Chapter Six

Grief and Greetings

From what John could tell, nearly every resident of Miracle Springs—four hundred people or more—had gathered for the funeral. The townsfolk had journeyed a short way down the valley to a grass-covered funeral mound marked by simple wooden crosses and tombstones. Nearly a hundred plastic chairs, all occupied, were surrounded by a semi-circle of standing mourners, all dressed modestly in dark colours. Every gaze was fixed inwardly, looking to a fresh grave.

John couldn’t see past the throng to discern who was being laid to rest, but the size of the crowd hinted at a person of rare importance or likeability—or perhaps the town was simply that close-knit. If the latter were true, it occurred to John that he would have a hard time breaking down walls to find his place among them. Not wanting to intrude on the precious, sombre moment, John lingered at the back, just out of sight. At least he was dressed appropriately, in black, he thought, though days of travel had left him scruffy and dishevelled. He stood with hands clasped before his waist, watching and waiting in polite silence.

John had arrived late in the ceremony, and a quartet of musicians played a hauntingly layered piece as the coffin was carried to its final rest. A fiddler led the quartet, drawing out a mournful melody of long, plaintive notes. A slightly out-of-tune piano laid a foundation of soft, sustained chords, while two harmonicas joined—one adding breathy drones, the other weaving a countermelody that harmonised with the fiddle. The tune invited introspection, and John suspected it roused bittersweet memories of the departed among the mourners. John hadn’t known the departed, but the music still brought back his own memories.

He recalled times of confinement and isolation in the convent’s mediative chambers, punishment for undesirable behaviour. As a man, John could confidently say that he took his vows and duties seriously, but the same couldn’t be said of his youth. He had rebelled, often, earning him the ire of the prior and abbess. As a child, his mischief included skipping prayers, sneaking into forbidden areas, and earned punishments like extra chores, fasting, and public confessions. As a teenager, however, he’d pushed the boundaries further, questioning authority, fighting the other novices and, on occasion, sneaking out into the city. His behaviour had been corrected, however, when his keepers learnt that John hated nothing more than being denied his autonomy. Isolation and confinement followed frequently, until John became a model acolyte.

As the attendees swayed, a gap in the crowd gave John a glimpse of those seated in the most prominent positions—the departed’s closest kin. Two women occupied the seats of honour, both veiled in mourning garbs. One was elderly, her trembling hands clutching her lap as tears coursed down her lined face, her body wracked with sobs. The other was a younger woman whose evident beauty was apparent even from a distance. Her face was a mask of stone, and her tears fell in silence. The swaying crowd shifted again, and the women disappeared behind the mass of bodies.

The question of the departed’s identity gnawed at John, and a thought struck him—perhaps the cruel whims of irony had played their hand, and the one being buried was the Reverend himself. Someone at the head of the ceremony offered a final prayer, however, and John dismissed the idea.

The two women were ushered forward, each taking a turn to drop a single spade of dirt into the grave. One by one, the mourners followed suit, each casting their own spadeful of earth into the grave before the two women led the procession back toward the town.

The townsfolk passed John slowly, most noticing him for the first time. “Afternoon. Sorry for your loss. Afternoon. My condolences. Afternoon.” He tried to give each a polite smile, nod, or other courtesy. In return, he received disconcerted glares, hushed mutters, or outright avoidance. John cocked his head in confusion at first. He expected a greater degree of curiosity. When the two women and the first of the townsfolk passed, he’d dismissed their apathy as the occupation of grief, but the more people walked by him, the more his cheeks burned, his presence suddenly feeling like an intrusion. This was, he realised, a terrible introduction. The awkwardness dragged on for what felt like hours but was, in reality, minutes.

At last, the procession ended. A few stragglers lingered to collect chairs and carry the piano, and finally, someone acknowledged John. A tall, slender man of athletic build, with lean, clean-shaven features and meticulously kept wavy grey hair, stood twenty paces from John, his pale blue eyes examining him. John felt like livestock at market, being appraised for his worth.

“Reverend?” John wasn’t sure. The man wore no clerical collar, and his attire was uncomfortably informal. He wore plain dark trousers with a matching high-collared shirt, the top button undone, covered by a grey wool jacket with a dogtooth pattern and tan elbow patches, worn loosely. Most striking was the pistol holstered at his hip, hanging casually but unmistakably.

“Dan will do fine.” The man’s still predatory expression barely altered as he spoke, his words soft, practical and deliberate. His tall, stiff stature, paired with his unusual attire, conjured the image of a warrior poet in John’s mind.

