"If it is not Popiy Gavril and his little helper! I have splendid needles this week!"
Gavril sighed. They would insist on calling him "Pope Gavril", despite how many times he asked them not to. They didn't seem to understand the disrespect. It was one of many things he had to change.
"Thank you, Gospodín Petrenko. I will look at them. I also have a pot I need mended," Va"rya replied as Gavril finally nodded in greeting.
The burly blacksmith tsked as he took the copper pot from her. "You have used it roughly, Snegurochka, Snow Maiden! You seem so delicate, and yet you are so dangerous!"
"My apologies, Gospodín Petrenko. It was not my intention to misuse it."
"So serious! Come, I will fix your pot. You can look at my wares as I do so."
"If I may…" Gavril began to inquire, but the blacksmith interrupted.
"Of course you may watch! I suppose I have no need to worry when it comes to protecting my secrets where you are concerned," he gestured for them enter the stone building, one of the few in the village. Generally it was not a good idea for smithies to be in wooden buildings.
"I apologize if I seem too eager," Gavril said with a smile.
"Bah, think nothing of it," the blacksmith said, setting the pot to one side and stepping on the bellows to awaken the sleeping coals of his forge. They roared to life with a whoosh of heat and sparks. Gavril was so caught up in the wonder he always felt at seeing a working smithy, the heat was entirely forgotten. "I enjoy it! Was it your father or your uncle who was the smith?"
"My father. I suppose one never loses the interest, despite other callings."
"Of course not. Iron gets into the blood, and I doubt even the blood of your lamb can truly replace it."
Gavril thought it wise to bite his tongue at that, rather than launch into a speech on blasphemy. The thought was not shared.
"Gospodín Petrenko, if you believe the call of metal and flame to be so strong," Varya said somberly, "then you would be astonished at the call of God. It is His touch you feel in your beloved forge, and in every stroke of your hammer. Your great work is possible because of the gifts God gave you, and because of your determination to make good use of such gifts. One without the other is meaningless."
Petrenko chuckled, but looked thoughtful. "Such solemn words from Snegurochka. Is it truly so, Popiy?" he asked Gavril. Behind the levity there was a serious question.
"It is. In you God has granted a wondrous ability," Gavril replied, glancing at Varya in appreciation. "But it is you who has embraced that ability and turned it into such a magnificent skill. Because you have so embraced it, you feel the calling of it. The song you hear in your iron is not the iron itself, but the song of God, who speaks to you through it."
Absently the smith reached for a small metal ring to place around the hole in the pot, to make it ready for a copper patch. But he fiddled with it in his massive fingers rather than placing it in the pot. "I do feel strongly about my smithy," he admitted after a moment. "It shames me to say, but I believe I feel more for my smithy than my wife. Could it be the reason is so divine?"
"It is, and there is no shame in it," Gavril told him, warming up to the topic. "It is only natural that your love for the blessings of God would outweigh any earthly love. However, your wife and family are also gifts, and I am sure you treasure them as well."
"I do. My wife is strong, and has given me four healthy sons. We have never lost a child," he boasted, and rightfully so. The deaths of children were distressingly common. "And she cares for me beautifully, despite her sometimes razored tongue."
"We will leave you to your work," Gavril said, taking Varya's arm. "It seems we have given you much to think about."
"You have, you have, indeed. Return in a few hours. The patch will be set then."
Gavril steered Varya out of the smithy and back into the dirt road of the village. She moved to continue on to the baker, but he pulled her aside, out of the way of the road.
"You know no fear, and have a way with words," he said to her.
"I merely spoke the truth."
"It is how you present the truth that is important."
"The truth is the truth," she replied, shrugging. "How it is presented makes no never mind."
"Did you not just scold him, albeit gently, regarding his comment about the Blood?"
"It needed to be corrected."
"Would you like to hear my first thoughts on it? What I was inclined to say?"
"Yes?" It was obvious she wasn't sure what the purpose of this conversation was.
"My first thought was to tell him he was committing grave blasphemy against God, and to repent his ways. The earthly pleasure brought to him by the forge should never be compared to the glory that is our Father."
"But he only suffered ignorance. He meant no harm. He did not know any better."
"Yes, and knowing that, that was still my first instinct."
"I see…then it seems you truly do not understand the ways of our Father."
"Pardon me?"
"God is love, not fear. He has had to be stern with humanity, as a father has to be stern with a wayward child, for humanity are his children. Would you punish a child for reaching out to the scalding stove because he knew no better? Or would you attempt to gently correct first?"
