Andrei

The morning after arriving in Oskari, I woke to knocks on the door of my new chambers—chambers similar to those I’d left behind. A desk, a lumpy bed, an empty shelf. Riveting. My robes were still draped over the back of an oaken chair, unsightly from my travels and the messy encounter with Peter’s carriage. After another series of knocks, I turned to the window to gauge the time—squinting to protect my eyes from the blaring light. Sensitivity to light is a trait all Partisans share, but it is a condition more serious in the Celestian. After all, Celestia is a territory where the night is night and the day is night.

In Amalia, however, I was pleased to discover it wasn’t raining. As I rushed to dress, I berated myself for having arrived hours early only to sleep hours late. Tardy and filthy.

The man behind the door met me with the sort of warmth I imagined would come from a doting grandfather, and I would later learn the Partisan was, in fact, a grandfather—a grandfather to four grandchildren he’d never know, and a father to two daughters he’d never met.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Father.”

“Likewise, Brother Strauss, and I’m pleased to see you’ve found your room.”

To show his appreciation for helping with the carriage, Peter rode the rest of the way to Oskari. This meant an unexpected arrival in the middle of the night.

“I’m sorry for not waking you, and for sleeping through the morning.”

Father Belaia didn’t offer me the forgiveness I sought, but he didn’t seem altogether concerned.

“It often feels as though a century has passed since I was your age—wishing the time would come sooner while also praying for another day. Then, there are moments like this one, Brother Strauss, when it feels like only yesterday.”

“Do you have any advice?”

The Father shook his head. “As with most things, you’ll learn by doing. Tonight, you’ll be delivering the dusk sermon.”

Dusk sermon so soon? I hadn’t written a word in foresight, and what could I possibly know of the locals and their personal struggles? Of their individual beliefs or of the strength of their faith? As for what I did know, the village of Oskari had once been on the verge of something greater. There’d been plans to expand toward the city of Jaska. The people were educated and healthy. By the time of my arrival, the pitiful population of a declining thousand struggled to remain on the map. Despite this, the people of Oskari referred of their home as Amalia’s greatest historical wonder—too ignorant to know the honour actually belonged to the walled-off city of Leberecht. All that said, I was familiar with Oskari’s history, but I was certain neither history nor another lesson in theology would be enough to impress those who would immediately distrust me.

After setting my freshly washed robes out to dry and mopping away the evidence of my muddy arrival, I made my way outside.

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Walking the village with a severe case of writer’s block, I struggled to find inspiration in the rickety homes and chipped cobblestones. The people, while not entirely dismissive, were chilly to my presence in passing. In retrospect, I should have taken greater steps to socialize with those who stared. Instead, for fear of rushing into their lives headlong and uninvited, I trudged onward with a destination in mind; the only local establishment that was all but required to provide its patrons with conversation.

The Widow’s Peak Inn sat atop a hill on the northern side of the village. The hill, some said, was the reason behind the Inn’s name. Others believed it was named for the curious design of its roof. Those with knowledge of the village history might say it was named for the widow who had donated her estate centuries ago.

There were few still alive who knew the truth.

On the opposite side of the seven-foot double doors, the Widow’s Peak was a colorful contrast to the depressing browns and greys beyond. The chairs were draped with rich red upholstery and the walls were wood-paneled and lined with portraits of men and women throughout the ages. I recognized two of them—Councilwoman Faust and her predecessor. Despite the summer month, a fire burned from the hearth in the centre of the room, surrounded by circular tables.

As I absorbed the atmosphere, I recalled once reading that the inn had been renovated a total of three times, however its design and décor remained the same as if plucked from an ancient painting. In person, I found the result unnerving. To my immediate right, a brutish man stood expressionless as he guarded.

Of course, I wondered what exactly he guarded.

There were twenty tables and none were occupied.

The woman behind the bar wore her brown hair in a thick knot at the nape of her neck. Her attire was modest, neutral, and altogether underwhelming. However, in a village laden with sickness and lacking in teeth, the proprietress of the Widow’s Peak would have been considered a glorious sight to behold.

I approached with what I'd hoped was an appropriate smile. “Ivana, is it?”

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“That’s it, and I know I haven’t see you around here before. No offense, kid, but you don’t look like a solider.”

The conflating of Partisans with soldiers was common. I took no offense. “That is because I am not a solider, madam. My name is Brother Andrei Strauss.”

“It’s always the handsome ones, isn’t it?” Ivana wiped an already pristine surface, smiling a smile no more natural than my own. “Why aren’t you wearing your robes?”

