Part 5 [the priest]

Something in the architecture of the chapel always managed to move her. The wooden statues with their bright, happy colours stood in morbid contrast with the story they were meant to tell. The Holy Family huddled together, faces alight with happiness and benediction. Were they to look up to have a look at the statues on the altarpiece, they wouldn't recognize their beloved son; they would see only an emaciated criminal, with dark circles around his eyes and red blotches on his leathery skin. It was the knowledge of that one fact, that the rosy-cheeked baby in her mother's arms would one day find himself bleeding for humanity on the seat of the cross, that was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

The first song her mother had taught her hadn't been a psalm, but a folk song about the Holy Mother, star of the day. She'd eventually changed the tune to adapt it to the slower, more solemn tones that the church seemed to prefer, and she had sang it during Ash Wednesdays as she collected olive branches and prepared them to drive thunderstorms away. She sang it again, enjoying the way the sound reverberated on the stone, as she made her way around the nave. She rather liked visiting the church, even if she rarely bothered going to mass: she liked the statues in it, more than anything.

There was one of them in particular that had always fascinated her. She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was about it, if it was the motif, or the execution, or the way the ages had played with it. It was oddly enchanting, with its faded paint peeled off in sections, revealing the dark wood underneath. Saint Michael's face was downcast and distorted, his luscious curls looking like stilted, greasy appendages stuck to his head. He was a far cry from the haughty warrior angel he was supposed to be, as if the echoes of his victory had turned haunting. His foe, in comparison, was much more impressive – the body curling around the angel's feet with surprising strength and vitality, jaws open and menacing, with its lips still shining red. Her fingers traced the face of the monster as her song finished, and the church once again fell silent.

"I wish you'd accept my invitation, Miss Hilde," a voice said next to her, catching her by surprise. "Our choir would benefit strongly from your polished soprano."

Father Grandier was a welcome change from the array of characters she'd come to expect from the Church. She didn't know which ones she detested the most: the zealous persecutors, or the disinterested materialists. The former would confuse the line between the dogma of their religious beliefs and their personal passions, and the latter would spit on the holiness of their temple, believing religion to be nothing more than a stepping stone in their quest for wordly power. The young priest, on the other hand, was an intriguing combination of healthy scepticism and a fervent belief in the truth beyond the senses; in short, a man after her own heart.

"There's a place for everyone in this town," she answered with a smile, "and mine is to remain at the beck and call of the sick. Lord knows that as long as my medicine cures them, these people will put up with me. But to have the gall to sing the Lord's praise during mass? They would consider it blasphemy."

"You belong to this congregation as much as they do, and," the priest turned to look at the altar, "even if you don't, our Christian duty is to forgive the unforgiven."

At that, Hilde inclined her head, and looked at the creature her hands still caressed. "I would imagine he would disagree, father. Being speared is hardly an act of forgiveness."

She knew her cheekiness would've cost her a frown and a lecture at best, a blessing and penance at worst. She'd learnt a great deal of things about the natural world as she'd grown, but she'd never cared to learn how to keep quiet. Father Grandier, however, let out a hearty laugh, once again catching her by surprise.

"These are gentler times, Miss Hilde, that's for sure. You'd be surprised at how the definition of 'charitable' has changed over the ages."

"I see you are particularly fond of this statue," he said, "I'm enchanted by it myself. I wonder, as you are apprenticed to an alchemist, what do you see in it?"

Hilde paused, and in a rare moment of self-doubt, she wondered how honest she could be. Something in his eyes, however, made her think she could confide in him. "I see a man trying to dominate Nature. The male principle penetrating the female principle."

"Interesting," light shone from Grandier's dark eyes as if luminaries had been set ablaze behind them. Hilde felt unnerved by the stare, "I asked the same question to your master, and he said to me, 'I see the defeat of evil'. Dragons are quite complicated symbols, aren't they?"

"What do you think happens to the Dragon after he's speared, father? Does he bleed out and perish?"

"I think it becomes the snake you're so familiar with, Miss Hilde; the one that wraps around a cane, or the one that bites its tail."

At that, she removed her hand from the statue, as if it'd burned her. She felt a strange sense of foreboding. "Father, I..." she began to say, but he had turned away from her, and was moving back to the entrance of the chapel. She realized it was nearly time for mass.