One by one, brothers lay their bounty upon the Scales and Bishop Gabriel announces their weight. The exhausted boys lean impatiently against the verrucose wall, their packs vying to yank them to the ground. The scent of sap and sweat is overwhelming in the subterranean air. The sisters have indeed prepared something for us to eat and drink and are hurriedly placing steaming bowls in empty places. Gideon’s pack is almost overflowing, and the bishop’s face lights up when he dumps it upon the Scales. He excitedly adds ten-pound weights, counting each one aloud. On the ninth, it falls. More than eighty pounds? Gideon’s never hauled that much before; no-one has. Gabriel removes the ninth weight and adds a five, then proceeds with one-pound weights. One, two, three, it falls. He removes the third and places a half-pound on the scale, bringing it to equilibrium.

The bishop lets out of a gasp of disbelief and triumphantly proclaims, “Eighty-seven and a half-pounds! Well done my boy!” His congratulations are met with a shimmering glow from the Scales, a golden light I’ve only seen twice before.

The brothers coo and murmur in reverence of the light. Whispers ripple throughout the room suggesting that Gideon has just solidified his candidacy to become the next priest. His grin beams from ear to ear while he struts over to the head of one of the tables and elatedly slides into this seat. I glance around at my weary brothers, their faces a mix of awe and envy. Cardinal Arthur’s voice cuts through the low hum of conversation.

“Brothers, tonight we have witnessed a remarkable feat. Young Gideon’s strength is a testament to the Creator’s favor upon him. Tomorrow, in honor of this miracle, the Pope Saint John XXIII will grace us with his presence and deliver Gideon unto priesthood. Let us all strive to follow in his example and give our all in service to sanctuary.” He claps Gideon’s shoulder and raises his glass.

A chorus of “Amen” pours from the congregation, echoed by brothers and cardinals alike, their eyes alight with a fervor I find unsettling. A sister swoops in with a bowl of what looks like meat and gravy and swaps it for the bowl of bugs. Gideon stands to match Arthur, outstretching his cup of groundwater, which is swiftly replaced with a tankard of ale by another sister.

“To our sanctuary, and to the Creator who guides us!” toasts Gideon.

Hoots, hollers, and cheers erupt throughout the common room. “Gid-ee-on, Gid-ee-on, Gid-ee-on,” they chant. Those that have been weighed raise tankards and those that wait raise axes to celebrate the redheaded shit-sleeper. I join them momentarily, but bitterness and resentment are evident in my tone, so I return to biting my tongue.

How could such an ornery bastard be elevated to priesthood? I try to swat the thought away, feeling my envy for his position creeping in. If I was a priest, I wouldn’t have to maim the Tree anymore. If I was a priest, it would mean the end of bug stew. If I was a priest, I might finally find silence. Simeon nudges me with his elbow and breaks my spiral of thought, as if inside my head again. He softly lifts and drops his ax to the rhythm of the room and chants his own name to the chorus, only loud enough for me to hear.

“Sim-ee-on, Sim-ee-on.” I chuckle and join in softly, then move forward, seeing that Bishop Gabriel has not stopped in accounting the weight of today’s toil.

Gideon’s table is the first to fill up, ransacked by desperate boys looking for the secrets to ascension. He posits that “hard work” and “love of God” are what brought him here today, and other such nonsense. Simeon unloads his basket and patiently waits while the bishop adds and subtracts weights.

“Sixty-eight pounds! You may yet ascend before you expire,” Bishop Gabriel puts forward whimsically, noticing Simeon’s age. “Next!” he barks.

I shuffle forward and dump the weight of my sin upon the scales, and the bishop calls out some abysmal number I immediately wish to detach myself from. He clicks his tongue in a disapproving manner.

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“You’ll be made a pariah before long,” he slithers.

The threat echoes through my mind, a ghastly reminder of what the future holds for those not worthy of ascending beyond Brother before their eighteenth year of life. I don the empty basket and shakily find my seat across from Simeon at the table furthest from the committee of frenzied vultures. He wears a small, confident grin and mashes his stew absentmindedly, still reveling in the ambivalent praise provided by the bishop. As I enter his field of view, his eyes focus and find mine.

