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It was surprising how much spring was put into one's step by a decent meal and good night's sleep. Myranda's pace was twice that of the weary trudge of the day before. A trained eye and the clouds overhead told her that it was just past noon when she finally saw something on the horizon. A building with a spire. A church. The sight brought a wide smile to Myranda's face. She'd been turned away by every type of shelter, but never a church.
Quickening her pace, she came to the door of the small building and pushed it open. There was not a single occupied pew, nor was a single candle lit. The only light was that which filtered through the clouds to the simple stained glass window.
"Hello?" Myranda called out.
"In the priest's quarters," came the answer.
Myranda walked up the dim aisle and, on the wall left of the pulpit, found a door.
"May I come in?" she asked.
"Of course, all are welcome," the kindly voice replied.
Myranda opened the door. Inside, the warm orange light of a cozy fire danced in an otherwise unlit room. A large, fine chair faced away from the doorway and toward the fire. Aside from the luxurious-looking seat, the room was nearly bare. The walls were empty, not a painting to break the view of plain wooden planks. In the center of the room, a simple table and chair stood awaiting the next meal to be served. The corner held an immaculately made bed with a coarse gray blanket and single pillow. The only other furniture in the room was a suitably humble chest of drawers and a cupboard.
"What brings you here?" asked the unseen priest.
"I thought I might warm up a bit before I went off on my way again," Myranda said.
"Well, I am always glad to share what the heavens have provided for me," he said without rising.
"I am quite grateful. If you don't mind me asking, why do you keep it so dark?" Myranda asked as she walked into the room of her gracious host.
"I've little use for light these days," said the priest.
When she was near enough to spy the face of the priest, the answer to her query became quite clear. He was a kind-looking man, dressed in plain black vestment. Old, but not terribly so, he had sparse white hair on his wise head and a carefully shaved face. Most notably, though, was the blindfold over his eyes. Myranda had a vague feeling that she'd seen him before.
"Oh, I am so sorry!" Myranda said, covering her mouth. "You are blind!"
"Now, now, not to worry. It was none of your doing," he said.
"How did it happen?" she asked.
"It is the place of a holy man not to burden others with his troubles, but to relieve others of their burden," he said.
His voice had a powerful, clear tone, deep and commanding. It radiated wisdom and authority. He sipped something from a clay mug and cleared his throat before speaking again.
"May I offer you some tea, my dear?" he asked, raising his cup.
"Oh, I couldn't bother you for that," she said.
"No bother at all," he said, slowly rising from his chair.
"Oh, please, let me," Myranda offered.
"Nonsense, nonsense, sit down. You are my guest. Besides, if you get in my way I may lose my place and be lost in my own home," he assured her.
Myranda took a seat and watched as the priest paced out a practiced number of steps to the cupboard and ran his fingers over the contents until he found the correct canister. It was astonishing how smoothly he navigated the task without the aid of vision. In no time at all, he had placed her cup on the table and found his way back to his seat. She slid the cup in front of her, warming her near-numb hands on its warm exterior.
"That was amazing," she said.
"Oh, yes. Folks come from all over the kingdom to watch me make tea," he said lightly.
"I only mean that I had thought that losing one's sight would leave one helpless," Myranda said.
"I've still four senses left. A hand without a thumb is still a hand," he said.
"But you cannot count to ten," she said.
"You can if you remember how," he answered swiftly. "My goodness, why are we talking about me? I have been here for years. You are the newcomer, what about you?"
"What would you have me say?" Myranda asked.
"I would not mind a description. My ears can only tell me so much. I know your height from where your voice comes from, and your build by the creak of your chair, but try as I might, I still have not found a way to hear hair color," he said.
"Oh, well, I have got red hair, long, and brown eyes. My clothes are gray," Myranda said, embarrassed.
"And I am sure you are every bit as lovely as your voice," he said.
"Oh . . ." Myranda blushed.
"And your name?" he asked.
"Myranda Celeste," she answered. "And yours?"
"You may call me Father," he said. "So, from where are you headed?"
"North," Myranda said.
"North West or North East?" he asked.
"Just North," came her reply, worried about the line of questions that were sure to follow.
"There is nothing north of here but miles and miles of tundra," he said.
"I know," she said gruffly.
"The only things that would send a person through that waste are very good confidence or very bad directions. Not to offend, but I am inclined to believe that the latter is the case," he said.
"No, no. I just . . . misunderstood; I asked for the shortest way to Renack, and he sent me this way," she explained, hoping that the priest would not pry further. Her story was suspect enough as it was. The truth would reveal the reason she had been shunned, and she would at least like a chance to let her feet stop throbbing before she was thrown out in the cold again.
"Oh, well, that certainly would explain it. It could have used more conflict, though. The best fairytales always have plenty of conflict. The essence of drama, you know," said the priest, clearly aware that Myranda was hiding something.
"What? How did you know I was lying?" she asked, realizing the purpose of the comment.
"Listen hard enough and you begin to hear more of what people say than they had intended. Care to tell the truth--or, at least, a more compelling tale?" he asked.
