"You can explain it to Viscos yourself!" exclaimed the mayor enthusiastically, already planning the various reforms he could put in place once he had the money, the advertisements he could take out in the regional newspapers, attracting fresh investment because of the tax cuts he could make, drawing in tourists with the changes to the hotel he intended to fund, and having a new telephone line installed that would prove less problematic than the current one.
"I can't do that," said the priest. "Martyrs offer themselves up when the people want to kill them. They never incite their own death, for the Church has always said that life is a gift from God. You'll have to do the explaining."
"Nobody will believe us. They'll consider us to be the very worst kind of murderer if we kill a holy man for money, just as Judas did to Christ."
The priest shrugged. It felt as if the sun had once again gone in, and tension returned to the sacristy.
"Well, that only leaves Berta," the landowner concluded.
After a lengthy pause, it was the priest's turn to speak.
"That woman must suffer greatly with her husband gone. She's done nothing but sit outside her house all these years, alone with the elements and her own boredom. All she does is long for the past. And I'm afraid the poor woman may slowly be going mad: I've often passed by that way and seen her talking to herself."
Again a gust of wind blew through the sacristy, startling the people inside because all the windows were closed.
"She's certainly had a very sad life," the hotel landlady went on. "I think she would give anything to join her beloved. They were married for forty years, you know."
They all knew that, but it was hardly relevant now.
"She's an old woman, near the end of her life," added the landowner. "She's the only person in the village who does nothing of note. I once asked her why she always sat outside her house, even in winter, and do you know what she told me? She said she was watching over our village, so that she could see when Evil arrived."
"Well, she hasn't done very well on that score."
"On the contrary," said the priest, "from what I understand of your conversation, the person who let Evil enter in should also be the one who should drive it out."
Another silence, and everyone knew that a victim had been chosen.
"There's just one thing," the mayor's wife commented. "We know when the sacrifice will be offered up in the interests of the well-being of the village. We know who it will be. Thanks to this sacrifice, a good soul will go to heaven and find eternal joy, rather than remain suffering here on earth. All we need to know now is how."
"Try to speak to all the men in the village," the priest said to the mayor, "and call a meeting in the square for nine o'clock tonight. I think I know how. Drop by here shortly before nine, and the two of us can talk it over."
Before they left, he asked that, while the meeting that night was in progress, the two women should go to Berta's house and keep her talking. Although she never went out at night, it would be best not to take any risks.
Chantal arrived at the bar in time for work. No one was there.
"There's a meeting in the square tonight at nine," the hotel landlady said. "Just for the men."
She didn't need to say anything more. Chantal knew what was going on.
"Did you actually see the gold?"
"Yes, I did, but you should ask the stranger to bring it here. You never know, once he's got what he wants, he might simply decide to disappear."
"He's not mad."
"He is."
The hotel landlady thought that this might indeed be a good idea. She went up to the stranger's room and came down a few minutes later.
"He's agreed. He says it's hidden in the forest and that he'll bring it here tomorrow."
"I guess I don't need to work today, then."
"You certainly do. It's in your contract."
She didn't know how to broach the subject she and the others had spent the afternoon discussing, but it was important to gauge the girl's reaction.
"I'm really shocked by all this," she said. "At the same time, I realize that people need to think twice or even ten times before they decide what they should do."
"They could think it over twenty or two hundred times and they still wouldn't have the courage to do anything."
"You may be right," the hotel landlady agreed, "but if they do decide to make a move, what would you do?"
The woman needed to know what Chantal's reaction would be, and Chantal realized that the stranger was far closer to the truth than she was, despite her having lived in Viscos all those years. A meeting in the square! What a pity the gallows had been dismantled.
"So what would you do?" the landlady insisted.
"I won't answer that question," she said, even though she knew exactly what she would do. "I'll only say that Evil never brings Good. I discovered that for myself this afternoon."
The hotel landlady didn't like having her authority flouted, but thought it prudent not to argue with the young woman and risk an enmity that could bring problems in the future. On the pretext that she needed to bring the accounts up to date (an absurd excuse, she thought later, since there was only one guest in the hotel), she left Miss Prym alone in the bar. She felt reassured; Miss Prym showed no signs of rebellion, even after she had mentioned the meeting in the square, which showed that something unusual was happening in Viscos. Besides, Miss Prym also had a great need for money, she had her whole life ahead of her, and would almost certainly like to follow in the footsteps of her childhood friends who had already left the village. And, even if she wasn't willing to cooperate, at least she didn't seem to want to interfere.
The priest dined frugally then sat down alone on one of the church pews. The mayor would be there in a few minutes.
He contemplated the whitewashed walls, the altar unadorned by any important work of art, decorated instead with cheap reproductions of paintings of the saints who--in the dim and distant past--had lived in the region. The people of Viscos had never been very religious, despite the important role St. Savin had played in resurrecting the fortunes of the place. But the people forgot this and preferred to concentrate on Ahab, on the Celts, on the peasants' centuries-old superstitions, failing to understand that it took only a gesture, a simple gesture, to achieve redemption: that of accepting Jesus as the sole Saviour of humanity.