"I would most likely yell and snatch the child away," he snapped, staring at her through narrowed eyes. She, an orphan from nothing, with no training, who had never even stepped in a church before she met him, daring to correct his faith? How dare she? A sudden anger welled inside him, hot and seeking a vent. It caught him up before he had time to be surprised at it.
"And you would frighten the child. Is it fear you wish to instill, or respect?"
"I don't believe it is appropriate for you to tell me my calling," he said coldly. "You are a great one for knowing your place, but are happy enough to abandon it at the slightest provocation in order to chastise me."
The effect of his words were immediate. Red flushed her face, then drained away, leaving behind chalky paleness.
Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, before she fled. Down the street she went, to disappear behind a cluster of homes.
His ire fled with her, the righteous heat vanishing, leaving behind a cold emptiness.
What was wrong with him? First to praise her for her way to explain faith and then turning on her so quickly when she said something that displeased him? Had his pride grown so large, out here in these pagan lands, that he was the end-all, be-all bastion of Christianity? There could be no way to believe but his?
It was true, she had spoken out of place, but that did not give him the right to lash out at her. He reacted exactly the way he had said he would. He had yelled, and snatched at her with his words. Hypocrite! Hypocrite!
He had instilled fear.
"Such a heavy sigh for such a young Popiy," an elderly voice came to him. It was Rechka's starosta, or village elder. Not so much an official title, it was one that the individual generally earned simply by being himself.
"Blessings upon you, Starosta Voloschuk," Gavril said, turning. "It is of no moment. How may I help you today?"
The old man's brown eyes were shrewd behind the silver-gray thatch of his thick eyebrows. The pate beneath the hat he wore was as bare of growth as the pounded dirt of the road they stood to one side of, but the brain underneath was as sharp as ever.
"It would seem," he said in a wheezy voice, "that I may be able to help you. Come, we will have tea."
"But—"
"Oh, don't refuse, young Popiy. Tea is one of the few pleasures I have left in this life. Perhaps sharing with you will give me some of your strength!"
Chagrinned, Gavril could only follow dumbly along in the starosta's wake. The old man took him to the simple wooden house he lived in, nodding and greeting the villagers as they went. The starosta stopped to chat here and there with various people. A pregnant woman whose baby was due soon, a young man soon to wed, a farmer trading his grain.
Gavril watched and absorbed it all. This, this was the respect he wanted to gain from the people of Rechka. They were familiar with the starosta, but still dutiful. It was obvious the starosta was welcome into every house, every family event.
This, Gavril felt, was what a parish priest needed to be. The church would have to be very careful not to step on the toes of the local hierarchies. The starosta was a highly important figure, and should not be dismissed merely because he had no official church title.
Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's…
He knew he would have to work hard to gain this level of trust. The villagers were now friendly to him, which was a large step along the path. They were an interesting people, a contradiction of expansive and recalcitrant. Upon first meeting, they were civil, polite, but distinctly cold to outsiders. They would deny no hospitality, but it was painfully clear that an outsider was an outsider.
Once that barrier was broken down, however, they were a loving and gregarious people. Full of kindness and mirth, song and story. He had not been prepared for the dichotomy. The people in Kyiv were reaching a more cosmopolitan sort of indifference, the influence of the ruling classes.
Seeing the warmth and the hearts so opened left Gavril with a wistful pang. He hungered for it with a strength that surprised him.
Considering his recent display of temper, he'd never be able to achieve it.
The starosta's home was no more grand nor ostentatious than any other. Only the food and other sundries, gifts of the village, left on the doorstep denoted this was the house of someone important. Starosta Voloschuk had outlived his wife, and three of his children. The two sons who lived had gone off to other lands. Apparently they prospered, and sent money and goods to the village on occasion, to help with the support of their father.
Even so widespread, the family bond remained.
"Please come in, young Popiy," the starosta said, gesturing for Gavril to enter the single room. Inside were the standard furnishings; stove, bed, table with a few chairs. Dried herbs dangled in bundles from the ceiling, along with a slab of bacon.
The starosta busied himself with the teapot and soon a steaming pot was steeping on the table between the two men.
"Now, while we wait for the flavor, perhaps you would care to tell me what is troubling you, young Popiy."
Gavril couldn't help but grin ruefully. "I am the one who is supposed to be offering that sort of counseling to others."
