And so I learned new things. I learned of anger, and of remorse. Further, I encountered a curious hateful longing. I wished to see Father Gavril merely to see him, be with him merely to be. It had nothing to do with his protection, or guarding him. It was for his own sake.
I cursed my body, then immediately repented. The body had been granted me by my true Father, and the fault was mine. The lack of strength was entirely of my own doing. Indeed, the body had given me the ability to experience marvelous and amazing things in this world. My ingratitude was abominable.
It was dangerous. I fought to deny it. Deny it I must, for it all would be shed upon return to my brethren. Clinging to it would lead to discontent, and an attempt to circumvent Father's will, as had happened before by others of my kind. I would deny it.
But my resolve appeared a weak thing indeed, when confronted by my first contact with deadly sin.
"Tovarichka, are you well?"
She looked up at him from where she was kneeling in the dirt, harvesting cabbages from their small vegetable patch. It was likely the last harvest until after spring. The smile she gave him was wan.
"Yes, Father. I am not ill."
"But something is wrong."
"Perhaps a bad dream."
He leaned against the split railings of the pig sty, having just dumped the breakfast for the pig into the trough. Troubled, he studied her as she continued on with her work. Her silence this morning was not her usual hush. It was withdrawn, and her cheeks, usually tinged with rose, were pale. No circles beneath her eyes denoting poor sleep, but her expression lacked the serenity she normally wore.
"Tell me, tovarichka. What is troubling you?"
His heart lurched at the sudden helpless bewilderment she presented to him when she turned her face to him.
"It is serious indeed, for such an expression," he said, trying to sound light, pushing off the fence and kneeling next to her. "Please confide in me. I may be able to help."
Her mouth opened and worked for a moment, all the while her eyes showing clear conflict. "I—I—feel that demons plague me at night. And you as well."
"This is a superstitious land, and I know that the villagers filled your head with the ideas of forest spirits ready to entrap and kill you. This is a house of God, tovarichka. No such demon would dare enter. You are safe here."
"Yes, you are strong, and you will keep them at bay," she said, almost to herself, trying to convince herself.
"That's not really what I—"
"You are strong in your faith, and you have very little sin. As long as you remain so, none will be able to touch you."
"Tovarichka, I thought they were after you."
She shook her head, the babushka covering her hair flapping. "No, I do not matter. Only you matter. They must not get to you."
"I am strong in my love of the Lord," he said cautiously, "But I am a man. We have spoken of this. I will sin. Of course I strive not to, but that is my nature. That is what Jesus Christ died for, so that we may be absolved of such things. His blood washes away sin."
"But there is a window…and sometimes sins are so great, so insidious that contrition is not made. The sin is too desired. Forgiveness must be asked for, and truly repented. These are the temptations you must not fall to!"
Without seeming to realize it, she reached out and seized his hand in both of her own, covered in soil. About to reply, he looked fully into her eyes and stopped, breath caught in his throat. Crystal blue seemed to enfold him like an embrace, inviting him in for succor and comfort and protection. Her hands on his were warm, and seemed to set his skin aglow.
"Tovarichka…" Was that his voice? Why did it sound so strangled? His free hand, of its own accord, reached out to smooth away a lock of silvery blond hair that had escaped the scarf.
Then she realized she had latched onto him and broke away with a cry. Hands clasped in front of her, the familiar blush flooded up her face.
"Forgive me, forgive me! I am too bold! I do not know why I—"
Scrambling to her feet, she ran around the church and into the woods, leaving him kneeling in the garden.
He understood that it was the practice of some Christian worshippers from the west to pray while on their knees. It seemed like a good time to try it out.
Direct contact with her was rare after that. The impression of her being a ghost became stronger as he would catch glimpses of her flitting away after bringing his tea, or darting through a door as he rounded a corner or came into a room. Her chores were still done, everything was still neat and tidy, his laundry was still washed, his meals still prepared.
Unexpectedly he felt lonely. Her conversation was not necessarily intellectually stimulating, but it was always fresh. She seemed to have a bright and ready mind, only suffering from ignorance. He had been looking forward to the long winter, where they would sit by the stove in the kitchen and he would teach her of plays, poetry, and books. He'd had it all envisioned. Theological discussions that would last for hours, her innocent and frank views were always welcome, now that he had overcome the obstacle of his pride. Her view of God was full of hope and love, not fear and ritual.
She had the purest love of God he had ever seen. He had wanted to explore that.
Something had severely unsettled her the night before she had told him of the demons. Something that had caused her recalcitrance to break for the briefest of moments.
It was the first time she had reached out and touched him, in all the months they had been living together.
Straying thoughts brought to him that touch, those smooth soft hands on his. They gripped so tightly, and even in her sudden fear, he had felt a strange reassurance. And those eyes…they saw things he, even as a man of God, could never see.
They made him feel like the man he wanted to be.
Such unanticipated strength was contained within her. For a moment it had seemed like he really could leave all protection to her, trust in her to make sure everything stayed right. Yet, there was such a vulnerability. A bewilderment as if all her world was new and she was foundering within it. It made him want to shelter her instead. Such a curious contradiction.
Shaking his head, he cleared his throat and reapplied himself to his books. After a few moments he leaned back and reached for the steaming cup of tea that had been waiting for him when he came into his study.
And why shouldn't he want to shelter her? Wasn't that part of what he was? To find the lost and guide them, to bring them to the safety of God's love? It was why he was here!
With a growl he shoved himself away from his desk and went outside to the woodpile, stripping off his cassock as he went. As his mind refused to cooperate, his body was restless. He would work on increasing their wood supply, bathe, and then submerse himself in prayer. There had to be an answer to helping her. Perhaps God would show him what it was.
The sun had just begun to settle in the west as he took up his axe and grimly set to work. The shadows of the trees that surrounded the chapel grounds were stretching blackly across the ground in long lines and sharp angles. They looked like fingers reaching across the ground, trying to grab up anything in their path.
What could he do to help her? How could he approach her? It was obvious she desperately needed his spiritual guidance. But right now she was so skittish he was afraid to even speak to her. He would leave it for now, as he had placed it in God's hands. The prayer had been made, and God would answer it in His own way, in His own time.