“Dan…”

“Reverend Dan,” The speed with which the Reverend corrected John took him off guard, leaving him momentarily dumbstruck. “And you would be?”

“John,” John explained, finding his voice, “The church sent me. Deacon John…”

“John will do.” Reverend Dan’s posture eased, and John exhaled as the man’s scrutinising gaze finally shifted away. He felt like he had been weighed, summed up and found none threatening. The Reverend took in the alien countryside for a moment before returning his attention to John. “You're late.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We have no use for apologies in these parts, Deacon John.” John found the words cutting. He had no idea what the Reverend was talking about. He’d been rushed to Miracle Springs as if his assignment were the church’s most pressing concern. Yet the man who was supposed to be his mentor had, in seconds, made it clear that John didn’t measure up and was anything but wanted. Something churned in the bottom of John’s stomach, and he decided that was simply unacceptable.

“I wasn’t apologising.” John raised his voice firmly and lifted his chin in defiance. “I was asking for clarity. I was assigned to the posting mere days ago and got here in good time.”

“Days ago?” The man echoed.

“Days ago,” John repeated.

“I submitted my request for further support in Miracle Spring over six months ago.” There was a mix of accusation and amusement in the Reverend’s tone.

“I’m afraid I know nothing about that.” John felt no need to expand.

“I see.” Reverend Dan ran his tongue against his cheek in contemplation. Then, seemingly deciding whatever issue had occupied him, he began walking toward John. “Well, John, you have chosen the most inopportune moment to turn up, but I’ve a wake to host, and I don’t turn away willing hands.” The Reverend strode past without breaking pace, forcing John to sidestep to avoid being bowled over. “Follow me.”

John watched the Reverend stalk away, his back rigid with purpose. This was not the welcome he’d been expecting.

“My people don’t take kindly to newcomers on the best of days, and today is far from the best of days,” the Reverend told John as they approached a large manor on the town’s outskirts. The manor belonged to the Reverend. Its grandeur and luxury left John momentarily speechless. Like the chapel, it was built entirely of wood but was ostensibly larger, boasting many floors, a wide-open porch and several balconies. “We will save introductions for another day. For now, if you would kindly stick to serving,” the Reverend instructed. “There’s a buffet in the ballroom, more food in the kitchen, and wine in the racks at the back—only serve what’s in those racks. Restock as needed, and don’t bother anyone.”

“Who died?” The look the Reverend gave him told John that that was a faux pas. The fury in the man’s eyes made John’s shift to the handle of the man’s holstered pistol. Whether the Reverend had noticed, John wasn’t sure. If he had, he’d paid no attention to it and instead looked away, his expression heavy with contemplation. “A young man,” he answered, his voice softer. His eyes glistened, and John could see the depth of sorrow the Reverend felt for the departed’s loss. “Deputy Gregory. Took his own life.”

“A… suicide?” Suicide was once considered a mortal sin by the church. Although that assertion had long since been recounted, it was still taboo. John began to understand the surly attitude of the townsfolk.

“Yes.” Reverend Dan replied curtly. Having no appetite for further questions, the Reverend left John to tend to the back of the house while he greeted guests.

Less than half an hour later, the funeral attendees filled the many receiving rooms and atria of Reverend Dan’s grand home. Though the Reverend had prepared a generous spread, each household contributed dishes to the feast. The townsfolk arrived with offerings in tin trays and plastic containers, which John diligently transferred onto the silver platters, trays, and salvers the Reverend insisted they be presented on. A twenty-foot table draped in a pristine white cloth dominated one side of the ballroom. John arranged the food until the table overflowed, storing the excess in the kitchen.

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Beyond refilling platters and pouring wine, John had almost no interaction with the townsfolk. He tried to greet everyone as they came to the buffet. Most ignored him entirely, taking what he offered without so much as a ‘please’ or ‘thank you. One older woman even discarded the food he’d served her into a plant pot in the corner of the room, and John couldn’t help but feel it was purely because it had come from his hands. John had heard that folk in the wastes were tough to win over, but no one had warned him about their outright pig-headed rudeness. As the night wore on, his initial disbelief gave way to growing apathy, and eventually, he stopped trying to engage with the people altogether.

The Reverend, however, had no such difficulty. Though John caught little of what the Reverend said, he watched him glide effortlessly from guest to guest, recalling personal details, evoking laughter, and spreading warmth wherever he went. At times, groups clustered around him as he pontificated on one subject or the other with infectious enthusiasm, his features lit by an easy charisma. John felt very much like the outsider, peering through frosted windows at a warm Christmas dinner, yearning to be part of it.

