Netenyahu of the 16th Century by The Protected by Allah - HTML preview

Chapter One:

One Village But Two Worlds

She opened her eyes to the warm sunbeam brushing her face. Never, in the sixteen years she had lived beneath its glow, had she doubted that this very light would continue to spill through the monastery’s stained-glass window—shimmering softly as if carrying all the tenderness of the Lord to whom she had chosen to devote her life.

Just like her mother… no, even more faithfully than her mother; She had vowed herself to Christ from the first breath of her youth, and for all eternity.

She slipped quickly into her black habit and set out to begin a new day in the “Vineyard of the Lord.” She entered the hall where the Mother Superior was lifting her prayers, pausing only to light a small candle before the Virgin’s icon before taking her place beside the new sister. The scent of burning wax mingled with the pale light of dawn filtering through the windows.

From the corner of her eye, she glanced at the penitent sister, a faint sting of pride tightening in her chest—how could that hand, which had once touched impurity, rest so near her own, which had known nothing but the sacred?

She lowered her gaze and traced the sign of the cross, trying to grasp the meaning of forgiveness and anchor her mind in prayer… when suddenly she heard:

 

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“Catherina! It’s your turn.”

Catherina jolted, fumbling through the pages, as the penitent sister placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and smiled.

“It’s your turn to help Mr. George’s children. You seemed a little distracted.”

Her soul recoiled from that touch even as she forced a shy smile in return. She rose, took the basket of food, and stepped out of the monastery with her usual kind-hearted smile. She walked a few paces, then stopped to draw a deep breath, letting her eyes rest on the lush green of the trees as she prepared herself to care for those children whose mother lay ill. She would have to feed them, clean them, comfort them, and…

She suddenly became aware of the sound of hooves rising behind her. Before she could turn, her veil was snatched away, lifted high into the air. Instinctively, she flung the basket from her hands, hoping she could hide her wind-tossed brown hair with her pale fingers as she cried out, “Holy Virgin!” Her eyes met a pair of hard, black eyes staring down at her from atop the horse, and she heard a cold whisper drift toward her:

“What I thought was an old man… was a woman indeed—young, even.”

Then he barked, “And what is it you’re hiding under that cursed cloth?”

She choked out, “Shut your mouth, you insolent boy… give it back!”

 

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The veil fell. A strange smile flickered across the young man’s face, and Catherina, in her innocence, rushed straight toward her doom. She never reached the scarf. Instead, she felt herself seized by her habit and lifted onto the horse’s back, the sting of lashes burning into her skin. She stared in disbelief at the silent onlookers—faces without features, people without conscience.

The horse surged forward, dragging behind it the sobs of a nun being carried into the unknown. With every pounding step, the monastery faded, warmth turning to ice. She screamed until her throat burned, but no ear answered her. The man on the saddle remained still, as if what he carried behind him was not a human soul, but a sack of goods.

Her head drooped forward, swaying with the horse’s relentless rhythm, her hair falling like a curtain of silk, blocking her view except for the merciless hooves striking the earth. In the narrow mountain passes, her cries dwindled, replaced by a tense, breathless silence.

When the horses finally stopped, she tried to flee, but cold hands were quicker than her hope. She fought fiercely with her bare hands, slipping free for a heartbeat before the men closed in from every side. She stumbled back—straight into the young man’s solid frame. His hand clamped onto her hair with brutal force, cutting off her scream. And with that sharp, merciless gesture, her resistance ended.

The next morning, a warm sunbeam slipped through the stained-glass window and fell upon the empty bed in the

 

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monastery. Though it found no one to warm, it did not grieve, nor shrink, nor even change; Warm it was—but never gentle. The only one who had ever believed in its gentleness was now locked in the darkness of a cellar carved into the mountain beside the village.

Those honey-colored eyes shed tears by the dozens, accompanied by a small, sorrowful whimper. Though she curled tightly into herself, the cold of the ground seeped into her bones through her thin garment, while the smell of dampness and decay filled her lungs, as if she lay in a grave waiting for its lid to close.

