"Thank you for coming, may God bless you and keep you."
It was a lamentably short litany, as only a few people had showed up. He had known his congregation would be small, it was his job to have it grow larger. The overall feel of his congregation had been more curious than accepting, but he would take what God granted him to work with.
Excepting perhaps the few young women who had shown up to see the handsome young priest. He knew it was still somewhat confusing to the babulya that he could not marry. It had been patiently explained by him more than once in the last few months, to no avail.
He went back inside to the altar, where he began putting away the various accouterments of his faith. In the midst of his ritual, his eyes strayed to Varya, who was sweeping away the evidence of his congregation from the nave floor.
Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing she was the way she was. One glance at her and most of the babulyas had simply told their granddaughters to find someone else. None of the villagers seemed too familiar with her, though. He had asked after her family, to be told she was an orphan who had always kept to herself on the outskirts of the village. No one seemed to know or care how she had managed to survive. No one knew of her family, past or present, only that she had always lived in Rechka, alone.
As far as why she had been chosen for his helpmeet, that had been met with shrugs and blank stares. She had wanted the job. No one else had. Something about her kept him from pitying her, though. Despite her quiet demureness, there was a definite core of steel inside that slender frame.
Even now, in the chapel, she did her work quickly and efficiently, without complaint. Sometimes he was startled when he saw her, like he'd forgotten she was around. It was very strange.
It was also common for him to hear her as he studied late into the night. It did not seem to matter whether it was a few hours before dawn, he would hear her carefully moving through the chapel and on the surrounding grounds. Yet the next day she was as fresh and ready to go as if she'd had a perfectly fulfilling sleep. He had no clue what her mysterious errands were, but she performed them every night.
With a sigh he finished at the altar and went to his room to remove his vestments. Kissing his pectoral cross, he put the chain over his head and wondered what to do next. He had no lack of jobs to take care of, he merely had no idea which one to start next.
He was aware he was a highly unorthodox priest, which was probably why Kyiv had sent him here. It had been said more than once that he lacked proper dignity for his own position, but he had not been denied his priesthood. Instead he'd been packed off by the bishops to help convert the pagans in the further flung areas. He hadn't minded.
Christianity's hold on Kyiv was growing, but the very nature of the land and its neighbors promised anything but peace. That was even if Kyiv and Rus were on friendly terms for Kyiv to send missionaries like him. Not even a proper parish, and little hope of ever becoming one. The ever-present threat of the Tatars, the grind of farming the land, the warring nobility…it was little wonder that the common folk regarded an organized religion as little more than a novelty. He would show them what use it could have for them, how precious it could be.
People were people no matter whether they lived in a city or in the farthest flung rural area. He could help them see the light of God, allay the fears that rode their superstition-laden lives. They would no longer need to cling desperately to folk charms and blame wood spirits and witches for their misfortunes. Christ would comfort them.
"Father?" Glancing up out of his reveries, he saw Varya standing in the doorway of his room.
"Tovarichka, my apologies. I was wandering in my thoughts."
"I will leave you to them," she said, turning to leave.
"It would be best if you did not, they turn me in circles. What do you wish?"
"I merely meant to inquire if you were ready for tea?"
"Yes, I'll take it in my study."
A nod, and she was gone.
Like a ghost, he thought, crossing out of his door and into his study, directly opposite his room. She is like a lonely ghost, holding a lonely vigil.
Vigil? Where had that come from? With a shrug, he sat at his desk and opened his tomes and notes.
He was fairly well into it when there was a gentle knock on the door.
"Come."
Behind him he heard the door open and the whispered footfall as she came in. Turning, he saw her setting a wooden tray laid with teapot, cups, and the thick dark peasant bread he'd come to know so well.
"Butter and honey," he said as she busied herself with the tea things, putting them on the small table next to his desk before picking the tray back up and straightening as if to leave. "You spoil me."
"Do I?" she asked earnestly. "If it is not acceptable, I will remove them."
"You must learn humor, tovarichka. It is one of the gifts God has granted us humans."
"Yes," she replied, quite seriously. "I will learn it."
Chuckling, he reached out and took the cup she offered to him. "You take very good care of me, tovarichka. I am glad it is you who is my helpmeet."
"I live only to serve God, and you are his servant. So I serve you."
"You speak as if it is the most natural thing in the world." The sip he took of the tea was appreciative. A light herbal tea, perfect for the mild days and it helped soothe away the tension between his shoulders.
"Is it not, Father? It is my purpose."
"Your purpose is to serve God, not me. I am but a man."
"You are a man of God. Until I am told otherwise, your word is as strong as His."
"That is dangerous thinking," he said slowly, putting the cup down. "I am but a man, do not place me so highly."
"Do not think I place you in the same realm as God," she said in her usual soft but firm voice. Usually there was the hint of an apology, or even outright shame whenever he called her out on something. Most times he was just teasing her, but this was a matter he did not treat lightly. Her lack of the surprise she usually showed was one more item he could only be curious about. "You are man, and I do not confuse the two. However, I was told to serve you as I would serve Him. And I will do so."
