Chapter Text
“Accept my teachings and learn from me, because I am gentle and humble in spirit, and you will find rest for your lives. The burden that I ask you to accept is easy; the load I give you to carry is light.” — Matthew 11:29-30
“Paweł!” Adam, the baker, loudly exclaims as he walks into my shop. Adam is a tall man, lean with a long face and worn olive skin. I once heard a rumor circulate through our village that his great grandmother was a gypsy, or an Saracen -- and no one argued it. The inhabitants of Luclawice are suspicious of foreigners and when someone like Adam arrives all of a sudden, it tends to cause all kinds of a stir.
I wipe my brow before my sweat can drip into my cheesecloth and I pucker the top of my parcel, sealing it with a bit of string.
“Good afternoon, Adam,” I greet him, with some hesitance, reaching up to string the fragrant lump of farm cheese with the others on the line. I can see his eyes watching me.
“It is indeed.”
“What can I do for you?”
It’s midday and I’m tired. My arms ache from stirring and my face is flushed and warm from working over the heat. I already know what Adam wants. He wants the same thing every week and I have no choice but to give it to him.
“You remember our little arrangement, Paweł, yes?” he quirks a smile.
I sigh. “One block of farmer’s cheese and your mouth stays shut?”
“Why stop at one?” Adam’s tone is just short of malicious. He delights in my misfortune. “My wife will have our new child any day now. Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about the joys of childbirth, being a..." -- he pauses, the absence of words speaking volumes -- "...bachelor." I see him smile again, as if having a bit of a joke with himself.
I want to punch him but I simply breathe slowly, remembering that I am better than this.
He clears his throat. "Another mouth to feed means I need more cheese. Give it up, dear boy, I don't have all day.”
“Fine,” I pluck two blocks from the line and fold them into his hands, lowering my tone seriously, “but your mouth stays shut.”
“Fine.” Adam agrees and then smiles at me once more, in that mocking condescending way, “I always enjoy doing business with you, Paweł. Always.”
I should probably pause to explain why I dance this tired, weekly dance with Adam.
My name is Paweł Blartski. I have lived in Luclawice all of my life and have only ever left to go into Krakow. I know every wheat field from the next, know where to find creeks in clearings so obscure that you would hear the water babbling and still not know which dip and bend to follow. I have seen the Lord take many people from Luclawice in my time here, may their bodies rest eternally and may their souls rise to salvation. I have also seen the Lord bring many people in -- infants, travelers passing through, and the occasional traveler who is here to stay. One of these rare cases is the case of Faustus Socinus.
Faustus Socinus was an Italian refugee. He came to Krakow many years ago and quickly made a name for himself, preaching a strange gospel. Long before he arrived here in Luclawice, we knew of his reputation. We heard that he would stand in the streets clutching his belly and blaspheming the church. It was a wonder that they didn’t drive him out sooner, or so I thought before I met him.
Here in Luclawice, we don’t like Krakow. It is big and smelly and bustling and full of people. People like Socinus. Heretics.
I visited him once, there, in his humble but beautiful church. It was a deep grey-yellow stone, the masonry excellent, but architecture not as jaw-dropping as the conventional churches that I had seen. I remember the small group of followers he had acquired there, staring up at me as I entered. I was a young man then. I was intrigued by his heresy and, glowing with hubris, I may have thought that I could bring him back to the Faith. Regardless, I inquired of his beliefs.
Socinus explained that he was an Anti-Trinitarian. He believed that the Christ was fully human, not a vessel of the divine. It was absolute blasphemy and I knew that I should have not listened. But he had caught my ear that day and I was intrigued. Socinus told me that the soul dies with the body, but those given the gift of Grace will be resurrected. One must study the good word, Faustus said, and all would be revealed.
I could not yet read, so I did not yet listen.
I do not have any dream or aspiration, dear reader, beyond serving the Lord. You could say I am a pious man, and most in Luclawice would agree. The most striking thing about me is my stature -- tall and wide -- and my inability to walk in a straight line. I am so clumsy that the children point and call me drunkard, though I rarely indulge in more than an ale. I am Paweł Blartski, the unassuming cheese merchant. Luclawice sees no threat. That is because they don’t know my secret.
It began the fateful night that I allowed Faustus Socinus refuge in my home. I am a bachelor, you see, on account of the issues mentioned prior. Aside from being quite rotund and clumsy, I am terribly shy around girls. I am shyer yet around a good looking boy, but I did not dwell on those urges at the time.
Faustus, as it happened, was one of these men, so good looking that I became weak at the sight of his neatly trimmed moustache, thick beard and rich, dark eyes. When I allowed him into my home, however, I had no such intentions. He remembered me from our discussion so many years before and sought my aid, fleeing from the mob. I put him up.
I never could have predicted the night of fiery passion that would occur between us.
As my bad luck would have it, Adam the baker was passing by that day. I have since learned of dutchmen with paned glass windows on their homes but I, a simple cheese merchant, had no such luxuries. What occurred that night -- the noises, sounds, smells -- of lecherous lovemaking between the heretic and I -- Adam experienced it all. For his silence, in good faith, I have been giving him one free block of cheese per week. Now, I suppose, it will have to be two.
Faustus died two years ago.
Our king, King Sigismund III, began cracking down on heretics shortly before Faustus's death. The Jesuits come in regularly from Krakow, these days, to check and see if there is any funny business. They have always been happy to report back that Luclawice is just as it seems -- a sleepy little town.
But there is one more secret, dear reader, that even Adam doesn’t know. As I write this story, it should become clear to you. Consider yourself one among close -- but good -- company. Before Faustus died, he gave me a most beautiful gift: literacy. Through his writings, preserved through my writings, the Minor Reformed church stays alive. Although we meet in secret now, I have an incredibly important job here in Luclawice. For Faustus. For the Lord.
Until that fateful day, after Adam’s weekly visit to my shop, as the sun was just starting to set in the sky, it was all I knew. It was the most important job that I could possibly conceive of, but as always the Lord works in mysterious ways.
As I said before, travelers rarely make a home here in Luclawice, but when they do, it is always sure to be life-changing. That was how it was for me. That was how it was when the boy and the golden man fell, hand-in-hand, out of the sky.