Light barely reached her—only faint rays slipping through rust-covered iron bars; Still, they insist to stand firm, like stone, before the lost youth of the prisoners.

“Come now, child, hush… you’ve cried all night. Aren’t you tired? As for me, my head is splitting…”

Another woman snapped,

“Hit her. Silence her by force. You’ve been coddling her for hours while she whines!”

She lunged toward Catherina, but a third woman caught her arm. “Leave her. We all cried at the beginning.”

“I didn’t cry. My mother was like this, and life is like this. I hate these foolish girls!”

A young man’s voice rose from the back: “Elisabetha, shut up. At least she doesn’t scream as loudly as you.”

 

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Catherina covered her head, trying to stifle the sobs that would not stop. She chased the image of that accursed young man out of her mind, but it clung to her memory like a stain—black hair, black eyes, set into the face of a man barely twenty, yet his cruelty and savagery far exceeded his years.

“Just because he’s a gang child—does that mean he can do whatever he wants?!”

Her voice burst out of her suddenly, raw and trembling. The woman beside her, the one who had been trying to soothe her, replied:

“I told you—he’s the nephew of the gang leader. Of course he behaves this way.”

“And even if he were the leader himself… won’t he die and be judged for his crimes like everyone else?!” Elisabetha scoffed, her tone dripping with mockery. “Let your God save you from here first. Then we’ll see what He does after we’re dead.”

A harsh, cutting laughter filled the cell, while Catherina sank deeper into her torment, clinging to the memory of the warm morning she had lived only yesterday. It felt as though a wall of solid stone had risen forever between her and the monastery. She cried out for the life she had lost— until a brutal slap smashed her face against the wall, accompanied by a shriek that nearly split her ears:

 

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“I told you to shut up! Can’t you understand?!” Catherina’s eyes met Elisabetha’s hateful glare. Blood trickled from her nose, the shock hollowed her voice before she could even defend herself. A few burning seconds passed before Elisabetha strutted back to her place in the cell, her steps full of pride, the echo of her high-five with the red-haired boy rang as they shared a mocking grin.

Time seemed frozen in the cellar—each hour identical to the one before and after. Only occasionally, during the day, the voices of weapons-makers echoed as they descended into the large underground chamber to drop off a shipment or collect another. They never spared a glance for the prisoners shoved into the corner, nor remembered that anyone was exiled down here at all.

Three identical days passed, during which Catherina tasted neither sleep nor food. The others, delighted by her misery, took advantage of her silence to seize her share of the meals without even asking. Her portion became nothing more than an extra prize they fought over greedily, mocking her foolishness and leaving her to whisper her prayers whenever they tired of tormenting her.

When the sky darkened on the third day, and its bitterness settled over the cellar, every heart tightened at the sound of the dreaded jailer’s footsteps descending the stairs. As always, they waited, tense, for the name of the night’s victim. Then his coarse voice cracked through the air like thunder: “The crying mutt! Out. He wants you tonight.”

 

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And so, fleeing from fire into flame, the prisoners shoved Catherina’s frail body toward the jailer’s grip with eager hands, jeering at her—especially when she collapsed unconscious the moment she heard her name.

Cold water jolted her awake. She opened her eyes to find the boots of that young “master” standing before her. She trembled, forcing her exhausted body upright. Her hand rose instinctively to smooth her hair before she steadied herself and lifted her gaze slowly. Droplets slid from her drenched hair down her pale, weakened face. The moment her fading eyes met his dark, merciless ones, his shout exploded:

“What is this?! Is this really her? Look how you’ve ruined her— thin and hideous!”

His anger flared hotter. “Why didn’t you feed her?! You’ve ruined my mood, you son of a—”

The jailer stammered, “I… I give her the food, sir, but she—”

The young master cut him off with a thunderous roar. “I don’t want your excuses, you worthless fool! Arthurus—give this idiot twenty lashes. And know this, jailer: this is only the beginning. If I don’t find her looking like a flower in two days…”

Catherina was thrown back into the cell, collapsing in a heap under the bewildered stares of the others. Their mocking laughter stung her spirit like salt on an open wound. But soon they fell silent, listening with vicious delight to the twenty lashes echoing through the cellar, exchanging glances so sharp they

 

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nearly leapt from their eyes.