John wondered if this charismatic version of the Reverend would extend such warmth to him in the days ahead. Regarding first impressions, Reverend Dan had left much to be desired. John was young, inexperienced, and a stranger in an alien land, yet Reverend Dan had made no effort to ease his transition. This was the man who would be his mentor and guide for what might be many years to come. John had hoped for more.

Other than the Reverend, the guests also sought out the two women from the funeral, whom John learned were Deputy Gregory’s mother and widow. Gregory’s mother was visited mainly by the older women, while the town’s men vied for the widow’s attention, though she politely dismissed each as quickly as she could. There was something perverse about how the men hovered around the widow, even at her husband’s wake, and John’s ire grew as he watched each make a spectacle of themselves. Men should have more shame, he thought, and from the outskirts of the affair, he judged all silently with tuts and a shaking head.

The widow was among the first to leave, the mother not long after. Others made their way home only when the food and wine ran low. The stragglers needed the Reverend’s gentle urging to depart. At last, when the house was empty, the Reverend joined John in the kitchen, where John had begun the monumental task that was the affair’s dishes. “Jonny Boy, thank you for your assistance today, but I can see to the rest of this.”

“It’s John.” John almost choked on the words as if saying them were some great offence, “and I’m happy to help—there’s still plenty to clean.”

“Nothing I can’t handle, lad.” The Reverend was already at the sink, sorting leftovers into disposable and repurposeable piles. “I’m afraid the town’s full—no vacant lodging. If we’d had word of your coming, we’d have arranged a prefab or built a house, but that is not the situation we find ourselves in. You can stay here, in one of my guest rooms, or at the saloon—your choice.”

“Well… I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“The saloon it is then.” The Reverend’s quick reply left John feeling foolish for his politeness, a faint sting of rejection accompanying. From the moment he’d arrived in the town, it seemed every act committed by its inhabitants had been engineered to drive him away. “I’ll see you in the morning. In the chapel. At sunrise. Don’t be late.”

“Right,” John said dumbly. It had happened so fast that John didn’t know what to do with himself. “Goodnight, Reverend.”

“Goodnight, Jonny Boy.”

John showed himself out. As he stepped into the night, he couldn’t help but feel a fool.

“What d’ya want?” The plump, crotchety old barwoman barked.

John had spent his entire life dreaming of the day he’d meet his own congregation, one out in the real world where things actually mattered. Now he had it, and he couldn’t stand any of them. Be careful what you wish for, he thought bitterly.

“Apologies, ma’am. I was told you might have rooms available.”

“Uh-huh.” The woman was chewing something and didn’t allow speaking to interrupt that.

“May I rent one?”

“How long ya gonna be needing it?”

“I’m not sure. Indefinitely, perhaps.”

“Indefinitely,” the woman parroted, dragging out the syllables, her pronunciation off. John forced a smile. He was growing tired, and the niceties were becoming overbearing.

“Yes. Indefinitely.”

“Twenty creds a night.” John took a deep breath. Charging a clergyman for board—what was wrong with these people?

“Very well,” he said, biting his tongue, his toes curling in his boots. He knelt, pulling an emergency cred stick from his sock. He presented it to the woman, watching her for a hint of approval “I can pay for three nights now. I’ll cover the rest once I withdraw more from the exchange.”

“Exchange won’t be up till Tuesday.” It was Thursday.

John gritted his teeth and forced another tight-lipped smile. “How about taking the first three days as a deposit? I’ll settle the rest on Tuesday.” The woman didn’t react. “I’m good for it,” John insisted, tapping the clerical collar around his neck. The woman thought for a moment, then lifted her charging wand from beneath the bar she’d been resting on, a touch screen device supported by a handle, and extended it to John. A charge of sixty creds was demarcated on it. John tapped it. “Thank you,” he said.

He looked at the woman expectantly. She didn’t move. “I’ll find my own way, shall I?” He did.

The next morning, as the grey sun rose over the horizon, its rays catching the dust and making it twinkle, John nervously made his way to the chapel to meet Reverend Dan. The large double doors were unlocked. He pushed them open and called, ‘Reverend?’ but no one answered. It seemed he’d arrived first, and he exhaled in quiet relief. He’d gotten little sleep the night before and was dreading the day ahead, and any delay to it, for which he was innocent, was a godsend.

The chapel was large, much larger than John had expected to find outside the city. It wasn’t big enough for all of the town’s residents, but half could sit comfortably on the pews.

