Chapter Text
Winter came like the clawed hands of a devil at the same time each year to drag through town and cut away the softer flesh. It brought death at its heels. Silent, slow death, drawn from deep within the throat and invisible to the eye. A man dies in silence choking on the air he draws. The unwise would mistake the quiet for safety, but a silent scream carries no less suffering.
The shift in air came early this year. In all Father Abram’s years of living in this town, he had come to familiarize himself with the chill of the breeze and the crispness that came with the change of seasons. His father could tell you the weather from but the smell of the air through an open window. He had learned his skills, and inherited his instinct, so when the change came, it didn’t get an inch past his senses.
The people could tell too. He had planned the announcement at church to declare the unexpected change and to arrange duties, but as their forms filled the pews he could tell their shoulders hung low from the expectation of labor. Every year he had to lead this town in both spirit and body to survive the cold, and for a time, he felt the weight of a captain on his ship. Survival was urgent, and not a soul could tip overboard. From the podium, he prepared to speak.
“The skies grow heavy and grim for this time of year. No doubt you have felt it upon your skin and seen it upon the horizon.” He began. Their faces nodded solemnly, painted in the morning light of the long, church windows lining the walls. “Dark times are ahead. But it is in these times most of all that we know the Lord is with us. That we may see what challenges he does intend to wash upon our lands, and that we may learn from Him the nature of his power. It is His kindness that he acts in routine, that he may bring us the shortening of the day and the smell of rot to forewarn us of what is to come.”
Men’s faces bore the comprehension that the short hours of daylight would be filled with relentless toiling. Mothers pulled their children close. Some would see their first winter’s work this year, no hands could be wasted.
“Now comes to us a period of sudden change very much unlike what we have been privileged to witness. The cold comes faster to us now than before, and the work once done in moons must be seen to in half such time. It shall be in our interest to see through this with more than strength, but in leadership as well.” Father Abram’s tone was serious and resolute, and he let nothing but certainty onto his face. His arm raised and gestured to the trees that danced in the faint wind, out far beyond the window at the edge of town. “The savage winds will make harvest nigh impossible and bring death to our crops and our meager. Evil comes hastily under harsh air and preys fast upon idle men. We must face our labor with strength and gratitude, for it is only under the eyes of a kind God that we—”
His eye caught a motion in his periphery, though his head dared not turn. A small movement from the window. He needed not to guess what it was. He lowered both hands to the podium and let out a long, slow breath. From the front pew, Mr Thomas raised his head, alerted to the abnormality.
“Fester not. I shall be swift.” Father Abram spoke low to the people, passing through the center isle and out the front gates. As the doors closed behind him and the breeze gave him a chilled welcome, he seeped a prayer through his teeth. “Good Lord keep my head upon my shoulders.”
He turned the side of the church and the array of bushes lining the outer walls. They were still, but not still enough. At the cluster near the end, he reached his hand in and drew out swiftly the form of a young boy, who began to struggle in a valiant effort to free his wrist from the hold.
It was as he had expected. He was far too small and frail to be about on his own, and far too clever to be still so disobedient. Abram could not ignore it; the underwhelming size of the boy’s wrist, or the pitiful force with which he pulled, which was little more than the nudge of a cat’s nose upon your leg. It brought from him only more fury. His chest filled.
“Is it not true that I had bid you to remain within our home?” The man struggled with himself to keep his voice from projecting to the people inside.
“It is! It is!” The boy echoed pitifully.
“Then why is it again I find you here?” He pulled him closer and raised his arm. “Bringing sin to these holy grounds! Does the Lord not command you obey your father?”
“He does! He does!” The child had started to work himself into a panic, and the beginnings of sharp, fearful breaths tugged at his chest.
Slowly, Abram relented, lowering him. He peered over his shoulder. The town splayed out beyond, dotted with houses along the main street, left vacant from the gathering. He had journeyed far to arrive here. And by himself no less.
“Where is Eleanor?” Abram demanded, low and pensive. “This marks the fourth time in this fortnight that she has strayed her eyes from her duty. She is fortunate the Lord bids us to forgive so freely.” Only then did he release the child’s arm.