Hours later, the jailer returned, dragging his feet, biting down on a piece of wood to endure his pain. Everyone froze. Catherina felt her blood turn to ice, her tears drying in her eyes. Without a word, he stormed into the cell, seized her violently, and dragged her into a neighboring one—no less foul or harsh than the first. She lifted her head to find the jailer towering above her, cracking his whip:

“Listen well, you cursed girl. If you don’t eat, I’ll make sure this will be cut by your face.”

Under the jailer’s burning glare and the threat of his merciless whip, Catherina had no choice but to lift the food to her trembling lips. To her heart’s eye, it felt like swallowing fire—food stolen, forced upon her, defiling the purity she had lived by all her life. With every bite, she felt the weight of divine anger pressing upon her.

Three days passed. Catherina was forced to eat again and again until she felt she might burst. Her five cellmates watched from across the bars, mocking her suffering as though it erased their own. Each day, one of them was taken to be tortured by the young master, returning with wounds and destroyed feelings, yet smiling mechanically as if returning from a holiday. The only mercy Catherina found was the solitude of her small cell; safe from their hands. She watched them with pity, tracing crosses in the air for them, unable to understand how a handsome young man and four beautiful girls could come to see

 

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life through the eyes of beasts—mocking anyone who still clung to a shred of humanity, laughing at the very idea that someone might have a right to grieve.

A whisper escaped her stiffened lips: “Will I become like them one day… mocking whoever comes after me?”

Her eyes filled as she murmured:

“Let them laugh. I will resist, even if it kills me… or so I hope.”

Two days later, the jailer came to take Catherina to the young master’s chamber. He led her through the cursed corridors, their luxury nothing but a mask hiding the rot beneath. He shoved her inside and forced her to her knees, standing behind her in tense anticipation, hoping the master would forgive his earlier failure.

The young master approached with arrogant steps, examining her from above, nudging her with his boot. She dared not speak. The stench of wine on his clothes suffocated her, and she longed for the scent of incense from her days of purity.

At last he muttered, his voice thick: “Well… I’ll forgive you this time.”

The jailer kissed his hand and left, relieved. Catherina broke into tears, knowing she would not leave unharmed this time.

The narcissistic young master opened another bottle of wine and tossed it toward her, ordering her to fill his glass while he hurled words at her that sting even more than the smell of that awful drink.

 

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The next day, the jailer dragged Catherina back to the communal cell, cracking his whip as he barked:

“If this _*_ doesn't eat, all of you will be punished!”

Catherina dragged her feet in misery until she reached her corner of the cell, turning her face toward the wall in confusion—should she press her hand to her bleeding skin, wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks, or cover her ears to block out the crude voices echoing through the suffocating cellar.

Months slipped by, each day grinding her down while the savage young master remained unchanged—untouched by mercy, untroubled by conscience. Life’s wheel crushed Catherina without hesitation until her tears dried, and even the others grew tired of mocking her. Reality smothered emotion.

Purity became nothing more than a memory tied to the lost monastery. Kindness turned into a dream she no longer expected to receive. She learned to defend her food, to return Elisabetha’s slaps, and to spit in the face of Jorvoss—the red-haired boy— whenever he cast those vile looks at her. Their sharp laughter became nothing more than the nightly chirping of crickets — annoying, but familiar.

On the other side of her suffering, she began to see the young master for what he truly was: a spoiled, selfish boy, too weak to restrain his impulses. Even the smell of wine—once repulsive— became a scent she recognized without flinching. The jailer became nothing more than a tool, a presence she no longer bothered to look at or read.

 

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Reality ruled over everything—except one thing. Catherina still prayed before she ate and before she slept, despite the chorus of mocking voices. Rescue seemed nowhere on the horizon, yet she clung to her prayers deep within her, embracing them whenever she could, hoping the Lord would turn His gaze away from what she had been forced to endure… and save her someday.

