The Priesthood

Kanrel sat in a small cave he had found a few hours earlier. There was a campfire; he kept it afire and shivered in its warmth. To say that it was cold was an understatement. It was the most cold that he had ever experienced; it was more cold than he thought possible.

His robes weren’t really enough. So he had to, at all times, manipulate the air around him to survive. He made it warmer so that at least he could walk more or less normally. This had been his life for about two months.

At first, it really wasn’t that bad, and the journey was going like a breeze, but after the first week or so, he found himself surrounded by snow and the constant harsh wind that whipped him from a given direction in what seemed like a whim.

After just a few months, it was obvious that it was insane to journey by foot to a village that was in the middle of nowhere in the dead of winter. Whose idea was it in the first place? Would his mother be this cruel?

He huddled closer to the fire. The flames flickered in the dark cave, casting shadows on its walls. The dance of the shadows was alluring, inviting, and enticing him to sleep. He didn’t want to sleep, for dreams haunted those who suffered.

It was better to stay awake for as long as possible. And then to hope that when he eventually fell asleep, there’d be no dreams—just the darkness similar to the one that was during the ritual.

The cold itself wouldn’t be the thing that would kill him; it was starvation. He had rationed food through the whole journey, and soon he’d run out. For how long would Kanrel even survive without food? Days? Weeks? Months?

Especially when he hadn’t eaten well for about a month. The last time he had a good meal was during the previous settlement that he had visited. A small village, much smaller than the one where he was going. The family that housed him was honored to have him there; they hadn’t once met a priest.

So they offered him a place under their roof, food, and human contact—conversations that gave him much information about the journey ahead.

To make it all worth their time, Kanrel offered his services to them; he helped them remove snow from the roof and around the house where they were staying. They’d all be covered by snow soon enough, but it still helped a little.

During that same night, he found himself having a long conversation about the angels and the Priesthood. The family was very curious about some of the things that they had heard about them; they wanted to know if priests truly felt no enjoyment.

He missed that warm house, the food they had offered him, and even the company. But instead of that warmth, he was stuck here. In a small, cold cave, he was sniffling like it was his only hobby and shivering when he could’ve been indoors, in a house.

His stomach growled as he went on to dig through his backpack for almost the last scraps of food that he had left with him. Jerky and a piece of dry bread—the constant cold had at least kept it more or less good to eat. He warmed the bread with a basic code and then bit into it; there wasn’t much taste, just a texture that was fairly wet in his mouth. Then he bit into the salted piece of jerky, only to find that there was no taste.

Food remained as ash, even when he was hungry enough to enjoy almost anything. He slowly ate what he had gotten out of his bag; tomorrow would be the last day he would have anything to eat, maybe for the rest of his life, and even that he would not enjoy.

He lay down near the fire, on the cold floor of the cave. He closed his eyes and hoped that there’d be no dreams to be seen and no pain to be remembered. There'd be no more sour memories to live through—no more of a face that he didn’t wish to see.

A warm hand took his and pulled him closer. “It is a pleasure to meet you; my name is Yirn,” the man said to him. His smile was sweet, and it remained difficult to see it any other way.

A sharp pain stuck in his head, and he almost fell over. “Are you alright?” Yirn asked, and concern could be seen on his face. How was he always like this? So human, even as a priest.

Kanrel tried to answer, but no words came out. Only more pain struck his head; it ran down his spine just to explode in his chest. It was difficult to breathe. It was difficult to open his mouth—to give an answer to a friend. It was difficult to keep hold of Yirn’s warm hand. So he let go, and the pain went away.

There was darkness, and he was no longer there. There was darkness from which a light pierced through in a beam of a thousand colors. It shone through everything and all. There was light, and its beauty was true. But for just that one moment, for the gray soon came after. Slowly climbing out of him, bursting out of his mouth and out of his eyes.

Kanrel could see himself; he could see how the gray came from within, how it submerged everything around him, how the light died, and how beauty was no longer a thing. How the sound of his own screams woke him up.

