He took a bottle of the cherry-infused liquor he’d produced last year, and another of home-made advocaat for good measure, saddled up his horse to avoid wasting gas, and took a shortcut through the vast meadows.
The morning revealed the far-off mountains in their full glory, with fog still lingering among the poplars in a way that had Emil melancholic even though he’d watched this spectacle of nature his whole life. Jinx was especially frisky today, and so eager to gallop Emil decided to relax and let him.
Emil’s life was full of unlucky incidents and surprises that made his blood freeze, so he didn’t want to plan too far into the future. Details of what to do with his horse or house wouldn’t matter until he had the money to do anything about them, so for now, he enjoyed the cool, fresh air that smelled of dew, and rode Jinx toward the parsonage.
He passed two local guys, who’d called him a Satanist throughout high school, just because he wore black and listened to heavy metal. Fortunately for Emil, now that they were in their thirties, the bullying attempts from their teenage years had become harmless running jokes.
“You sure you don’t wanna buy the black one?” laughed Dawid, pointing at one of the sheep in the flock he was leading. It was an allusion to Emil being the black sheep of the village, but Emil took it in stride.
“Careful, or I’ll send my crows after you,” he shouted back before riding off, all the way to the cast iron fence surrounding the church grounds.
Emil tied Jinx to one of the tall poplar trees planted around the perimeter and entered the cobbled yard. There was only one service on weekdays, so the large open space was empty with the exception of magpies and sparrows, which congregated around pieces of bread Mrs. Luty must have scattered for them.
The weather was still mild, so Emil chose a bench in the sun and sat behind the church, waiting for Father Marek. The man had been Dybukowo’s pastor for over a decade now, and despite not being a believer himself, Emil knew the priest’s routines. Father Marek was like clockwork, and he’d be leaving the parsonage around nine. Of course, Emil could have just knocked, but there was the ‘tiny’ issue of Mrs. Luty, the housekeeper who hated his guts. He’d rather not cause a scene.
“Shoo!” he yelled in frustration when a huge crow descended on the back of the bench and narrowly missed his head with its wing. He was beginning to consider changing his cologne in the future, because he’d become catnip for the damn birds in the past few weeks, and couldn’t work out why.
“Emil?” The pastor appeared out of nowhere, startling Emil into rising to his feet, as if he intended to salute.
“Praise be Jesus Christ.” He forced a smile. He wasn’t into talking about God, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “You got a minute, Father?”
The pastor nodded with a self-satisfied smile that still appeared a little greasy from his breakfast. He was round—both in the face and body—soft at the edges and pleasant, yet plain like a sugar-glazed donut with no filling. Father Marek was the kind of priest who stuck to the most standard of sermons and didn’t bother to jump on the bandwagon of controversy by criticizing ‘LGBT ideology’ and all the other ‘enemies’ of the modern Catholic Church. And while Emil didn’t much like complacency, he was glad of the pastor’s unwillingness to stir the pot, especially in a place like Dybukowo, which already had so little understanding for otherness.
Then again, who would have the energy to fight heretics on a steady diet of Mrs. Luty’s amazing food and when the bed invited post-breakfast and afternoon naps instead?
Emil still remembered the time before his granddad died, back when he didn’t have to fend for himself. As his late grandma’s old friend, Mrs. Luty had always treated both him and Granddad to lunch, and then sent them home with plastic boxes filled with food for supper. If she was in the mood, she’d add dessert, and even if there was no love left anymore between him and Mrs. Luty, he had to admit her cakes were divine.
He followed Pastor Marek to the small church filled with benches and the scent of stale holy water. It was a small structure, built almost entirely of dark wood, and its floor creaked, begging for renovation. A single chandelier made of antlers hung above the altar, which, while small, looked impressive in the cozy space. But the sight of its elegant stonework, trims of gold paint and flowers would not fill Emil’s stomach.
“I know it’s much to ask, but I was wondering if there was a possibility for a loan,” he said, deciding to face the issue head-on instead of starting with the buttering up.
The pastor faced him, his flushed face full of compassion. “Is it the roof again?”
“Yes. And no.” Emil hated having to ask for help. He despised it, but with Radek gone, he was getting desperate for a chance to breathe.
The pastor sat in one of the benches and patted the wood next to him. “What is actually the matter, Emil? You know you can talk to me.”
No, he couldn’t. Nor did he want to. He didn’t want to talk to the pastor about one of his few friends leaving for a big city, nor that he felt lonely in an old house that held so many fond memories yet had become a museum of a happier time long gone.
Emil smiled and pulled the bottles out of his backpack to detract from the pastor’s serious tone. “I wanted to show you these, Father. They’re made with Grandad’s recipes.”
The glint of interest in pastor Marek’s eyes was the relief he’d craved.
“I can’t make more without a little investment, and we’re almost in strawberry season.”
“Oh. You know, everyone’s so tight-fisted nowadays. The church struggles as it is. I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises,” the pastor said, but he didn’t hesitate and took both bottles out of Emil’s hands.
If only Emil had been willing to offer Father Marek a sob story, cry, roll over to show his wounded belly, maybe he would have gotten what he’d come for, but when he thought of sharing the reality of his situation, nausea clutched at his throat like a noose. And he said nothing, letting Father Marek take the fruits of his labor, as if they were a gift, not an obvious bargaining chip.
But he said nothing, bound by pride he couldn’t afford.
When the pastor left to attend to his duties, Emil felt stupid that he hadn’t even remembered to ask about the tourist staying at the parsonage. He left the church with sagging shoulders, certain he’d achieved nothing, but when he walked out into the yard, Adam was right there, with a broom in hand.
And dressed in a cassock.
Emil stared at the handsome priest with blood pounding in his head. If Emil had had moral boundaries, he would have walked away, embarrassed that he’d flirted with a man of the cloth last night.
But as someone who didn’t believe in religion, he didn’t have any objections when it came to fucking priests. When their eyes met across the yard, his head immediately filled with filthy images of Adam bent over the nearby well, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled up the thick black cassock to uncover shapely legs and a round ass. In the real world, Adam most likely wore pants under all that fabric, but Emil was the master of his fantasies.
In the sunlight, Adam’s eyes were as bright as the blue sky above, his hair—the color of wheat at the peak of summer. He sported a light tan, and was far too handsome to be wearing a priest’s collar, but there was also something else about him that drew Emil closer. Something he couldn’t pinpoint, something beyond wanting to suck on the long fingers or finding out what Adam’s cock looked like.