As if all she had suffered were not enough, one day the resentful prisoners waited for the drunken jailer to fall into a stupor and agreed on a vile plan. No matter how Catherina screamed or fought, no one heard her; Five against one…

But reality intervened, the door burst open, and a man rushed down the stairs, his footsteps shaking the cellar as he shouted: “George! Bring me the brown-haired one.”

The five sprang away from her at once, whispering:

“But… it’s not her turn today. Isn’t it too early anyway?”

After more shouting, the drunken jailer finally stirred. Muttering curses, he staggered toward the cell. When he heard Catherina crying, he hurled insults at her, seized her by the hair with a grip like iron, and dragged her as if she were an object rather than a person. She wailed helplessly until he threw her into the young master’s room and slammed the door behind her.

Catherina collapsed to the floor, clutching her scalp—her hair nearly torn out—curling in pain as she sobbed. When her tears

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finally ran dry, she forced herself to stand and look around. The room was empty. Confusion washed over her; he had never left her alone here for this long.

It was just a room with decent wooden furniture—perhaps even beautiful, had it not also been the place of her torment, the chamber where her darkest moments lived. She shook her head, pushing the memories aside, and rushed to the wide-open window. She leaned into it, letting her gaze escape into the vast sky she longed for. The cold mountain wind rushed in, brushing her weary face and playing with her tired hair.

She clasped her hands, praying from the depths of her heart, her voice trembling. But time betrayed her. She heard the door open quietly and close behind her. She stiffened, but did not turn, continuing her whispered prayer as the unsteady footsteps approached.

Just as she braced herself for the worst, the sound of a wooden chair scraping under a collapsing weight struck her ears.

Catherina kept praying—again and again—until the storm inside her began to settle. At last she gathered her nerves and turned slowly to face him, wondering how he had left her untouched and silent for so long. But when she saw him slumped in a deep, twisted sleep on the chair, the heavy scent of wine rising from him like a signature, she exhaled in relief and sank quietly to the floor.

As time passed, she realized he would catch a chill if he remained like this. She bit her lip, rose cautiously, and approached him with hesitant steps. She touched his arm and whispered, her voice

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trembling: “You should get up… it’s cold. You’ll freeze here.”

He opened his bloodshot eyes and lifted his hand to strike her, but she stepped back just in time. His strength failed him; his hand dropped, and his eyelids sagged. He was nearly unconscious, limp as a man without will. She could not understand why he had summoned her in such a state—he had never done anything like this before.

Yes, she could take revenge. She could kill him in silence. Or at the very least, leave him to the cold. She stood there, torn between thoughts.

There he was—the criminal who had shattered her dreams, stolen the light from her eyes, torn her from her family, broken her, wounded her, and still stood between her and safety. Now he lay helpless before her, his life in her hands, with no guard and no witness. Should she do it? Should she end him and free the others?

“Come on, Catherina… he is an enemy of the Lord. Ending him is the least he deserves.”

The voice thundered inside her. She gathered her strength, stepped behind the chair, and gripped his collar with both hands, preparing herself—summoning every memory of what he had done to her. She drew a deep breath that filled her chest.

"Once I’m sure he’s dead.. I’ll throw myself from the window." But at that moment, her mother’s voice reading echoed in her

 

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ears:“But I say to you: Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who mistreat you and persecute you.”

She clenched her teeth and hissed:

“How easy it was for you to read that, Mother! Look at me now… even Christ Himself—if He were in my place— would change His words! But…”

She lowered her head, correcting herself: “What am I saying? Christ faced His enemies, endured them, and never changed His words…”

She swallowed hard.

“And taking my own life… that is a grave sin. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’

‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

She stared at his harsh face, searching for a decision that would satisfy her anger before it satisfied righteousness. “Is there no mercy from God for someone in my state?”

Her hands loosened. Tears welled in her eyes. “Should God make an exception for me… or should I obey Him?” For a minute she held her breath, suffocating under the weight of the choice. Then her fingers slowly released his collar. She closed her eyes and dragged her feet—heavy as iron—toward the window, shutting it. She lit the fireplace, the crackle of burning wood sharpening her tears. After another inner battle, she forced her hands to pull a blanket over him as he remained unconscious on the chair.