The cave was dark, and it was cold. The campfire had extinguished long ago. He got up as his body trembled in the cold. It took considerable effort to form another code to give birth to another fire—to not let the shock of reality be conquered by the nightmare.

He couldn’t sleep again; he wouldn’t. The rest of the night he spent warming the whole cave; for just this one night, it would be like a home to him, like that warm farm he had spent just a day in. The last crumbs of bread and the last slice of jerky would be the great feast that they had prepared for him.

Ash spread in his mouth, as there was no taste to enjoy. But he ate it like it was his last meal. He ate it as if he could enjoy it. As if he were the man he had been before the ritual. To no avail, he tried to subdue his hunger. He tried until all he had left to eat had entered his mouth and gone down his throat.

Then he sat still, searching from the fire before him for anything that would bring him comfort. A way out of here. There was nothing there. The shapes of the fire meant nothing; it was just fire, just warmth. The only thing that he had around him, but even then, the cold that was within overruled it. Made its meaning to be less, to be naught.

He gave up, got his things, and left the cave behind. Left its warmth and took steps into the snow. He knew the direction from which he had come, so he went the opposite way. Around him just the snow and tall spruce trees, those too covered by the snow. The world was more white than was necessary.

The cold breeze came from the west, where tall mountains would be, and based on them, he could at least figure out that he wasn’t going in the wrong direction. When it was darker, he could use the stars to navigate his way toward the north.

But in the dim morning light that he had, he could only figure it out by using the mountains and the sun. There wouldn’t be many hours of that either, and when it would be midday, the light would illuminate the snowy ground below, making it a bright mess that one didn’t much want to look at. At times, it would feel like staring at the sun itself.

With each step, the grinding sound of him stepping on the snow could be heard. It was constant and something he would love to be without. He wanted to hear something different for once, preferably the sound of wood under him or the sound of a floor on which he could walk. The sound of civilization. There was nothing like that here. There was just the snow, the trees, and even more snow.

He let his mind wander as he walked forward, toward a destination that might as well not exist. He tried not to let his mind drift too far into the hunger or the cold that he was feeling. By midday, he had no idea how much he had walked. And when dusk came, he still had no idea. He only knew that he had probably made some progress. He was probably closer to the village than he had been in the morning unless he was going the wrong way.

He just didn’t dare to think of such a possibility; he had to believe that he knew where he was going. Otherwise, doubt would crush him under its weight. He would much rather let hunger and cold kill him than despair. He had enough despair for everyone.

In death, would there be peace? Something similar to the peace that he had felt before he was rudely awakened back into this cold reality of his. Would there, even in death, exist despair? Would the angels not allow even that for a priest? Would he find himself in a lingo of constant torture of a darkness that would cover him, only allowing him to feel the agony that he had felt thus far?

Would they be so unfair?

As night came, he found no cave to make his own. He could stop now or try to find something in nature to cover him; he didn’t want to spend the rest of his strength digging a hole in the snow. Sure, there was plenty of snow for that, but walking forward felt right.

If he were to die tonight, then let it at least be closer to the destination. He would rather die than see more nightmares. So he kept walking. Perhaps he would die not too far away from someone's home. Maybe his frostbitten body would be found by some poor bastard who had never seen a priest in their lives. Maybe he would die on a field of snow, and when the summer came, he’d slowly become part of the ground; he’d slowly be eaten by maggots and other nasty things.

Maybe he’d soon stop hearing the snow crunch under his feet. How lovely would that be? Kanrel forced a smile on his face. Maybe he’d die with a smile on his face; the person who’d find his body would falsely believe that he had died happy.

It was just dark, and the light he had created was the only light that there was. Not even the stars wanted to grace him with their existence. They must’ve been too shy to see him and welcome him into their arms.

So he walked in the sea of darkness around. Dodging trees that were on his way, soon climbing a hill just to find more darkness on the other side of it—more trees and more snow. At least the snow reflected his light a little. Soon, the forest was less thick, and trees became scarcer. The hill began to slope down until there were no trees around.