Only hours earlier, he had offered himself up for martyrdom. It had been a risky move, but he had been prepared to see it through and deliver himself over for sacrifice, had the others not been so frivolous and so easily manipulated.
"No, that's not true. They may be frivolous, but they're not that easily manipulated." Indeed, through silence or clever words, they had made him say what they wanted to hear: the sacrifice that redeems, the victim who saves, decay transformed anew into glory. He had pretended to let himself be used by the others, but had only said what he himself believed.
He had been prepared for the priesthood from an early age, and that was his true vocation. By the time he was twenty-one, he had already been ordained a priest, and had impressed everyone with his gifts as a preacher and his skill as a parish administrator. He said prayers every evening, visited the sick and those in prison, gave food to the hungry--just as the holy scriptures commanded. His fame soon spread throughout the region and reached the ears of the bishop, a man known for his wisdom and fairness.
The bishop invited him, together with other young priests, for an evening meal. They ate and talked about various matters until, at the end, the bishop, who was getting old and had difficulties walking, got up and offered each of them some water. The priest had been the only one not to refuse, asking for his glass to be filled to the brim.
One of the other priests whispered, loud enough for the bishop to hear: "We all refused the water because we know we are not worthy to drink from the hands of this saintly man. Only one among us cannot see the sacrifice our superior is making in carrying that heavy bottle."
When the bishop returned to his seat, he said:
"You, who think you are holy men, were not humble enough to receive and so denied me the pleasure of giving. Only this man allowed Good to be made manifest."
He immediately appointed him to a more important parish.
The two men became friends and continued to see each other often. Whenever he had any doubts, the priest would turn to the person he called "my spiritual father," and he usually left satisfied with the answers he got. One evening, for example, he was troubled because he could no longer tell whether or not his actions were pleasing to God. He went to see the bishop and asked what he should do.
"Abraham took in strangers, and God was happy," came the reply. "Elijah disliked strangers, and God was happy. David was proud of what he was doing, and God was happy. The publican before the altar was ashamed of what he did, and God was happy. John the Baptist went out into the desert, and God was happy. Paul went to the great cities of the Roman Empire, and God was happy. How can one know what will please the Almighty? Do what your heart commands, and God will be happy."
The day after this conversation, the bishop, his great spiritual mentor, died from a massive heart attack. The priest saw the bishop's death as a sign, and began to do exactly what he had recommended; he followed the commands of his heart. Sometimes he gave alms, sometimes he told the person to go and find work. Sometimes he gave a very serious sermon, at others he sang along with his congregation. His behavior reached the ears of the new bishop, and he was summoned to see him.
He was astonished to find that the new bishop was the same person who, a few years earlier, had made the comment about the water served by his predecessor.
"I know that today you're in charge of an important parish," the new bishop said, an ironic look in his eye, "and that over the years you became a great friend of my predecessor, perhaps even aspiring to this position yourself."
"No," the priest replied, "aspiring only to wisdom."
"Well, you must be a very wise man by now, but I've heard strange stories about you, that sometimes you give alms and that sometimes you refuse the aid that our Church says we should offer."
"I have two pockets, each contains a piece of paper with writing on it, but I only put money in my left pocket," he said in reply.
The new bishop was intrigued by the story: what did the two pieces of paper say?
"On the piece of paper in my right pocket, I wrote: I am nothing but dust and ashes. The piece of paper in my left pocket, where I keep my money, says: I am the manifestation of God on Earth. Whenever I see misery and injustice, I put my hand in my left pocket and try to help. Whenever I come up against laziness and indolence, I put my hand in my right pocket and find I have nothing to give. In this way, I manage to balance the material and the spiritual worlds."
The new bishop thanked him for this fine image of charity and said he could return to his parish, but warned him that he was in the process of restructuring the whole region. Shortly afterwards, the priest received news that he was being transferred to Viscos.
He understood the message at once: envy. But he had made a vow to serve God wherever it might be, and so he set off for Viscos full of humility and fervor: it was a new challenge for him to meet.
A year went by. And another. By the end of five years, despite all his efforts, he had not succeeded in bringing any new believers into the church; the village was haunted by a ghost from the past called Ahab, and nothing the priest said could be more important than the legends that still circulated about him.
Ten years passed. At the end of the tenth year, the priest realized his mistake: his search for wisdom had become pride. He was so convinced of divine justice that he had failed to balance it with the art of diplomacy. He thought he was living in a world where God was everywhere, only to find himself amongst people who often would not even let God enter their lives.
After fifteen years, he knew that he would never leave Viscos: by then, the former bishop was an important cardinal working in the Vatican and quite likely to be named Pope--and he could never allow an obscure country priest to spread the story that he had been exiled out of envy and greed.