She looked at him, boiling with hatred, then turned away sharply

 

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—as if Christ Himself had placed a wall of iron between her and vengeance. She sat down, reciting her prayers through clenched teeth, forcing herself to pray for him, fulfilling the commandment she had understood that night more deeply than ever. And she waited for her fate with dread.

Two hours passed. Then three. Night fell, and he remained sunk in drunken sleep. Someone knocked on the door several times, but left after hearing his unmistakable snoring. Catherina stayed silent, savoring the rare blessing of being outside the filthy cell— sitting safely by the fire, on a comfortable chair, with no guard and no mocking voices ringing in her ears.

The thought of escape tempted her. Her mind spun stories of a happy ending to this impossible adventure. But her fear of pain was far stronger than her desire to open the door. At midnight, the master stirred. He groaned, adjusting his posture, and muttered thickly: “Arthurus… my back… oh, why did you leave me on this chair? Come rub my back.”

Catherina hesitated, then approached him quietly, afraid of provoking him. She began massaging his back with tense hands. Two minutes passed before she felt safe enough to think he hadn’t noticed. But then he murmured: “You know… the wine makes your hands feel like a woman’s.”

Silence fell—strange, heavy. Suspicion crept into him. At last he turned his head. And when he saw Catherina, he jolted upright, shouting without thinking:

“Who are you?!”

 

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“Me? I’m Catherina.”

He drew several sharp breaths, then regained his tone: “What… what are you doing here? Where’s Arthurus?”

“I don’t know. You summoned me yesterday… then you came in and fell asleep immediately.”

He touched his neck quickly, thinking aloud: “She’s been here since midday?!”

He swallowed, looking away. For a moment he seemed lost in thought, rubbing the blanket that covered him between his fingers, unable to hide his confusion. Then he tossed it onto the bed in one abrupt motion and regained the sharpness in his eyes.

“So… you said your name is Catherina?”

She answered with burning bitterness: “Yes. Not ‘the wretch,’ not ‘the mutt,’ not ‘the daughter of—’”

He smirked with a mocking curl of his lips, paused for a moment, then said with cold cruelty:

“I don’t like the name Catherina… it’s dull and ridiculous.”

She whispered under her breath—too softly for him to hear, “And your name hardly suits you either.”

He slapped his hand against his thigh. “Yes. I’ll change your name

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to Kati. From now on, your name is Kati.”

Johannes rose and glanced toward the fireplace. “Listen, Kati, I…”

But instead of finishing the sentence, he exhaled sharply. “I have a splitting headache. I’m going back to sleep.”

He shot her a strange look while holding his head, then lifted his chin and ordered with a dismissive flick of his hand: “Back to the cell, you…

Ah—Arthurus! Arthurus!”

The door swung open almost instantly, Arthurus still half-asleep. Johannes signaled with his eyes, and Arthurus grabbed Catherina by the wrist, dragging her out. She stood frozen, terror flooding back into her veins at the memory of Jorvoss and the others. Arthurus barked:

“Move, you—what’s wrong with you?!”

She whispered in despair, her face drained of color. “No, they’ll attack me, no, no…”

Arthurus released her to fetch the whip.She cried out, pleading: "Please, Johannes… that wretch in the cell won’t leave me alone”

Johannes lifted his weary eyes, yawning, and muttered in broken words:

“How… dare you… call me by my name…?"

He stared at her with dull irritation just as the crack of the whip

 

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echoed through the room and Arthurus shouted: “Move, you—!”

And so Catherina returned to the cell, defeated, the rare chance slipping through her fingers. But at least the “crickets” asleep— huddled together—for warmth in the freezing air.

She tiptoed to her corner, leaned against the cold wall, and tried to summon sleep with the memory of the fireplace and the crackling wood.