John marvelled at its simplicity: white, unadorned walls, matching white pews, dark wooden floors, and a plain altar draped with a simple cloth beside a pulpit with a short spiral staircase. Most windows were glassless, sealed by wooden shutters. The only exception was the fore window—a stained-glass depiction of the Virgin Mary, her serene face bathed in soft, coloured light. John walked down the central aisle, pausing halfway to admire the modesty.

He glanced at the pulpit, picturing himself ministering from it, and the thought brought an unexpected smile to his face. Introductions hadn’t gone how he hoped, that was true, but he was still here, out in the real world, with real people to shepherd. He was letting nerves and doubts get the better of him. This was what he’d always wanted. He could win these people over. He knew it.

He jumped, the sudden sound of someone clearing their throat startling him. He realised the chapel wasn’t as empty as he’d thought.

A woman sat alone on one pew. She was strikingly beautiful, with soft but lean features, golden hair, skin like a doll, and subtle, inviting lips. It took a moment, but John recognised her as the widow from the day before—Deputy Gregory’s wife. Her eyes were puffy, though dry. She had been crying, but her limit for tears had been reached some time ago.

Her presence unsettled John; her beauty was distracting, and the weight of his duty to guide her through such sorrow pressed heavily on him. It was a priest's job to help their congregation with such burdens, but that was still new to him, and this was quite the burden. He suddenly wished the Reverend were here after all.

He cleared his throat. “Morning, miss, and my apologies—I did not mean to intrude.”

“You didn’t.” Her voice was as soft as her appearance, and John felt a pang of sorrow that someone so young and gentle should endure such tragedy. John offered her a polite smile, rocking nervously on his heels, unsure of what to say next.

“You have my condolences for your loss.” he said. He knew the words were insufficient, but they were more an attempt to fill the silence than they were one to comfort.

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

The woman looked at him, her expression perplexed. ‘Like what?’ she asked. He didn’t have an answer.

“Would you like to talk, perhaps?” He offered, feeling increasingly out of his depth.

‘No,’ she answered. Her voice was the kindest John had heard since arriving in Miracle Springs, though she was still one of them and spoke with the same succinctness as the rest of the townsfolk. John nodded, smiled awkwardly and looked away from the woman, pretending to admire the chapel’s architecture. “What’s your name Mr?” she asked, catching him by surprise.

“J…John.” He answered.

She offered a faint smile and nodded. ‘I’m Mary.’ He nodded back. “Would you sit with me, John?” Her question caught him by surprise.

“Sit with you?” John could think of no reason why a woman would ever ask him to sit with them.

“Yes, sit with me while I pray?” John chuckled to himself and felt stupid. She was not asking him to sit with her. She was asking God.

“Certainly.” He shuffled down the pew, leaving a respectful gap between them, and waited as she bowed her head. As Mary whispered her secret words to God, John sat awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably as the stillness pressed on him. He’d never felt more uncomfortable. He tried to swallow, but it caught a little in his throat, and he stifled his choking. He shifted, fidgeting, unsure what to do, waiting for something else to happen. When Mary finally sat up, he smiled hesitantly, and she returned it briefly. “I’m sure he’s listening,” he said, pointing upward. The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them, especially when her expression shifted to a mix of amusement and bewilderment. He cleared his throat, his cheeks burning as he averted his gaze, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

“Thank you,” she said politely, rising to leave. John stood as well, offering a quiet farewell.

“If you ever need anything else, just let me know,” he said, more to fill the silence than out of confidence. “It’s hard to make sense of... suicide. If there’s any way I can help, I’d like to.”

“Excuse me?” The kindness in her voice was gone, replaced by a sharp and accusing tone. It was John’s turn to be bewildered. He didn’t know what he’d done to offend.

“Hmm?” It was the only sound he could make.

“You said suicide.”

“Yes.” He confirmed nervously.

“My husband did not kill himself.” The woman declared. “He was murdered…” John was speechless. He had no idea what to say. Thoughts raced through his head with such speed he struggled to grasp any of them. Mostly, he wondered why the Reverend had lied to him.

“Deacon John.” The Reverend's voice reverberated, making both John and Mary jump. Neither had noticed him enter the chapel, his presence as sudden as his voice. John scrambled out of the pew and into the aisle, feeling much like he had as a boy when caught sneaking back over the convent walls.

“Reverend Dan,” he greeted the man with a bow of the head, “I was just introducing myself to Miss….”

“Davenport.” Mary finished for him. “And I was just leaving.” She left in a hurry, fury having replaced the sadness in her features. Reverend Dan watched her leave, then turned a wide-eyed gaze on John.

“Well, Jonny Boy,” he said, a twinge of amusement in his voice, “it seems you have a knack for making first impressions.”