"And who told you this?"
"God, my Father."
His gaze became troubled. Could she be unhinged? With the recent surge in Christianity, there had been more than one who had succumbed to hysteria.
"And how did He tell you this?"
"He tells me every day. In my heart."
"Ah, I see," he said, relieved. It not being a literal voice was a good thing.
"Do I trouble you, Father?"
"No, not trouble…but you are an enigma."
There was the startled look he had been waiting for.
"An enigma?" she echoed.
"Yes. Your strong faith aside, it is obvious that some strapping young man from the village should seek you out. Or several, in point of fact. That you have no family means the village should have banded together to care for you, but you are alone, and they seem not to care. In my experience, that is very unusual."
"I did not need their help. They do what they can to care for themselves. I am self-sufficient."
"But you are alone. Even those intending to take holy orders need people around them when they are young. Have you always been alone? What happened to your people?"
"They are far away. I was sent alone."
"I don't understand. Sent? Why? And so young?"
She shrugged. It was the most human expression he had yet to see her make. "I was needed here. So I came."
"But from where?"
"Away."
"You don't remember where you came from?"
"I remember…but I cannot tell you specifically where. I am unable."
"Now that I understand. If you were as young as I have been told you were when the villagers remember you appearing, it stands to reason your memory is weak. But why do you think they sent you here?"
"To serve God. Why else would I have come?"
Things began clicking in his mind. The child Varya, unable to understand the trauma of losing her family and finding herself in strange surroundings, had found a reason as to why. The villagers probably had some sort of changeling superstition regarding her, which is why she was shunned. It was unusual of an entire village to not care for the helpless. Hospitality alone would have dictated she be cared for. Their treatment of her was very out of character for the standoffish but warm-hearted people he knew. She would grow out of it in time, with God's help. It would be important for her to accept the truth if she were to take vows.
But she would need to be gently led. The sudden realization of the cruelty of humanity might shake her faith.
His resolution to help her became stronger.
"I believe you, tovarichka. I believe that you were brought to me by God."
That brilliant smile lit up the room. "I am pleased by this, Father. Thank you."
He found himself smiling in response. "I am pleased that you are pleased. Will you take tea with me?"
The smile faltered, replaced by her usual awkwardness. "It is not…not my place…"
"Ah, but I make the secular rules here," he said kindly. "Please, pour yourself some tea and sit with me. My dusty books are not calling me as of now. I would be glad of the company."
"Y—yes, Father."
Setting aside the tray she perched on the only other stool in the room and got herself a cup of tea. She generally brought two cups, as despite the cool reception of the church he did have the occasional visitor.
"You have been with me for a month now, tovarichka. Do you like it here?"
Astonished blue eyes, clear as the autumn sky outside, turned to him. He thought he'd be used to it by now, but her unfamiliarity with people still caught him unawares. It was obvious someone asking her that, or even considering the question herself, had never entered her mind.
"Yes," she finally said, slowly. "I do like it here. You are a kind master, and the work is not difficult. It is," she added with a shy smile. "Even exciting at times!"
His brow wrinkled. "Exciting?"
"Yes. I find it so," she said simply, sipping primly at her tea.
"Well, I suppose that is a good thing. I will try to keep it from being too exciting for you. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"
"I…I would like to know of you, Father."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Very well, although I doubt it's as exciting as doing my laundry or scrubbing the vestibule. I'm from Kyiv, my father is a blacksmith. I have two older brothers and three younger sisters. I trained to become one as well before I understood what was calling me. It might explain why I am so unorthodox!" He laughed, but she only continued to stare at him with those bright eyes. "Um…anyway. I was curious about the missionaries and followed them around. One of them took an interest in me. It opened my eyes and my heart. I took orders not too long after that."
"You are not what I expected."
"You don't shy away from frankness, do you? But I suppose I'm not." Looking down he swirled his tea around in his cup. "It's not the first time I've heard that. I believe that's why I'm here, so far from Kyiv. They wish me to learn proper gravity. I don't think I'm true enough for them. This," he stroked his clean shaven chin, "does not help much. They believe it can lead to vanity."
"You do not bear the weight of vanity upon you."
"I am glad to hear it! I pray the bishop sees the same! In truth, my father is beardless by virtue of his craft, and I often forget and shave out of habit. I must break it, but there always seems to be something else to do first."
"Your family. Do you miss them?"
"Yes. Very much. But I knew I would when I took orders. They understand, as do I, that some sacrifice is necessary."
"I have chores I must attend," she said abruptly, standing. "I will leave you to your studies."
"Very well. Thank you, tovarichka."
"I will return later for the tea things."
And with that she was gone.
"I will do what I can for you, tovarichka," he said to the closed door. "Whether it be bride of Christ or bride of man, I will do all that I can to see that you are happy."