But of course, she couldn’t sleep—not with the cold gnawing at her bones. Her mind churned through everything that had happened: her decision, the commandments, Christ’s endurance to the very end… and Johannes—his strange look, his obvious confusion. She had never seen him sober before. She hadn’t noticed it at the time, but the fact that he had thought about what to name her… that alone was something worth noticing.

She thought and thought, her teeth chattering and chattering, until dawn broke and the precious silence ended. Jorvoss glared at her with a tyrant’s grin:

“You escaped us yesterday, but not today. Just wait.”

He winked, while the women resumed their cycle of mockery. After breakfast, everyone watched eagerly for the jailer to start drinking—everyone except Catherina, who swallowed hard, hugging her trembling body, praying helplessly.

Hours passed. The weapons-makers left. The bottle clinked onto

 

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the table. The jailer sat, drinking as usual. But the routine shattered when heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the stairs. The jailer forced himself upright, rubbing his eyes—then suddenly snapped to attention.

“Welcome, sir! You only had to call me as usual!”

By the lantern’s glow, Johannes cast a sharp look toward the cell and said in a commanding tone:

“Why did you put that son of a— with my girls?”

The jailer stammered, “It’s easier for me when—” Johannes cut him off. “Fifty lashes. Then move him. And don’t you dare put him with them again.”

He left immediately. The jailer scratched his head, grumbling as he dragged Jorvoss away:

“Which one of you told him, you—?”

Everyone turned toward Catherina without hesitation. The jailer growled:

“You cursed face… ever since you came, you’ve brought me nothing but trouble. You’ll see if I don’t get back at you.”

Jorvoss muttered, “I’d forget that if I were you… looks like she’s the one who’ll get back at us.”

The jailer snapped, “Who asked for your advice, you—?!”

And indeed, Jorvoss was whipped and thrown into the other cell. The women winced at his pain and glared at Catherina, whispering curses. She didn’t know whether to rejoice or cry.

 

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What had just happened pointed straight back to last night. She whispered in disbelief: “He did something for me… he actually did something for me…”

She spent hours wrestling with her thoughts—doubting, believing, doubting again—until the door burst open and Arthurus’s harsh voice thundered from the stairs: “Bring the brown-haired one!”

The women gasped in fury. Catherina swallowed hard, rose, and walked with empty eyes down the only path she knew. She entered the warm room to find Johannes sitting on the window ledge, sipping his wine with smug confidence. She waited for his signal. After a moment, he pointed to another glass on the table. “So… Kati or Catherina?”

He smiled slyly. She answered, “I was baptized Catherina, but my mother calls me Kati.”

He chuckled lightly. “Alright then, Kati. Come sit here.”

She sat beside him on the window ledge. He stared into her eyes for several seconds until she looked away in embarrassment. His lips moved with a piercing gaze:

“You hate me.”

She whispered, hesitant, “Do you expect me to bless you?”

He stretched his legs out, leaning back with a broad grin. “But you took care of me last night—without anyone forcing you.”

 

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She inhaled deeply, gripping her glass. “Yes. Out of obedience to The Lord’s commandments, nothing more.” "Who do you mean by lord?"

She replied in confusion "Of course, God" “You said ‘God’? What is God?”

Catherina lowered her eyes, her face flushing, trying to shield her heart from the mockery she expected. Johannes raised his brows. “Why don’t you answer? What or Who is God? I heard you say it —‘God.’ Did I hear wrong?”

She lifted her eyes, checking whether he was mocking her. He snapped impatiently:

“What’s with that empty stare? Are you going to speak or—?” Confusion washed over her features as she whispered, voice trembling:

“You truly live without knowing God? The Redeemer?!” He paused, studying her words, then said: “Well, I’m not one of the animals.”

Her face flushed again, swelling with indignation. Johannes quickly added:

“No! I mean—I’m not one of the… the… what do they call them?” He looked upward, trying to recall. She asked with a feeling of insult: “You mean the villagers?”

His face lit up. He raised his glass.

“Ah, yes. We don’t use that word. We say animals, or sheep, or… whatever.”

She pressed again, “So you truly don’t know who God is?” He narrowed his eyes.