"I wanted to know the easiest way to get to the next town. That was true, but I was purposely misled," she said.
"Why would someone do that? You could have died out there," he wondered.
"I had made myself . . . unwelcome," she said, carefully dancing about the key bit of information sure to cost her the respect of her host.
"Do I need to ask, or will you save me the trouble?" he asked, clearly in search of the missing piece.
Myranda sighed heavily. There were no two ways about it. She simply could not lie to a holy man.
"I . . . showed sympathy for the soldiers killed in a battle . . . both sides. From that moment on, no one there would help me. When I finally found someone who would speak to me, I asked for directions and he sent me through the field, assuring me it was the surest way," she confessed.
"A sympathizer," he said coldly. "It stands to reason why you would have been sent down such a disadvantageous path."
"I will leave, I don't want to--" Myranda began, rising from her seat.
"No, you may remain. I am a man of heaven and it is my place to show compassion. I will hear your confession and oversee your penance," he said with poorly-suppressed disgust.
"I will take my leave, I have caused you enough trouble," she said, gathering the pack that she had only just let slip to the floor, and turning to the door.
"Young lady, for your wrong to be forgiven, you must repent," he demanded.
Myranda froze. She turned back to the priest.
"Forgiven? Wrong?" she said, anger mounting.
When the priest asked her to redeem herself, it stirred thoughts she'd long ago pushed aside. So long as she'd cost herself the comfort of the shelter already, she may as well at least free her mind of its burden.
"I will not apologize for what I know in my hear
t is right," she cried out.
"You have sympathized with the Tressons. These are men who seek only to kill your countrymen. Every soft thought for them is a knife in the back of a brother," he said.
"Don't you understand? Somewhere on the other side of the line that splits our world, another priest is giving this same speech to a person who had shed a tear for the Alliance Army. Any life cut short is a tragedy. I do not care how or why!" she proclaimed, giving voice to feelings long suppressed.
"If we allow our resolve to weaken, we will be overrun! Today you waste thoughts on an enemy. Tomorrow you poison the mind of another. Before long, there will be no one left with the will to fight!" the priest said, spouting the same tired ideas that Myranda had heard all of her life.
"At least then the war will be over," she said. "I will take an end to this war regardless of the cost. Enough lives have been lost already."
"Even if it costs you your freedom and the freedom of all of the people of the Northern Kingdoms?" he asked.
"Freedom? What freedom do we have? In the world we live in, there are but two choices to be made: join the army or run from it. If you join, you will pray each day that you will live long enough to pray again on the next. Pray that the impossible happens, that you live to see your children march off to the same fate as you try for the rest of your life to wash the blood from your hands. And if you cannot bear to throw your body into the flames of war, then you can live as I have. A fugitive, a nomad. Known by no one and hated by everyone. What worse fate could the Tressons have in store? What worse fate exists?" she proclaimed.
"It is talk such as that which will cost us victory," the priest said.
"Victory!? There is no victory in war! War takes everything and gives nothing! I only wish my words were as destructive as you would have me believe! If that were true, I would shout myself hoarse, I would not sleep until my words had poisoned the thoughts of everyone who had ears--but the cold truth is that nothing I say or do will have even the slightest effect on this wretched war. I am nothing! A shadow! A whisper! Dismissed and forgotten!" she ranted.
Her heart pounded and tears clouded her eyes. She shakily lowered the tea cup to the table. In the heat of her impassioned speech, she had managed to douse herself and a good deal of the room with the piping hot contents. The bandage on her left hand was dripping with it, rekindling the faded pain of its last scalding.
"I am very sorry for how I have acted, and I am sorry for the trouble I may have caused you, but I am not sorry for the thoughts and feelings that you insist are wrong. I will leave you now, before I say or do something deserving of regret," Myranda continued, in control of her emotions again.
"Were I you I would turn left at the sign post that you will find outside of my door," the priest said. "The people of Renack are decent, patriotic citizens. Should they discover your sadly misguided beliefs, I doubt they would trust an icy field to do you in. Bydell is to the east. Nothing but scoundrels and deserters. You just may find someone there who shares your blasphemous views."
These last words were heard through the slammed door of his quarters. Myranda moved with swift, motivated strides. She would have no more of this place if she could help it. The cold wind of the outside staggered her like a blow to the face. It had grown even colder than when she had sought shelter just minutes before. The patches of scalding hot tea turned icy at the first exposure to the stinging cold. The fuming girl gritted her teeth and leaned into the wind. It never ceased to amaze her how, seemingly regardless of which way she turned, the wind blew in her face. It was as though someone up above was toying with her, seeing how much torment it would take to break her. She turned her eyes skyward.
"You will have to do better than that!" she assured her unseen tormentor.
Not long after storming out of the church, she found the signpost of which the priest had spoken. Renack to the west and Bydell to the east. Both were ten miles away. A few hours by foot. It was a long hike by any means, but along a road, she could make it to either town well before nightfall. She might even make it to a pub before the tables had filled for supper. But which town to go to? Reluctantly, she headed off to the east.