It’s been two days since the ‘miracle’ I performed. Not much had happened in the village – no one rushed to my monastery to see the blessed priest; none even bothered a single glance. I didn’t know if Bert had not spread the news or that he did, but no one believed him. On the first day, he came over, thanked me furiously then handed me a half-full bottle of milk. It tasted sour, just like everything else here.

However, not all was bleak; there was quite the development: another page appeared in the gospel titled, “Curse of mild rash”. Its description was just as short as the previous one, reading, “Bring a terrible itch upon a living being”. That was all. The rest of the page listed the ingredients with one or two different items and an identical method for target selection. It seemed simple enough – I had to execute each page to unlock the next.

Regardless, however, my goal did not change. I couldn’t afford to pursue some fairy-tale quest about completing the book. First, I had to establish some form of connection with the villagers. The current situation was the least bit ideal. They shunned me as if I were a leper. Their eyes refused to meet my own, and they responded to my questions with one-syllable answers or ignored me completely.

The worst of it all was that I had no idea why this was the case. I suspected it was because of my occupation, but that made no sense either. There was only one religion. And all of the villagers were believers. They all knew of the Gods – five of them, at least. Some had favorites, but that should not be cause for dispute since priests, such as myself, were impartial.

I scratched my head over this for a while but ultimately couldn’t find an answer. The thought of asking Bert crossed my mind, but I didn’t have an ounce of trust in him. Not that I could – he stopped coming. In the end, I decided to get busy. I’ve told myself not to get swept up in completing the book, though I have to admit – I felt a great deal of satisfaction once I had the second ‘curse’ prepared. The thrill of wanting to know what comes next was… exhilarating.

It took me three full days. I had most of the necessary material from before, but unlike the previous one, I needed to get five spiders, which proved more difficult than I thought. On the fourth day, I was outside, looking for something I could use. It was a pitiful sight. Some houses were made of mud, old, black, and moldy – some of cheap wood, broken, rotten, and splintered. The roofs were thatched, made of old straw, worn out by the sun, where if the sky were to rain, the houses would undoubtedly flood. Though just by looking at the barren, dry fields – you could tell rain had not come in a very long time. And hopefully wouldn’t any time soon. My monastery wasn’t well-equipped to handle rain either. Not to mention, I didn’t want to share it with anyone else, in case some were made homeless by the waters.

The next day I went out again. I walked along the dirt path, eyeing the fields. I had to appear inconspicuous, but it was easier said than done. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Whenever I was seen, the villagers would stop what they were doing. Their conversations would come to halt, and their eyes would watch at me when they thought I wasn’t looking. I dealt with the scene by ignoring them as well. I would stare at the fields, look for anything lying about, and bow my head and mutter an inaudible prayer as if to bless their pitiful harvest.

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I repeated this for another day, and I was rewarded for my efforts. I found a small shirt, probably a woman’s, in one of the fields. It was late afternoon when I saw it, so I had to hope it would remain there and wait for the cloak of night to go and grab it. The moon and stars did their best to illuminate the blackness of the night, yet it was not enough. A few houses had lit candles. The light didn’t go far, but it helped me find my way around. I tiptoed on the ground to not accidentally step on something. Thankfully, nothing of the sort happened. It seemed even animals avoided this place.

I tore a piece of the shirt off – the fabric so worn it almost fell apart – and hid the rest in a safe place for later use. I waited for several days, expecting a visitor, but none came. I started to worry that whatever I picked up was of no value to anyone and was simply thrown away. But it didn’t make sense. With such living conditions, I’d imagine they used every little thing till the moment it crumbled and turned to dust.

And on the fourth day after executing the second page, I was proven right. Bert stepped through my door, trailed by a woman in her thirties, of plain features and a weary posture, and beside her a small sickly-looking boy.

“Fatha’!” Bert exclaimed, and despite the gloomy faces behind him, wore a confident smile. “We need your help!”

I held my face from twitching and displayed a welcoming smile. “What ails you, Bert?”

“Nay, not me, Fatha’. Tis’ Martha and her boy.” He nudged her forward. “Go on, woman. Tell Fatha’.”

She took a sheepish step forward, the kid hiding behind her. “It’s me boy, Alf.” Her voice was tired. It made me think she was far older than I originally thought, but she had none of the wrinkles that come with age. “He’s been cutting his foot till it’s red ‘n sore. I tied it in green leaves –told him I’d cut off ‘is hands if he touched it again.” The boy clung tighter to her clothes. “But it hasn’t gone away. Still red and ugly. Go on boy,” she shoved the kid to stand in front of her, “show the good father your foot.”

After some hesitation, he did, and as soon as I saw it, I wish he hadn’t. It was skinny enough the bone was showing, his sole was black, covered in a thick layer of dirt and dung, and right above his ankle was an angry patch of red skin. Above his head, the words “Curse of mild rash” floated, so this was most likely my doing.

“That does not look good,” I stated and was met with two reluctant nods and a grunt from Bert.

“Bert said you cured his head,” the mother said desperately. “Please,” she clutched her son, “help my boy.”

“I did not cure anything,” I said, and she almost fell to her knees. “I merely prayed – I can offer nothing more.”

“Please,” she pleaded again.

I sat with the kid on one of the benches. Bert stood behind the worried mother, exuding complete faith. I placed my hand on the kid’s shoulder and repeated what I had done with him. When I spoke the word to lift the curse, I wasn’t hit with the same weariness as before – something that made Bert lose some of his confidence. The rash did not disappear as soon as the ceremony was over. All three left the monastery dejected. But the next day the mother came to thank me and sing my praises. She offered me some of whatever little she owned, but I, humble as I was, refused. She left with a skip in her step and a smile on her face.

Another fruitful day, another fruitful customer, one of many to come.