"Hmph. Even the Great Prince Vladimir has advisors, no?" the starosta said with twinkling eyes. "Your God may be all that is wise and good, but he is still a god, and not prone to giving a cup of tea and a chat, now is he?"
"I admit defeat," Gavril said. "He is indeed not prone to such things."
"Then it is well for you that I am. Perhaps your God put me here to offer this very cup of tea to you at this very time."
"It could be," Gavril replied feelingly. "It is said He moves in mysterious ways."
"Or in this case, a very uncomplicated way. Now, what is it that troubles you?"
"Being a man."
"Your pretty helpmeet, the Snegurochka, is it so? Ah, she has a face that will trouble many a man. Perhaps if your heart is so bent, your calling is not what it should be, eh?"
"N-no, it's not that…I was harsh with her. She is a straightforward girl, and plain with her words. Not so plain that I should have taken her to task as I did."
"Is that all? Then find her and apologize. The transgression cannot be so great. She is a good sort of person, after all. And forgives easily when it is merited."
"Of this I have no doubt. It is not her forgiveness that troubles me. It is myself. That I could be so offended, knowing she is the way she is. And on the heels of praising her for her ability to speak to others!"
The starosta reached out a gnarled hand and patted Gavril on the shoulder. "All will be right. I am sure after she's somewhere having a good cry right now. Once you two are able to speak again, you will set it straight. You are a good sort of person as well, young Popiy, and when two good sorts of people have a falling out, they can quickly mend it."
"And what of my own faults? Am I to mend those as quickly?"
"The tea is finally ready, I think."
While the starosta's hands were thickly callused and knobbly from the years, they were nonetheless steady as they poured fragrant tea into two cups. The shrewdness in the old man's eyes was as strong as ever as he handed Gavril one of the cups.
"Now, think upon your actions, and your feelings. Take the negative and blow it away as you cool your tea. By the time you can drink it you will feel better."
That caused a raised eyebrow, but Gavril did as he was bid, thinking back on those wide blue eyes, the frank innocence that shone out of them as she told him his years of study and devotion had not led to a better understanding of his Lord. He did not expect a perfect understanding of God, it would be the rankest of sacrilege to even think such a thing was possible.
But he had expected a better realization than she accused him of having. God was indeed a fearful Being. A father, as she had said, but a very strict one.
And yet, He had sent His Son to a terrible death so that they might be saved. And the Son had come, and endured all that humanity could have Him contend with. The humanity within Him only cried out once to be spared, but the divine nobility within Him still had Him abide. Not to save the so-called "good people". It was to save everyone. There was no picking and choosing. If someone wanted a better spiritual life, it could be had. No matter their terrible deeds. All they had to do was reach out and take it. Take the miracle that was anointed with blood and sanctified by flesh.
It was dreadful, and it was beautiful.
How was it that this uneducated peasant girl could have such a profound understanding that the missionaries direct from Constantinople and Rome had not been able to teach? God was indeed a fearful God, but He was also a God of tolerance and understanding. And yes, of love. As Jesus had accepted the lepers and the whores, so too should those who followed in his teachings.
No one man was better than any other in the eyes of God. All were capable of purity and of sin. All were capable, and worthy, of redemption. It was not His servant's place to judge, only to guide those who wished a better understanding of their personal relationship with Him.
When Gavril had arrived at Rechka, he had felt knowledgeable indeed, and he realized that he had been practicing the sin of pride. He had been subconsciously contemptuous of these villagers and their pagan ways. That had included Varya.
Words from the Book of Matthew came to him. Gavril needed to be as a child, indeed! The simple humility of children, who knew what they knew and also what they didn't know. They had no shame in what they didn't know. They would learn it if it were important.
It was so easy. His apology to Varya would be real, now. He had understood where the spike of anger had come from, and how to make sure it didn't happen again. With hard work and God's help, he would most assuredly succeed.
The sip he finally took of his tea spread across his tongue in a blissfully warm balm.
"I have found that there is very little inner turmoil that waiting for a cup of tea to cool cannot fix," the starosta said, taking a sip himself. "We make things so complicated."
"Yes, we do indeed, starosta." Gavril stared into his cup at the amber liquid. "You have my thanks."
"Bah, no thanks needed. Just doing what needed doing. If you are going to teach us how great your God is, you can't be depressed, now can you? We all have a job here, and it is the responsibility of the whole to make sure those jobs get done!"
"Rechka is an amazing place."
"It is a place. Full of people. Of course, I like to think the people are particularly special, but I actually don't believe we're all that different from any other village."
"I certainly pray you are right."