By then, the priest had allowed himself to be infected by the lack of stimulus--no one could withstand all those years of indifference. He thought that had he left the priesthood at the right moment, he could have served God better; but he had kept putting off the decision, always thinking that the situation would change, and by then it was too late, he had lost all contact with the world.
After twenty years, he woke up one night in despair: his life had been completely useless. He knew how much he was capable of and how little he had achieved. He remembered the two pieces of paper he used to keep in his pockets, and realized that now he always reached into his right-hand pocket. He had wanted to be wise, but had been lacking in political skills. He had wanted to be just, but had lacked wisdom. He had wanted to be a politician, but had lacked courage.
"Where is Your generosity, Lord? Why did You do to me what You did to Job? Will I never have another chance in this life? Give me one more opportunity!"
He got up, opened the Bible at random, as he usually did when he was searching for an answer, and he came upon the passage during the Last Supper when Christ tells the traitor to hand him over to the Roman soldiers looking for him.
The priest spent hours thinking about what he had just read: why did Jesus ask the traitor to commit a sin?
"So that the scriptures would be fulfilled," the wise men of the Church would say. Even so, why was Jesus asking someone to commit a sin and thus leading him into eternal damnation?
Jesus would never do that; in truth, the traitor was merely a victim, as Jesus himself was. Evil had to manifest itself and fulfill its role, so that ultimately Good could prevail. If there was no betrayal, there could be no cross, the words of the scriptures would not be fulfilled, and Jesus' sacrifice could not serve as an example.
The next day, a stranger arrived in the village, as so many others had before. The priest gave the matter no importance, nor did he connect it to the request he had made to Jesus, or to the passage he had read in the Bible. When he heard the story of the models Leonardo da Vinci had used in his Last Supper, he remembered reading the corresponding text in the Bible, but dismissed it as a coincidence.
It was only when Miss Prym told them about the wager that he realized his prayers had been answered.
Evil needed to manifest itself if Good was finally to move the hearts of these people. For the first time since he had come to the parish, he had seen his church full to overflowing. For the first time, the most important people in the village had visited him in the sacristy.
"Evil needs to manifest itself, for them to understand the value of Good." Just as the traitor in the Bible, soon after betraying Jesus, understood what he had done, so the people in the village would realize what they had done and be so overwhelmed by remorse that their only refuge would be the Church. And Viscos--after all these years--would once again become a Christian village.
His role was to be the instrument of Evil; that was the greatest act of humility he could offer to God.
The mayor arrived as arranged.
"I want to know what I should say, Father."
"Let me take charge of the meeting," the priest replied.
The mayor hesitated; after all, he was the highest authority in Viscos, and he did not want to see an outsider dealing in public with such an important topic. The priest, it was true, had been in the village now for more than twenty years, but he had not been born there; he did not know all the old stories and he did not have the blood of Ahab in his veins.
"In matters as grave as this, I think I should be the one to speak directly to the people," he said.
"Yes, you're right. It would probably be better if you did; things might go wrong, and I don't want the Church involved. I'll tell you my plan, and you can take on the task of making it public."
"On second thoughts, if
the plan is yours, it might be fairer and more honest for you to share it with everyone."
"Fear again," thought the priest. "If you want to control someone, all you have to do is to make them feel afraid."
The two women reached Berta's house shortly before nine and found her doing some crochet-work in her tiny living room.
"There's something different about the village tonight," the old woman said. "I heard lots of people walking around, lots of footsteps going past. The bar isn't big enough to hold them all."
"It's the men in the village," the hotel landlady replied. "They're going to the square, to discuss what to do about the stranger."
"I see. I shouldn't think there's much to discuss though, is there? Either they accept his proposal or they allow him to leave in two days' time."
"We would never even consider accepting his proposal," the mayor's wife said indignantly.
"Why not? I heard that the priest gave a wonderful sermon today, explaining how the sacrifice of one man saved humanity, and how God accepted a wager with the Devil and punished his most faithful servant. Would it be so wrong if the people of Viscos decided to accept the stranger's proposal as--let's say--a business deal?"
"You can't be serious."
"I am. It's you who are trying to pull the wool over my eyes."
The two women considered getting up, there and then, and leaving at once, but it was too risky.
"Apart from that, to what do I owe the honor of this visit? It's never happened before."
"Two days ago, Miss Prym said she heard the rogue wolf howling."
"Now we all know that the rogue wolf is just a stupid story dreamed up by the blacksmith," the hotel landlady said. "He probably went into the forest with a woman from another village, and when he tried to grab her, she fought back, and that's why he came up with the story of the wolf. But even so, we decided we'd better come over here to make sure everything was all right."
"Everything's fine. I'm busy crocheting a tablecloth, although I can't guarantee I'll finish it; who knows, I might die tomorrow."