, and opened the books. One bite of sandwich, one page of scripture. Another bite, three more pages...
Before long a quiet corner of the churchyard was filled with people absorbed in reading. A warm spring breeze stirred the pages; the soft flutter of paper was the only sound.
Tom, who had come for the first time that day, was among them.
He was uneducated and struggled with difficult words, so he could not grasp every meaning. Yet the respect and consideration woven through the text were nothing like the scriptures priests usually recited. This book did not exalt a god's grandeur; it praised human effort and good deeds.
Thus spoke Lord Dantalion: The good who have lived good lives deserve, by that alone, to be honored and respected.
Just what kind of god is this Dantalion?
The question became curiosity, and curiosity became the drive to keep reading, to keep seeking. The next day, and the day after that, Tom finished work and stayed at the church instead of going home, reading the book and listening to Yoanna speak.
And on the day the renovation and expansion finally ended, Tom remained at the church once more rather than return home.
"From this day forward we will offer our prayers to Lord Dantalion. If any of you feel uneasy—"
"Not at all! How could praying for someone who truly cares for us ever feel uneasy?"
"Before we knew Lord Dantalion, we were only living without reason!"
He had become a fervent believer, crying out the name of the Great One. How could he fail to praise the only god who told him his life had meaning?
Tom never regretted choosing to serve that god. And he was far from alone.
Thus, in a forgotten corner of the city where no one of consequence ever looked, an unknown presence began to put down roots of faith.