“A long story,” I replied. “Will you be attending tonight’s worship?”

“Doubtful, Brother. Someone’s got to be here to serve hope to the hopeless, right?”

“You take sole responsibility over the establishment?”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.” Ivana nudged her head back toward the kitchen. “There’s the cook, and then there’s my security.”

“Interesting,” I lied.

“Not really,” she replied. “Hungry? Thirsty?”

“I’ve only come to introduce myself.”

“Then why do I get the impression you’re here for gossip?” Ivana adjusted a khaki sleeve where it had slipped off her shoulder. “I appreciate the effort and all, but you’re not getting anything from me. The people around here keep themselves isolated because they like it that way. If word gets around I’ve been informing your kind, it wouldn’t do much for business, would it?”

It certainly couldn’t do much worse, I thought.

“We don’t get a lot of Partisans around here. They’ve grown used to Father Belaia, but you? You’re a strange one.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that.

Fortunately, she’d already informed me plenty.

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I took to the podium with fifteen pairs of eyes upon me. Those eyes were universally brown and equally perplexed. Father Belaia hadn’t spared the time for introductions, so when a mysterious stranger appeared in his place, two parishioners opted to leave. Those who were curious enough to remain shared hushed remarks with one another. The Barrens tended to forget about a Partisan’s heightened senses. I could hear everything. Namely that they were skeptical, and it was nothing new.

The crowd silenced as I began.

“When our world was shattered in seven, She appeared before our ancestors to bestow them praise and a promise. ‘Henceforth, our land shall be known as I am known—Amalia—conceived within me and birthed in stone. Through pride and perseverance, we survive. My gift—my apology—sees children borne from you as if by me. They shall embody strength above all but unwavering resolve. Fierce protectors—blessed to serve, never to be served.”

“Is he serious?” One local whispered to another. “White as a sheet and skinny as a rake, saying he’s our gift from Amalia?”

The neighbour shrugged and I continued.

“With good intentions, I ask you to ponder the underlying message of those words while I make my introduction. As you may have heard from the gossips, my name is Brother Andrei Strauss. While I’d expected to stand before you this evening and lecture, I have since concluded it is I who must learn from you. I arrived this morning anxious, as I imagine you are, too. I believe there is much we have to offer one another, and so in the spirit of exchange, I open the floor to questions and discourse.”

“I don’t understand,” grumbled one man to his wife.

“He’s giving us permission to ask questions, you big idiot.”

“Then why doesn’t he just say that?”

“Shush,” said the wife, followed by a swat to the shoulder.

The woman was the first to raise her hand.

“We worry that our children will grow up to live as we live,” she said. “Our time has come and gone, but we want more for them.”

“You’d prefer to see your children find work in the city?”

“Yes. Some of our children are not born for labour. We have one who can already read and count to one thousand. She’s only four years old, but she is clumsy and often tired. When she’s grown, she might survive, but she could do so much more. We know nothing about life outside our village, and truthfully I hope our village dies with us. Father Belaia has been with us for so long, but he is old and—”

“We won’t be speaking ill of our Father!” cried a man from the back.

Before matters could escalate, I intercepted. “Of course we will not be, but he is only one man, and I’ve been sent for precisely this—to address the needs he cannot. Do we all agree that education is a priority?”

The majority nodded, and so did I. “Then we will see it done.”

For a quarter of an hour, I indulged their questions. Most were easily answered. Others, while not overly complicated, were strange. For instance, I was asked to resolve a bet: did Amalia have black hair or brown hair? My response was brown and a piece of advice about gambling when I learned it was a favourite pastime.

“It’s something to do,” someone said. “It can get boring.”

“I understand that all too well,” I responded truthfully. “If you’re going to continue betting, perhaps you could do it responsibly. Consider pooling your winnings into a fund for the village. Or better yet, a trade between townspeople for services. Otherwise, you’re simply exchanging notes. Your farms are impressive but lacking in care and resources. If your land prospers, so will you.”

“We would need a new goat,” replied one of the younger women in attendance.

“It’ll be a difficult winter without a shipment from Jaska,” said another.

And on, and on, and by the half hour mark, the conversation degraded to inquiries about my age, my favourite colour, and the reason for my pallor compared to the darker tones of the Amali. I was honest in responding to all but the third—a question I evaded with the assistance of Father Belaia.

The reality of my half-Celestian heritage would be revealed another way.

The meeting was over, and I had never been more relieved.

There was no way I could have known the first day would be by far the easiest.