From the edge of the hill, he could see a lonely light in the middle of the darkness. Around it, there was perhaps nothing. It just stood there, inviting him to come closer, inviting him to come into its arms.

That light would be his guiding star.

He went ahead with a newly found strength coming from somewhere within. He couldn’t really feel his legs, but they still carried him down the hill, onto what seemed like a field. The snow on top of it carried his malnourished body; it wouldn’t let him sink into the deep snow that covered the ground beneath.

He tumbled his way through the field, closer and closer to the light. That orange light. As he came closer, he could feel tears flowing down his cheeks. The cold and the pain it caused him made every step a difficult one.

He went on for perhaps a few hundred meters. Soon, his light and the light of a house met. It grandly stood in front of him, coming out from a small window next to what seemed like a door. It lit the terrace and the stairs that would lead him to the door.

He could see a figure in the window that soon disappeared. The door opened, and a person stood before it, looking outside—looking at him.

It was apparent that one must be crazy to travel hundreds of kilometers in the dead of winter, even if one is a priest.

From the eyes of the man that now stood before him, who had seen his light and now him, it could be understood just how crazy Kanrel was.

He probably thought it to be his own imagination, but lo and behold, a man in thick gray robes walked his way, holding a light that had no physical source. Kanrel climbed the stairs and stood in front of him.

“You must be one of those priests, eh?” The man asked and received a nod as an answer. "Bloody hell, ain’t you a foolish punch, practically suicide walkin’ ‘ere durin’ winter,” the man peered at him from head to toe. “Then again, you ain’t lookin’ like you walked for that long."

Kanrel did some quick calculations in his head: “Maybe two months; I lost count along the way.”

The man stared at the aloof young man for a longer time than was perhaps necessary. “Right, must’ve lost his mind; come in then. They say letting a priest stay the night is good luck... But they do say that it’s bad luck as well; I guess we’ll find out soon enough."

He walked to his door and shouted, “Betty! We’ve got one of those gray-wearing freaks out here! He says he’ll stay the night!”

He went in and looked back at Kanrel. “Come in then! We haven’t got the wood to warm the whole world!”

Kanrel let out a long sigh and did as he was told. It seemed that the people who lived in remote villages weren’t that up-to-date with what the priests did. He didn’t stand there for much longer and walked indoors. He was welcomed with warmth and a smell that probably meant food.

Warmth was like a forgotten memory that came back in a flood. Hunger roared through him as the smell of food filled his nose. Kanrel looked around the fairly large house and found it to be a little more than what he had first expected it to be. Looks from the outside can be so deceiving.

Homely is how he would’ve described it before. The fireplace that heated the place, the table that wasn’t too far away, and the multitude of chairs that surrounded said table. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the sounds that came from out there—the cold wind that had harassed him all the way from the academy to here.

Where was here? He wondered as he followed the man, who had a graying beard and a receding hairline. It was easy to see that the man had lived a long life, and it might be that he had always lived in this house and on the lands that surrounded it. Then again, was there really a reason to leave? Life was simple here, even with all the complications that might present themselves.

The man pulled up a chair to sit on and gestured for him to sit as well. Kanrel took his bags and gently placed them on the floor. He went ahead and sat down near the fire pit while looking around and observing his new surroundings. Who was this Betty? And where might she be?

“So, friend, I assume, what brings the likes of you so far north?” The man said he stroked his beard as any older gentleman would, out of sheer habit.

Kanrel massaged his hands together, trying to get rid of the rest of the cold that was in his body.

“I am to be stationed here; that is all I know,” he said, still going through his surroundings.

“Welcome then; it's been a long time since I’ve seen one of your kind—maybe ten years or so?” The man seemed to talk to no one in particular. His expression shifted from a thoughtful one to one with clearly visible sadness; it was like he had just remembered something. “Back when Betty was still here,” he muttered loud enough that Kanrel could hear him.

He stopped looking around the room and instead stared at the older man. “My name is Kanrel Iduldian, a priest of the Priesthood. It is a pleasure to meet you and a great honor that you would share your house with a stranger like myself.”

