Samuel sat beside the lit fireplace, woolly blanket draped over his slim shoulders, leather-bound scriptures perched on his lap. He squinted as thin shadows danced across the pages, forcing the words to bleed together. He pushed his mother’s thick-framed glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and leaned forward. He was hungry, and he craved something other than stale oatmeal and bluefish. Snowy winds beat against the cabin, causing the wooden walls to creak as if they were in pain. All these things made it impossible for him to focus. But it was more than that. No matter how many times Samuel read the verses, he felt nothing.
His father leaned forward in his chair.
“We have company.”
Samuel looked through the rattling window. Two white beams cut through the snowstorm. The twin headlights grew in size and brightness, and the icy ground crunched under the weight of the approaching vehicle. Samuel stood and set the scriptures on the wooden desk next to the tattered black-and-white photograph of his mother. She was eighteen when the photograph was taken, a few years older than he was now. Her sun-kissed skin showed she was no native to the whitelands. That, and her inviting smile. She was executed soon after giving birth to him. His father refused to speak about her, admitting it was all a transgression that had been covered by Azhuel, the one true god, and His holy roots. Samuel was living evidence of a forbidden act.
The headlights from outside halted, then vanished completely, causing the darkness of the night to return. An impatient pounding hit the door before Samuel had a chance to undo the locks. When he slid back the iron bolt, the door swung forward. Frigid winds and snowflakes flew into the cabin, and the sheriff of Haid scurried inside. Samuel pressed his shoulder against the door and sealed it shut, his face burning from the cold gusts. The sheriff pulled down his heavy hood and dusted the white powder from his thick coat.
“Damn snow.”
The sheriff wiped his peppered mustache. Fresh new wrinkles were forming around his cheeks and forehead, causing him to seem older than he really was. He sucked in air through his large nostrils, stripped off his leather gloves, and reclined in the open chair by the table, across from Samuel’s father.
“Cleric.”
“Sheriff. How can I serve?”
“Tea to start with.”
Samuel’s father nodded as Samuel habitually gathered the supplies. He boiled a pot of water over the fireplace and pulled tealeaves from a glass jar, ripping each one into little pieces. A few years prior, his father had stumbled upon a small patch of camellia shrubbery near the lake in the eastern woods. His father said it was a miracle of Azhuel that the tea plants managed to grow and survive in such a harsh climate. To Samuel, it was a miracle that anything or anyone lived in Haid at all.
“You know the Littens?” the sheriff asked.
Samuel’s father scratched his beard. “The butcher.”
“Old man’s losing his body and mind. Dementia mixed with pneumonia and a handful of bad luck. Doc says he won’t last the night.”
Samuel mixed the crushed leaves into the pot, thinking of the butcher and his sharp tools. Once, from outside the shop’s back window, he watched as the old man effortlessly gutted a pig beside the cackling furnace. Samuel had never seen a pig before, but that day he saw more of a pig than most. The butcher’s skeleton-like fingers slit the animal’s guts with ease, peeling back the flesh as if it were merely paper. Blood leaked down the old man’s wrinkled arms as he yanked out the intestines and dropped them into a silver pan. Samuel didn’t dare step inside the butcher’s shop or try to speak with him about the finer points of his craft. No upstanding citizen would want to be caught socializing with a cleric’s illegitimate son. That was Samuel’s experience, at least. While there were citizens who believed in Azhuel, none of the faithful seemed keen on having Samuel’s father as the town’s stationed cleric. How could a lecherous, oath-breaking sinner like that hope to guide a spirit back to the holy roots? Samuel recalled a disgruntled logger saying something like that when his father performed the rites for his dead daughter. She was six. A fever took her.
“What about the shop?” Samuel asked while stirring the pot.
The sheriff loosened his gun holster, grunting as he slid the silver revolver on the table. He was the only person in town who never seemed scared or bothered conversing with Samuel or his father. But, as the sheriff of Haid, Eugene Black had certain responsibilities that most citizens didn’t. Retrieving his father for the rites was one of them, along with keeping the peace.
“His daughter will run it, I suppose. Ain’t like her husband’s gonna quit his cozy little job for the mayor. Still, there’s no way a family will be able to live on that salary alone. Not in this town.”
Samuel nodded as he poured the steaming liquid into a cup and handed it to the sheriff. The sheriff reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask, adding a splash of liquor before taking a sip. “Perfect,” he said, wiping his mustache.
Samuel set the pot back on the counter. He wasn’t sure if the sheriff was talking about the tea.
“Anyway, the old man wants a cleric. Storm as it is? I’d let him croak. Do the ritual at the burial. But the law’s the law. If he wants his dying fantasy, it’s your job to give it to him.”
“I pray all men find comfort in Azhuel’s roots,” his father said.
“Knew you’d say that.” The sheriff snorted, then took another swig of tea. “I like you, cleric. It’s like you really do believe in your god and the damn roots. Whatever that’s worth to you. A real righteous man.”
His words slurred. He peeked at Samuel.
“Righteous as any man can be.”
His father stiffened as the sheriff finished his tea. Samuel turned his attention to the window, watching the snowflakes as they crashed into the glass. Clerics were sworn to celibacy; they were banned from any form of human touch. To perform the rites for the dead and reconnect passing souls to Azhuel’s holy roots, clerics of Azhuel had to remain pure, untainted by the sins and lusts of men. Samuel’s existence would forever be the stain on his father’s holy vows.
“It will take me a while to get there,” his father said. “The storm is growing worse, and I’ll need to watch my pace.”
“You don’t need to tell me about this storm. Mayor’s got a crew of my patrolmen posted outside of his estate tonight.”
Samuel readjusted his glasses. “In that?”
The sheriff snorted. “Entitled fool. Swears he got robbed a few nights back. Missing some cash and jewelry and … a radio? Now he wants half my men posted by his gates at all times. Had us laying out gaming traps the whole day. Traps so nasty they could rip a bear’s leg in half. Which reminds me. Stay clear of the western woods for now, if you know what’s good for you.”
Samuel went back to the kitchen and cleaned the pot. It was common knowledge the western woods had the best pine. What were the loggers going to do?
“Anyway, no thief in his right mind would be out there now. Most of my patrolmen will probably be frozen dead by morning. And don’t be stupid, cleric. It’ll be my ass if you don’t get there in one piece. You’ll ride with me.”