The boy sheltered his wrist, rubbing it gently. “It is not Mother’s fault. She does well. It’s a burden to her soul that she forego the Lord’s day for my sake.”
“It is.” Father Abram gave him another look over now that they had settled. “Then tell me, Isaac. What great truth had brought you here again despite the wishes of your parents, whom know the world and the Lord’s will much more intimately than you?”
Isaac, even with his already meager size, shrunk only more. “I wished to see you speak.” He confessed. “I want to pray in the temple of our Lord like the other children.”
It held no surprise to him, but still, Abram let a silent sigh slip from his teeth. A hand on his knee, he lowered himself to the boy. “Do the children you speak of share such a malady in their blood as you?” He inquired softly, but firmly. “Does their flesh freeze and turmoil as yours does?”
“No…”
“Father Abram?” Another voice intruded from behind them.
At the corner of the building were the figures of Mr and Mrs Thomas, their concern getting better of them as to follow behind. The stout older man had surely come first, but his wife was no doubt a close second. Her presence was a confirmation that not a single person was mislead the cause of his departure.
Father Abram righted himself again, turning to the couple with a duty to his stance. “Hurry you home before a cold wind brings you your death, Isaac.” He ordered, the boy hidden just behind him perking his head at the command. “I shall have Mrs. Thomas see you there. You are to apologize to her for the inconvenience.” He passed them both by as he headed to return to the service, his duty hanging around his neck. “We will speak about this when I return.”
In the absence of his father, Isaac stood exposed. Mrs. Thomas softened.
“I suppose you’re a wise woman.” Mr. Thomas remarked to her lightly, tailing the priest back to the chapel.
His wife nodded with a quiet understanding. At the boy’s side, she extended a gentle hand to Isaac. “Come along then.”
Isaac eyed it for a few moments before slipping his into it. Mrs. Thomas’ eyes filled with thought as their palms met, and she began the return trip. Isaac kept his sights on the tall body of the chapel, from its base to its pointed top where the roof sheltered the sleeping bell, and he didn’t disengage until the detail fell away.
“Your hands are frightfully cold.” Mrs Thomas remarked with surprise. “An early winter indeed.”
The cows stuck their heads through the fence as they walked by, their large eyes tracking him again as they went home. A grey farm cat balanced atop the wood with a large mouse between its teeth.
Isaac shook his head, distracted by the various sights. “It is wonted of me. The winter has no place in it.”
It was the detached nature of his tone that turned Mrs. Thomas’ head. Whatever it had her think, she bit it back.
“Father says it is an abiding ice inside of me. A cold no flame can melt.” At the lack of her response, he continued with more energy, the faint hit of a skip in his gait. “And it is, I said, that if nothing else, then perhaps the hearth of the temple that might melt my ailment, but he insists it not.” He looked directly at her now. “If it is the Lord’s will I may not see my years in full, is it not true that I should be best prepared for Him?”
“Why I—“ The woman struggled to wrap her mouth around words. What an absurd child, what an absurd question. And the man, he was their priest after all… what could she say? “Your father only intends to keep you safe.” She decided on. “The meek are susceptible to sin, and you can scarcely handle work of any intensity as it is. You’re far too small a boy.” Isaac’s head sunk at the familiar words. “Your father is a pious man. He knows best what the Lord wants of you.”
Isaac kicked a pebble across the dirt and watched it tick along to a rest. “Pious indeed.”
Eleanor stood at the mouth of the house, in the shadow of the horseshoe above the doorway, her hands on her waist and a sigh on her lips. A rag tossed over her shoulder, she shook her head as they approached.
“How is it that I knew to expect you like this?” Her brows furrowed and her expression met somewhere between disappointment, concern, and a twinge of frustration. Isaac made himself little, floating from Mrs. Thomas to his mother, taking hold of her dress. With a hand on the woman’s shoulder, Eleanor continued. “I apologize for this, Mrs Thomas. I had gotten myself occupied with preparing our meals. I’m afraid I can’t see the door that well from the kitchen, and he’s a barely a whisper of a boy.”
“Does not his door lock?” Mrs Thomas leaned in curiously.