“Gideon, a priest? I’m supposed to give my confession to that sinning shit? Where’s the divine justice in that? Of all the people in this hole, why would the Creator choose to sponsor that bastard?” I blurt out, unable to keep my thoughts to myself.

“Have faith, brother. To question His will is to nail a sign to your soul that says, ‘Test me’.” He raps his fist against his chest with three resounding thuds.

Since I can remember, I’ve been afflicted with this morbid sense, a duty, rather, of questioning everything I see. Perhaps Simeon is right. Maybe the Creator is punishing me for the incessant question of “Why?”. Why would the Tree, the creator of man, allow the sun to become so hot that man must cower beneath the soil until nightfall? Why curse us with this demented, subterranean existence? Why choose to uplift Gideon and torment me? These visions that haunt me every night—what do they mean? And who is the Man of The Wood, this pale prophet commanding us to hack away at divinity?

“Simeon, have you ever spoken to Pope Saint John XXIII?” I ask and mash my stew. Still bugs, always bugs.

“Of course not, to usurp the time of his holiness would be a great transgression,” he answers, glancing nervously around.

“I… I saw him in a dream last night.” I lean in and whisper across the table.

“Who? Pope Saint John XXIII?” He looks puzzled but lends his ear.

“Yeah. I think it was his birth, or resurrection, or something. There was a pregnant woman and a bloody tree, much smaller than Yggdrasil, but it had a face. She told the tree, ‘He is coming, my love’, and her child tore through her like a trapped rat. When it finished consuming her, I could see that it was him, the Man of the Wood.” I watched the disbelief and fear wash over Simeon with every word.

Fear, not of the implications of origin drawn from the dream, but a fear of me. Fear that if he were to hear so much as another word, he may catch the same twinge of madness that afflicts me. I mash my stew. As I always have, as I always will.

“Best to keep dreams like that to yourself, Proph.” He tremulously finishes his meal and rises to leave.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I call out despondently at his fleeting shadow.

Alone, I can’t help but overhear the commotion from Gideon’s table. He relentlessly spews wicked advice for surpassing the reaping. Inquisitive brothers elbow and shuffle around one another, trying to get close enough to ask him their question, but it’s all the same. How do I become you? That’s the root of it anyway. I finish my dinner and take the dishes to Ethel.

“You’ve got plenty of time, kid,” she assures me, reading the despondence on my face.

“Plenty of time, but none of the will, sister. I’ll never light up the Scales as long as I hear the voices of the Tree,” I explain, scrubbing out my bowl.

“Have you tried sapping your ears over?” She offers. Her advice is always so genuine and sweet.

“Yes, to no avail. The voices seem to pierce directly into my head. I think that even if I were entirely deaf, the sound would still find me,” I clarify, and clean my cup.

“Pray hard tonight, perhaps Pope Saint John XXIII will end your suffering tomorrow.” She beckons for my spoon and shoos me to Dormio.

Past the table of rowdy boys and down the twisted hall, I walk. Most of the cots are empty, save Simeon in the corner next to mine and a few others littered about. He sits, knees of the floor, his hands folded in his lap, with his forehead on the cot. He whispers prayers, asking for sanctuary, forgiveness, and good health.

“Lord, grant silence to my brother who’s head swims with noise,” He hasn’t noticed me yet, but wishes for my health in his conversation with God. I feel honored to garner his pity. “Amen.” I hear him say, and I join. Air rushes into his nose as he whips around to see who has appeared behind him. His eyes find mine and his composure softens.

“Do you say a prayer for me every night?” I ask.

“And every morning.” He smiles.

“Goodnight Simeon, and thank you, really.” I sit at my shit-free cot and undo my sandals.

“Goodnight, Proph.” He climbs in bed and closes his eyes.

I set my sandals under my cot and lean my ax against the wall. The room is still almost empty, so it should be easy to fall asleep tonight. On my back, I cross my hands, close my eyes, and pray for a night of silent sleep that I know will not come until I leave this world.