 

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“From the way you speak… He sounds like a person?"

Catherina’s smile blossomed from the depths of her heart; at last —after months—someone was speaking to her about the Lord without mockery. Her eyes regained their lost shine as she answered:

“God is our heavenly Father—the One who created us all in His image…”

“Created us? What does that even mean?” He burst into laughter. “Am I the only one here who actually has parents?!”

She ignored his laughter and replied with calm firmness: “Yes, He created us. As for my parents… well, how could they have created me when they themselves were surprised by my features the moment I was born?”

He raised a brow and teased, “Surprised?” But she continued, delighted to explain: “Yes. They didn’t know what I would look like. They waited for the Lord’s will with patience and faith.”

He chuckled slyly. “Seems the Lord disappointed them in the end!”

Then, with exaggerated gestures, “So was there someone inside her belly crafting you—this ‘God’ of yours?” She shot back, defensive; “Johannes, He isn’t a person like you and me!”

“Like who, then?”

She paused, thinking, then answered:

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“Like no one He created. He is in heaven, yet by His knowledge and presence He is with us—here, now, and in every time and place.”

He glanced toward the sky. “I don’t see Him here. Not even up there.”

She placed her hand gently over her heart. “No eye can behold Him. But you can feel His presence here— through the eyes of faith.”

He struck his chest with a fist. “I don’t feel anything either. Why doesn’t He show Himself so we can see Him and speak to Him?” She looked at him with innocent eyes, spreading her arms as she explained:

“Because His majesty is too great for our mortal sight to bear. If He revealed Himself, we would melt away under the awe of His holiness.”

Johannes exploded into laughter—loud, unrestrained—then wiped his eyes and finally said:

“You actually believe what you’re saying?!” She swallowed her irritation. “Of course. And from experience.”

He rubbed his flushed face. “And what experience is that? Tell me, so I can try it myself.”

“Whenever I pray and call upon Him, I feel Him near me— listening. And I feel peace filling my soul.”

“I can’t see your fantasies. I want something I can witness myself —touch myself!”

He rubbed his fingers together while she glanced at the chair he

 

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had slept on the night before. Then she said: “Last night, I prayed for a long time while you slept. I asked the Father again and again that He—”

He shifted uncomfortably, rolling his eyes: “Don’t tell me you think your ‘Father’ is the reason I’m talking to you now. If that’s the case, I might as well believe He created you and used your parents to raise you… for my amusement!”

Catherina flushed with embarrassment while Johannes burst into laughter.

“Incredible how naïve you are! Listen—I’m talking to you because I was Bored. And I drank all day yesterday because I was Bored. That’s all!”

Disbelief flared across her face and voice. “Bored?! But You Do Whatever you want—Absolutely Anything!” He tapped his fingers on his glass, then after a moment said:

“And that’s exactly why I’m bored. I’m always looking for something new. That’s why I spoke to you today. But never mind—mocking your silly ideas has improved my mood.”

Catherina fell silent, disappointment weighing on her. Johannes added: “You seem to love this subject quite a lot.”

Her voice cracked as she wiped her eyes and said: “Of course I do. I dedicated my life to serving the Kingdom… until you came—violating the sanctity of my vow and shattering my dreams with your greed.”

Johannes’s face lit up with wicked delight.

 

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“Oh? I shattered them, did I? What wonderful news—worthy of celebration!

Raise your glass! Let’s drink to saving you from such nonsense!”

Catherina shot to her feet and slammed her glass onto the table. “Do whatever you want—just let me go. I don’t want to speak to you!

You may enslave my body, but you will never own my soul!”

He sipped his wine coolly, then lifted his chin with arrogant command:

“If you don’t celebrate with me in three seconds, you’ll see exactly how I’ll make you join your broken dreams.”

A shiver ran through her at the sharpness of his tone. She could already feel the lash burning across her skin. She swallowed her fear, sat back down, and tapped her trembling glass against his. He smirked:“See? Power gives me the right to own anything in you.

Very well—I’ll be generous and ignore what you said… this time only.”

