Under The Veil

'And I have made thy name known to them, and shall make known; 

that the love by which thou hast loved me, be in them and I in them.'

~John 17:26~

               The hour was sweet. It was silent. Father Quintius took these hours, barely brushed by dawn, to link his voice to the Lord's. Heloise hoped he wouldn't mind if she lent her own this foggy morning. She'd risen before chores, silently making her way to the church. Its sole light were the candles, sending gentle shadows over the stone walls. Alight throughout the night, they were a claming beacon that all in the parish could spot.
                "My heart is heavy, Father." was all Heloise had said when Father Quintius spotted her. "I can lay it nowhere but here."  
                 Such explanation was hardly necessary. Father Quintius was an understanding soul, beloved by the parish... those who attended his sermons, and those who didn't. Just the same, Heloise wanted him aware. As an elder, mentor, and friend, she welcomed his prayers. So, she stayed kneeled, eyes on the cross and heart upon the stone floor, until Father Quintius rang out the parish bell. Rather then a means of starting the day, the bell was a system which Preben, the blacksmith had proposed.
                 Hills sheltered the parish to the east; a mile past those hills, stood the tents of the soldiers. They'd been placed there against the growing invasion of the Mongols. For three years now, sad destruction had maimed the western border of Europe and the coming and going of soldiers- feeding them, dressing wounds, and stabling their horses- had marked those grisly times. Father Quintius' parish was the only one for six miles and couldn't afford constant militant protection. A ring of the bell at dawn, another at dusk, signaling they'd not be overthrown by the unwashed hordes.
                They fight the battle without. Heloise raised her eyes upon the mark of Jesus; the cross hung behind Father Quintius' pulpit. I must fight that within.
                 Not alone. 
                 The promise did not bring peace. But it did loosen the barren loneliness that had been building on Heloise's shoulders all week. The answer was clear as she stood. "What good is hearing the Word of Truth if it goes unused?"
                 Heloise turned from her whisper to exit the humble church. The door darkened before she had taken two steps. Heloise paused. Ivory robes hovering above the ground, Father Jerome entered, hands clasped in their tender- domineering- way. He had been seen in this posture, moving from hut to the stables, the mill, to another hut. A pale man with thinning hair and gray eyes, he easily faded in and out of the countryside. Father Jerome made his cross, eyes over Heloise to the pulpit. "You came to unburden your heart, my child?"
                 An intuitiveness formidable of a man of the cloth. Heloise kept her face mutual. "It is in the hands of God now. Good day, father."
                 He let her pass, though his eyes bore down on her. "You do not seek absolution?"
                 Heloise didn't dare turn around. She'd found early on that Father Jerome never stopped at one sentence. Sure enough, he stepped closer, his disdain growing in her silence. "You speak against the business of the church and no repentance."
                 Heloise watched the arch of the church door. The threshold of both hope and heartache in the world. Who alone was worthy to bear the responsibility of it? The rage returning from yesterday, Heloise turned her eye to the priest. "The church makes business of heaping insults on children."
                 Father Jerome's lips drew a thin, condescending line. Heloise and the others of the parish had grown accustomed to it. For almost a month now, Father Jerome and his brother monks had been tending the morale of the frontlines. That is, within the relative safety of the parish- all forty acres of it. With them, were two wards of the Holy Roman church; Fernan and his older cousin, Manuel. Heloise did not know their story, but she saw them to be hard-working, eager to please boys. That was why they'd remained silent as Father Jerome had cursed them... in God's name!
                 "They neglected their duties and stole your master's horse." Father Jerome pointed out.
                 "The care of our horses falls to me." Heloise was quick to point back. "They had my permission-"
                 "You permit nothing." Father Jerome stated, cool in his control. "And it seems you understand nothing. Fernan recognizes his need for atonement; Manuel also. The past sins they have to bear-"
                 "You underestimate the devil to measure the sins of one family by one hand." Heloise thought on Fernan's fingers, curled abnormally into his knuckles. A boy of nine and condemned to the spiritual debtor's prison. Nonetheless, a strong rider and a humble soul that flowed with questions.
                 "Who are we to question the mark of past transgressions." Father Jerome insisted, shoulders growing stiff. They'd both taken to guarding their position around each other, the longer he and monks stayed. As Heloise's objections had become louder over the parish, more frequent.
                 "... a jealous God," Father Jerome was speaking, hand clasped adamantly around his rosary. "and I yield the wickedness of the fathers into the sons, into the third and fourth generations..."
                 He looked ahead to the cross, as though it would respond. His whole body jerked when Heloise did. "Forsooth, he was wounded for our wickedness... the learning of our peace was on him and we be made whole by his wanness."
                 There was the burn of conviction in her chest... fear also. Her life here had been built over the ruins of her old one. But as a shallow grave, they could be drawn up in a light storm or with the till. She saw the storm as Father Jerome's eyes narrowed on her. They showed their annoyance, but also their suspicion. "From the book of Isaiah. How well you must listen to Father Quintius' messages."
                 "He is a fine spiritual leader." Heloise barely swallowed. The need to kick herself was great. This was not the first time she had combated with Father Jerome, or the fellow monks. She'd been careful to only quote the scriptures Father Quintius had on hand. But never in Latin.
                 "Quarreling is not my wish, father." Heloise dipped her head, shadowing the humility she was praying for. "Not in His house. I spoke out for the children because I care. Nothing more."
                 Father Jerome seemed to accept this, withdrawing his suspicion. "Rest assured, Heloise. No one cares for the forsaken more then the shepherds of Christ."
                 He raised a hand to hover over Heloise's forehead. Jaw tightened, Heloise knocked it aside.  Father Jerome's face reddened, but it was only Fernan's round face and eager voice that filled Heloise's mind, along Manuel's proud eyes. Heloise had seen many forsaken in her life. It was in neither of those boys. But she kept this behind her lips, turning from Father Jerome and finally exiting the church.

~To Be Continued~