Chris Holm - The Big Reap

I gestured toward his tool belt. “I always thought meditation was more sitting on a straw mat and less… whacking things with hammers.”

“Yes, well, I prefer a more active approach. It’s good for a man to have a project. There are very few burdens in life that can’t be eased by a good sweat, by honest work. And idle hands are the devil’s playthings, after all.”

“I couldn’t agree more. I’m here on a bit of a project myself.”

He squinted appraisingly at me. “And what, pray tell, is that?”

I gestured up the hill toward the ruins — hard and sharp against the sky, like the spires of a wrought-iron fence viewed at an angle, so they crowd together in silhouette. “Exploration,” I told him. “I’m trying to see as many of Europe’s castles as I can.”

“And your quest brought you here? I’m surprised. I would not have thought so humble and remote a town had made the guidebooks. Particularly since you’re the first such tourist to happen by in my memory, and,” he said, nodding toward the square, where the townspeople watched our conversation with naked, gawking interest, only to avert their gazes when we glanced their way, “a good deal longer, if their reaction’s any indication.”

His question came off all light and conversational, but I couldn’t help thinking it was a test. Yefi knew damn well these ruins weren’t in any guidebook, and further, that this town was hard to find. What’s more, I couldn’t help but feel there was a secret-handshake component to our entire conversation. He was feeling me out, but why? What did he know that he wasn’t telling me?

Whatever it was, I thought it best to play along. I shook my head and feigned a sheepish smile. “To tell the truth,” I said, “my trip so far’s been pretty touristy. I only wound up here because I suck at reading road signs in Romanian. Pretty sure I took a dozen or so wrong turns since I left my hotel in Petrosani this morning. And in the interest of making a full confession, Father, I’m still not sure where the heck I’ve ended up, there was no sign I could see at the entrance to the town, and I can’t make heads or tails of where I am on my map. But I figured hey, I’m hunting castles, and here’s a castle, so maybe somebody upstairs is trying to tell me something.”

“Well, I can help you in one capacity, at least. The town you’re standing in is called Nevazut. In Romanian, it means ‘unseen’ — a reference, no doubt, to its isolated nature, and the fact that it attracts so few visitors. I confess, I had some trouble finding the place myself when first I came, as if the roads themselves resisted bringing me. So perhaps there’s something to your theory you’ve been brought here for a reason.”

There was some steel behind that last sentence, as though he wished me to intuit some intent behind his words, but whatever it was, it was too subtle for me to understand. A threat? A warning? Some kind of coded cry for help?

I filed the thought away and soldiered on. “And does the castle have a name as well? Any chance you know somebody who could take me up there? A local guide, perhaps?”

At that, Yefi shook his head. “You’re not likely to find anyone in this town who’ll take you up there, nor even speak of it. I’ve lived in Nevazut for years now, having leapt at so satisfying an assignment as restoring this church to its former glory, even if I’d not heard of the town in which it sat. But despite my own repeated inquiries on the subject, I’ve not so much as heard a local refer to the ruins at all, except obliquely. Even then, they speak in the hushed tones of the frightened, or the reverent. They refer to it variously as the Great Death, the Stone Protector, the Shadow Cast Upon the Valley. I confess, I don’t even know the castle’s true name, and after a few months here, I learned it best to cease inquiring on the subject. It was only once I abandoned my curiosity these people began to accept my presence here.”

“You’re telling me I should do the same? Abandon my curiosity, that is.”

Yefi looked around once more, moving only his eyes, so the townspeople at their distance could not see.

“I’m telling you,” he said, sotto voce , his face a mask of amiability despite the sudden weight his quiet words carried, “that this conversation is perhaps best continued inside.” And then, loud enough for any person dropping eaves to hear: “I know you’re just passing through, my friend, and eager to get back on the road, but my day’s work has left me parched. Perhaps you’d indulge a lonely man of the cloth and come inside for a drink before you go?”

With that, he opened the front door to the church and stood aside to let me in. For a moment, I just stared at him, puzzled. Then, after casting another glance around the village’s central green to see three dozen locals doing their damndest to pretend as if they weren’t watching, I stepped into the hallowed darkness.

“You wanna tell me what that was all about?” I asked the priest once we were both inside the church, and the heavy wooden door had clapped shut behind us. “The folks I’ve met since I arrived don’t speak a lick of English. Can’t imagine they’d have picked up much of our conversation. And anyways, I’m just a tourist passing through.”

“Like hell you are,” Yefi replied. “You, like they, understand a great deal more than you’re letting on.”

My hand crept once more to the gun in its concealment holster beneath my jacket. “I’m not sure I take your meaning, Padre.”

“You take my meaning fine,” he told me, “and I assure you, I intend you no harm. This is a place of worship, after all. Too long ignored, alas, both structurally and in intent, but a place of worship nonetheless.”

I eyed him for a second, and saw no malice in his features, no threat implicit in his posture, so I relaxed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? All the sudden, I get the feeling like you’re here for something other than quiet meditation, or fixing up a dilapidated old church.”

“To your first point, you’re quite right. As for your second, though, you’ve missed the mark. I am , in fact, here to fix up this dilapidated old church, as you so callously called her; however, my reasons for doing so are far from contemplative. For you see, while Nevazut — quite by design, though whose or what’s exactly I could not say — does not appear on any maps, it’s long been at the fore of my Church Patriarch’s mind. The locals are not wrong to refer to the ruins that lord over them as a shadow, for a great darkness resides in Nevazut, and taints every aspect of its inhabitants’ lives. Yet for whatever reason, they welcome this darkness, into their homes, into their hearts. It fuels them. Guides them. Provides them strength and solace, when instead they should be seeking both in the love of one another, and in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. That is why I was sent here. To drive the wickedness from these Godless people, and turn them once more toward the light of God’s grace. That is why I’ve dedicated myself to restoring His house; I consider it the first step toward restoring His flock. Or, at least, I did. Now I fear they’re too far gone for my humble ministrations to save.”

“Save the sermon, Padre, and skip ahead to the specifics.”

“Certainly,” he said, “although for that, I think perhaps we’ll need a drink.”

He retreated into the church’s gloomy interior, sparking a camp lantern as he did. The interior of the building was suddenly awash in amber light, which reflected off the lacquered surfaces within and suffused the church with warmth and numinous beauty. What little watery light trickled through the tiny panes of leaded glass that graced the church’s only windows had not done any justice to the stunning craftsmanship contained therein. Even in its work-in-progress state, it was really something to see. The steep pitch of the roof was two planes of honey-colored tongue-and-groove fading upward into darkness. Rough-hewn beams, each carved from a single tree trunk and affixed to one another with iron brackets and nails the size of railroad ties, propped the structure up. A few of these beams were splintered and met in a shallow V where they had weakened; replacements still golden-fresh were stacked along one wall, together with replicas of the original brackets and hardware to match. A roped-off spiral staircase missing half its steps led upward to the organist’s balcony, and then up further to the bell tower. Pews of oak, some unfinished, others stained matte brown, still others stained and varnished both, rested above floorboards so old and age-desiccated their dishwater-gray surfaces bowed upward at the edges, showing black beneath, basement or earth I wasn’t sure.