He drank with satisfaction, then added in a calmer voice: “And that black outfit you used to wear… I thought you were a man at first.”

She inhaled sharply before replying, “It’s the habit of the nuns.”

“Nuns? What's the—?”

“They are women who devote their lives to worshiping the Lord in the monastery—far from the filth and evil of the world.”

 

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“Hmm… the monastery… is that the building with the wooden thing the crows perch on?”

She stared at him in disgust.

“It’s called a cross! The symbol of the Redeemer!” He grinned stupidly. “I don’t see anyone crucified on it. Does your Lord enjoy that method of killing?”

She exhaled angrily. “No. It’s the symbol of the cross on which the Son of God was crucified to redeem humanity!”

His eyes widened. “God has a son too?! Didn’t you say He isn’t a person like you and me?”

“Yes—His Son is the Word made flesh, who came down to us with the message from the Father!”

He leaned forward, shouting: “What?! Imagine my father sending me to the village dressed like… like those villagers… to tell them something, then watching like an idiot while they crucify me!”

He burst into mocking laughter. “No sane man would do that! And did the son die after the crucifixion?” She hesitated, wishing she didn’t have to answer, but forced the words out: “Yes. But He conquered death by rising on the third day.”

“Really? And where is He now?”

She answered curtly, hoping he’d drop the subject: “He ascended into heaven, and He will return one day to judge the living and the dead.”

But he continued carelessly: “And the nuns wait for Him in the monastery? They put the cross up high so He knows where His

 

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followers are and comes down to them?”

Catherina was stunned by the absurdity of his thoughts. He went on: “You’d think the Father would warn His son beforehand instead of letting Him get nailed like that. The Father is everywhere—He should know everything.

Meanwhile the poor son loses all his father’s powers and becomes human like us—so human they crucified him. If my father did that to me, I’d hate him and seek revenge!”

“You don’t understand the mystery of the Incarnation! The Son came by His own will. He healed the sick and raised the dead with miracles—yet He accepted suffering for our sake!”

He leaned in so close their faces nearly touched, whispering: “But He was flesh and bone—not everywhere, and He didn’t create every human like His Father, right?”

She recoiled from his gaze as he continued, now with a strange seriousness:

“Look—even though I’m strong, no one in our gang asks me for anything. They all go to my uncle, the leader. He’s the one with all the power—not just a part of it like me.”

Confused by his gaze, her hand reached out to search for the cross that was usually around her neck, as he added: “So it occurred to me to advise you to rely on the Lord and not on his son. Understand?”

Catherina answered helplessly: “The Father and the Son are one —of the same eternal essence…”

 

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But Johannes didn’t bother listening. He stood and said: “Now I understand why you people never get bored—you invent these wild stories about a king and a prince dying for their servants, just to comfort yourselves in your misery. Ha! Even I enjoyed this amusing tale!”

He stretched and called out: “Arthurus! Take her.” Arthurus glanced at her and found her staring into her glass. “That was quick. Did it upset you?”

He yawned. “No… I just don’t feel like anything.” Arthurus asked as he approached, “Maybe you’re ill. Should I fetch a doctor?”

Johannes replied dully, “No. I’m fine.”

Catherina took a few steps toward the door, then suddenly turned back, her voice ringing with unexpected strength: “You’re bored because you live in a Cage of Your Own Sins! You have everything—but your soul is Shackled in Chains.”

He shot her a sharp, mocking look.

“I Am the one living in a cage and chains?! From where I’m standing, You Are the one in a Cage—and here you are, going right back to it!”

Arthurus shoved Catherina harshly and dragged her out, slamming the door behind them. Johannes exhaled, murmuring under his breath:

“So even she sensed it.. the whole world is my cage, and I’m losing my mind…”

 

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Catherina returned to the cellar, where every gaze struck her like a slap. They had all caught the strong scent of wine clinging to her. Jealousy burned openly on the faces of the shivering women —eyes full of hatred, ready to tear her apart now that she was receiving what none of them could reach.

But Catherina… she was living in another world entirely.

 

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