The man snapped out of his previous grief. “Don’t know ‘bout honor and such, but a pleasure it might be,” he declared with a half smile on his face. He offered his hand to Kanrel, who took it instantly; his hand was rough, and one could tell that it was a hand that had worked its entire life, “Rant Jenkse.”

They shook hands, after which Rant stood up from his chair. “You ain’t lookin’ like you ate for ‘bout a week, and I was just ‘bout to eat dinner myself,” he explained as he walked to the fireplace, in which there was a small pot hanging over it. He used a metal hook to pick up the pot from the fireplace and placed it on top of a wooden pot coaster that was in the middle of the table.

Then he brought two bowls, two spoons, and a loaf of brown bread, which he placed on the table. “I don’t have much prepared, but it's better than nothin’,” Rant said, lifting the lid from the pot. From under it came a great amount of steam, and soon one could see a kind of soup.

“You know much ‘bout crop rotations?” The man asked suddenly, and at the same time, he put a couple of scoops of soup into both of the bowls.

“I don’t know much, but if I recall, first, you’d plant something like rye, after which you’d plant potatoes, and so forth, to keep the land fertile,” Kanrel shared what limited information he had about it.

“More or less, though it’s a lot more complicated than that, but basically last season was potatoes, which is all I’ve been eatin’ the last few months,” Rant said. “A bit dull after a while, but what you gonna do? Starve the winter? But I’ve gotta say, I might be the best potato cook the land's ever seen!”

The sadness returned to his expression: “If you don’t count Betty, that is."

Kanrel took a spoonful. It didn’t taste like anything, but it was warm, and it was food, so he ate with such swiftness that Rant was left just looking at him go, “I’ve never seen a priest enjoy food in all my life; hunger truly changes the hearts of men!”

Kanrel smiled his usual stiff smile. “It is the best thing I’ve had in what feels like an eternity; the past weeks I’ve been eating dry bread and jerky; I ran out of it this morning,” he explained, scooping himself some more soup.

Bread and soup was a combination that would be heavenly for any starving man; it went down easily, and it was something that would fill his stomach to the brim.

They ate mostly in silence. Rant would at times ask a few questions about his journey, even confirming that he was indeed not crazy and had actually traveled for a few months in the dead of winter. And he did, of course, call him a “fool” for doing something so "foolish."

Rant prepared a place to sleep for Kanrel in the small guest room. The room was filled with little things; of course, there was a bed and a table to put your things on, but there were also plenty of random things.

On the shelves, there were different types of rocks—rocks of various types and different colors—a rock collection. Rant explained that the room was for his sons, who lived closer to the village with his family. His son worked in construction, and his specialty was masonry.

Though apparently, he hadn’t much visited recently.

You can easily miss the most simple of things, especially when you haven’t had the chance to be in contact with such things. A bed, a blanket, a table, and even something as simple as a chair. One can miss those things and only appreciate them when they’re gone. And when one comes in contact with it again, it won’t take long before the simple things become mundane again, and you seldom even think about them.

Kanrel would not be able to enjoy said things, so tomorrow he wouldn't be emotionally able to appreciate them. He would have to actively think of the fact that he now had those things.

Sleep came quickly, and the darkness swallowed him, just to carry him to the next morning. There were no nightmares, just the comfort of nothing and the comfort of not remembering anything.

The next morning, for breakfast, they had the same food they had the day before. It was still dark outside, but the darkness would soon be subdued by the light in just a few hours. When it would be so, Kanrel would leave the old man’s house behind and seek out the village, which was bound to be near.

“How far is the village from here?” Kanrel asked after they had had their breakfast.

"It's ‘bout an hour's way north; you’ll see it when you arrive,” Rant explained. “I would like to ask for a favor,” he then added.

“Sure, anything.”

“You see, I don’t know how to write or read, but my son does; could you write a letter for my son?”

