"Time for another Sunday," he said, preparing his vestments. Varya was readying the nave, as she did every Sunday, making sure the floor was cleanly swept and all was complete. Despite himself, he felt a small pang of anxiety. He had received another missive from his bishop. The numbers simply weren't there. If his parishioners did not increase, and soon, he would be recalled and sent somewhere else to spread the Word.
He hoped that tovarichka's conversation with the blacksmith two days earlier would help convince him to come, with his family. It was sizeable, and would add a nice number to his pitifully small flock. Still, being a blacksmith was not an easy life, and his father had worked seven days of the week. It was a hope, but not a likely one, that Petrenko would come.
Chuckling, he shook his head. Who knew that being such a minor bureaucrat would become part of his duties as a priest? It was necessary, however. The resources of the church were limited, and had to be used where they would be the most effective. Perhaps that would change. It was his fervent prayer, and part of why his studies were so important to him. The change had to come from the ruling class, and more than merely converting as a fad. They had to truly embrace the morals and tenets of Christianity, or it would merely be just another set of rituals to force upon the common people. And surely, a set of rituals twisted and warped to gain earthly wealth and power for those already in control.
Grimacing, he shook his head and continued donning his vestments. Last week had been busy for tovarichka, and he was still uncertain how she managed all the feast days on her own. The Feast of Saint Michael was not an elaborate one, and she had prepared it perfectly, of course. The nativity would be beginning in the next few weeks, and she would become even busier. Add to that the normal preparations for the long winter…he would have to see to it she did not over-extend herself. It would not do for her to become exhausted.
He would see the schedule of services to the village himself, and perhaps do the shopping as well. It would take time away from his studies, but it would be of great help to her.
It was time. Squaring his shoulders, he walked out into the nave.
And gasped.
"Father?" Varya whispered to him, in her customary place directly beneath the altar until the service actually began, when she would join the rest of the standing congregation. "Is something wrong?"
"No…but…where did all these people come from?"
The nave was nearly full, and people were still coming in. There was Petrenko, with his family, and was that Kaluzny, the baker, with his family as well? And even the starosta had made the trip, although it had probably been in a cart owned by someone else in the village.
"The village, Father."
His surprise doubled as his gaze snapped to her. She was smiling merrily.
"Was that a joke, tovarichka?"
"Perhaps a small one, Father," she said, and he was momentarily mesmerized by the unexpectedly impish grin.
"You brought them?"
"I will tell you later, Father," she said primly, turning and taking her place on the front rank of the congregation. His surprised drained away, replaced with delight.
It was a very good service indeed.
"You were so full of energy, Popiy," Petrenko said. "And the little Snegurochka is very good at helping us who don't know what to do yet."
"We are grateful you chose to join us, Gospodín Petrenko."
"Well," the burly man said, scratching his thinning hair beneath his peasant cap. "What the Snegurochka said about my forge struck a chord. I thought it would be a good idea to see more. Particularly if all this does turn out to be as important as you say it is!"
"It is indeed."
"I think we'll be back…you said Saturday, right?"
"Yes."
"Then we'll be back. Please make sure we know what happens when!"
"I will!"
With a gruff nod, the blacksmith herded his family towards the carts that had been haphazardly left to one side of the church grounds.
One by one the heads of the various families came to greet him after the service, and he quickly noticed a common theme. Most of them began one sentence or another with, "After what the Snegurochka said". The exception was the starosta, who came and gripped his hand with a strength that belied his age.
"I don't know what it is about what you did in there, all the talking and singing and words, but I do feel better," the old man told him.
"I wasn't aware you were feeling bad," Gavril replied, concerned.
"Oh, not bad, but when you reach my age you start to think about what happens next. As you know, my sons are far away. It is comforting to know that I won't rise as a vengeful spirit if I am not properly remembered during the sviata, the annual ritual for the dead. You say your Christ is all I need to rest?"
"He does more than ensure your rest, He ensures your everlasting happiness. So long as you accept Him, He will see to all your spiritual needs."
"That is a good thing, I think. The sviata is important, but it can be a burden, particularly for those with many they have lost. Every year we end up with a few restless dead who were forgotten by accident."
While he doubted that the ghosts of those not duly honored walked again, all Gavril said was, "Accepting Christ into your heart will assure you of a place in Heaven, no matter whether you are remembered by those left behind or not. All that matters is that He will always remember you, and He is eternal. That is why once you shed your earthly bonds, you are truly born into your immortal form."
Around him, he could feel the interested stares of the other elderly villagers, who were very interested in his words. The superstitions of the ignorant were frightening. He was very grateful he was able to be the messenger of their relief.
The starosta wrung his hand again before releasing him. "Comforting indeed, Popiy. I think we all could use a father and son to remember us for always."
"I agree."
With a nod, the starosta also departed, leaving behind a contented Gavril.
Eventually the last of the villagers left, and Varya joined him outside the chapel door.
"This was your doing," he said to her, still looking out over the road, watching the last cart wend its way around the bend in the road.
"I merely encouraged," she said, but he could hear how pleased she was.
"You did more than that," he replied. "You spoke to each of them in such a personal way. To the seamstress you spoke of fine linen and coarse wool, to the farmer of fertile soil and that strewn with salt, to the carpenter of strong straight wood and of rotten. I never would have thought of making it so personal to them all."
He felt her fidget beside him, twisting her skirt between her fingers. "I feel I was led by God, the words were not mine."
"I think they were. I think you give yourself too little credit. God gave you a magnificent mind, tovarichka, and a sympathetic will to guide it. And today I will offer my thanks that He gave you to me…as an assistant."
Without seeing, he knew the blush was full force in her cheeks.
"You praise me too much," she said faintly.
"I praise you too little. I think you may have saved our place here."
"It was meant to be, I was merely an instrument."
Could she possibly be this selfless? He had encountered much false modesty among the clergy in Kyiv, but he had never sensed any of that sort of duplicity with her. She truly saw herself as nothing more than a vessel for God's will.
That he himself could learn such humility.
"It would not have done for us to return to Kyiv after failing to convert the locals," he sighed.
"Us?"
Blinking, he finally looked at her in surprise, but the surprise was at his own words, not hers.
"I misspoke. For some reason I instinctively assumed that if I were forced to return, you would be coming with me." He laughed. "You have become a part of my life, tovarichka. I cannot imagine life without you anymore."
"This…this pleases me," she said so quietly he wasn't sure he had heard correctly. Once the words had sunk in, he had no response.
"Why did you work so hard with the villagers?" he asked instead.
"I…I was upset at how I had offended you by speaking so out of place," she started. "I searched for a way to properly atone, and I was presented with one. I thought if I could fulfill a need for you, it would show you I truly did respect you and your piety."
"You didn't need to do this, I know speaking with the villagers is difficult for you," he said, then held up a hand to forestall her protests. "But I am very happy you did. Thank you, tovarichka."
"You are welcome."