“Oh yes, but only from the other side, I fear!” A bit of laughter grasped her words, and she shook her head.
Isaac dropped their conversation as they continued to speak, staring blankly at the grass around his feet. He had gotten around to tracking how the weeds danced in the wind when the sudden, quick movement of something in the bushes beyond the house caught his eye. As he stared though, nothing dared to act again, and his sight lingered there for many moments more. It was his mother’s hand on his head that brought him back to the present.
“And what do we say to Mrs Thomas?” She urged politely.
Isaac rubbed his eye, disinterested but filled with guilt regardless. “My gravest apologies. Please forgive me, I am meager and know not what I do.” More familiar words.
“And thank you very much for your kindness.” Eleanor bowed her head.
“It’s no problem at all.” Mrs. Thomas waved a hand softly before setting it on Eleanor’s arm. “We all pray for your family. The burden you carry is truly unthinkable.”
Eleanor thinned her lips, swallowed her thoughts, and shook her head. She began to guide Isaac back towards the door. “You shall surely see me again in due time. Once our boy learns his lessons, you shall see me return. And a blessed day to you.”
She waved until they were both through the confines of the door and she had pressed it shut. In the solitude of their little wooden house, she passed by Isaac on the way to the table, running her hand along the top around the plates she had set.
“You’ll find it cold now.” Her tone was corrective, but not harsh. “The cost be it now on both of us.” She pulled out both of their seats taking her time to her own as she watched her son approach. “See how your actions have tethered us both.”
Isaac himself very barely mounted himself on the chair, so small and feeble was his nature. He rested his arms on the table, but didn’t look above his food.
“It’s not right, you. To keep shaking off like that. Does it please you to frighten your mother so?”
“No…” He answered quickly, but pitifully.
“I should hope not.” Eleanor sat, picking up her utensils to eat. “You know it your father should be having you reprimanded.”
Isaac copied her, lifting his fork, though only to shift around the plate’s contents. He distracted himself doing so, as if to eat what he was served would be to sacrifice what little pride his little frame contained. Eleanor spoke again to break the silence.
“You shall have no more recess this week.”
Isaac’s head raised instantly and his eyes grew wide. “What??”
“You shall have it inside.” She took a bite, maintaining quite a calmness.
The boy began to shake his arms frantically, working himself up and driving his fork into the softer parts of his food. “No!” He dared protest.
Eleanor winced, sitting upright. “Yes. It will be.” She refused to waver.
“Then I shall have no time at all beyond the house!” He wailed, legs swinging. “It isn’t fair!”
His mother’s face twitched at the corner of her lips and her eyebrows, containing herself a little less for every time her son’s voice raised. “The air gets colder by the day. It would soon be such anyhow.” She reasoned, sifting through her own food in a rather similar way. “To frolic and play in the yard is for boys who do right by their fathers.”
At this, Isaac began swaying in his seat, his breaths in a slight heave. A rattle was working its way into his words and what little blood fit his body was rushed to his cheeks. “I do right! I could do very many right things were I not to be trapped in this house!!” He looked very close to the edge of tears, but his frustration was just nearly beating out his need to cry.
Eleanor finally pushed herself up from the table, palms pressed flat. “Isaac,” she declared, her assertive voice a razor thin veil above the desperation beneath, “you know why you must remain here. The world holds far too much sin and danger! You are feeble and meek of heart and soul! Your life is stifled as it is, must you follow temptation to make it moreso?” She stopped, her jaw clenched so tightly she had to unwind it before she spoke again, the words only a mere plea. “Must you bring more despair unto this family?”
Isaac stopped, blinking the moisture from his eyes and returning them to his plate. His hands gripped the table and he took long breaths to steady himself. “I should wish to speak with Father.” He muttered bitterly.
“Your father has much work with the village to prepare. He will return late.” Eleanor slunk tactfully back into her seat.
“He always returns late..”
“And by the time he does, you shall have all of your things collected from the yard. Don’t have them litter the floor as they do the grass.”
Isaac stared at his fork, and the untouched food, disorganized and maimed by his fit. His struggle had brought him no give nor appetite.