Kanrel gave a nod of agreement and went to get his back. He got his notebook and a pencil, set them on the table, and waited for the man to begin.

“When will you visit home? It is lonely here, and it won’t be long before my time is over,” Rant began. “The nights are getting colder; I’ll be dead by the end of winter.”

Kanrel began writing but stopped before he reached the end of the last sentence. He looked at the man sitting across him; the sadness still remained on his face; it was there, and it was more apparent than it had been last night.

“Are you sick somewhere?” He asked. Maybe there could be something that he could do.

“Yes, but it is a sickness no man or priest can heal,” Rant explained. “I am old, and it hurts everywhere; since Betty has been gone, I’ve felt empty and so lonely. So I suppose I have a sickness of the mind as well.”

Kanrel just stared at him in silence. There really wasn’t much that he could do for him other than write the letter for him. “I could write you a will as well,” he soon offered.

“A will? What’s that then?”

“After you’re dead, it will state who gets your property and all the earthly things that you have left behind,” Kanrel explained and then looked around. “Your house seems like an old one, and you’ve probably lived here all your life; it would be a shame if it was left unattended after your departure.”

Rant seemed to think for a while, “Wouldn’t it go to my son anyway?”

“Yes, but there’d be no question, and no one could argue that he wouldn’t be the rightful owner of this property and the lands adjacent to it.”

“It is something nobles do quite often, and wealthy landowners and merchants usually need a priest to be the one to witness it and to write it down,” Kanrel added.

Rant thought for another moment, “Would it cost anythin’? I don’t have much gold."

Kanrel shook his head. “No priest would or should ask for anything for his or her services; besides, you’ve housed me for the night and fed me twice; you’ve saved my life out of the goodness of your heart; who would I be to demand anything of you?”

Rant smiled a little; the sadness remained in his smile, yet he said, “Priests do seem to bring some good luck; I’ll accept your offer.”

Kanrel finished writing the letter that Rant had dictated for him to write. Kanrel then made him sign the letter himself, teaching him how to write his own name. He then added the assumed date that it was written on, also writing a mention of who had written the message as well as the fact that they’d draft a will for Rant Jenkse.

Soon after, they began working on the man’s will. In its simplicity, the will held in it the information of all the things that Rant owned, the lands, the property, and the things inside the property. He wasn’t wealthy in the sense of money at his disposal, but he had plenty of land, which seemed to be prosperous. And most of the money he had, he would invest in his son's business.

He made two copies of the will, and when they were both done, Kanrel made Rant sign them.

which he took some wax and sealed them both. One of them he gave to Rant, “I suggest that you place it somewhere safe, probably into your bedroom; I will keep hold of the other one, and I will be in contact with your son.”

Rant made a nod and received the other will for himself: “I suppose this is goodbye then?” He asked.

“Yes, for now, it is; I’ll be sure to visit you again before your departure,” Kanrel promised. He packed his things, got his bag, and was ready to leave. For the last time, he looked at Rant, who stared at him, holding on to his will and pressing it against his chest. His stare wasn’t direct, and it only at first seemed like he was staring at Kanrel; instead, he looked beyond—who knows where?

Kanrel opened the door and soon closed it behind him. As he went down the stairs back onto the snowy ground, he wondered if there really wasn’t anything else that he could do. No one can heal the ails of age; everyone will die in the end. And it was true that none could survive time, but even in its inevitability, it remained a sad reality.

Perhaps he could at least find his wife in death. If there was such a possibility, if there was such a thing as life after death.

Soon the house in the middle of the snow was left behind, and he kept walking northward. It was midday again, and light graced his way through the winter scenery that he walked through, and after that hour, he saw it. Surrounded by snow fields, the mountains far from west to north, and the forests to the east.

A village much larger than he had anticipated. Hundreds of houses of different sizes, some made out of wood and some out of stone. This would be the place where he’d spend the foreseeable future. One of those houses would be his to live in, or so he hoped. Having to share a house with someone wasn’t something he really wanted to do.

He prepared himself mentally; the day was short, and there was so much that he had to do.