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

Chapter Six:

The Atheist Turns Christian

 

As is the way of things, good days hurry toward their end, making room for their opposites to take hold. Despite the agonizing pain Johannes still endured, he bid farewell to his respite with clinging eyes, rising from his bed before the driver. He dragged his weary body toward the mine, submissive to Jonathas’s decree.

Upon arrival, he froze in shock. "What is this? Faces I don't recognize!"

"That's right," the driver replied. "We replaced them all. The Leader decided to 'reorganize' things after what happened." Johannes’s eyes went wide. "And where did the others go?" his voice trembled with shock.

"They worked without food until they collapsed, and then we threw them to the beasts."

"But many of them fought the attackers!" Johannes cried out, his voice cracking. "They saved me in the hope that—" The words died in his throat. The driver placed a hand on his shoulder. "That was their duty. You should have told us from the start that you had enemies; we would have used the others to keep them in line."

Johannes bowed his head, his features hardening behind a mask of grim silence as the driver’s hand nudged him toward the labor. His soul was a battlefield: on one side, the lash of the drivers taming the new slaves; on the other, the ghosts of his departed

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companions who had left the world with hollow bellies and extinguished hopes.

The roar of the coal could not drown out the memory of Isabelle’s scream—the scream that had saved him. It echoed in his depths like a boulder crashing down a ravine. The final image of his old life sat in his memory like a festering wound, searing him with the heat of betrayal every time he drew breath. He moved through his day as if swallowing gall, his body broken by toil and his spirit slaughtered, finding no path to escape.

Exhausted by the grueling day, Johannes sat in the darkness, sighing as he held his sandwich. He watched the movements of the new captives with sad curiosity. He was struck by how three of them were dividing the food among the group fairly. No one fought; no one showed resentment toward their peers. Their only bitterness was directed at their captors.

It was clear they had been snatched from their villages only days ago; their peasant clothes still held their shape, though they were beginning to fray under the bite of the lash. Their hushed talk was the beginning of the despair that comes when one realizes the true nature of their prison.

He was still staring at his sandwich—the key to his previous social standing—when a desperate whisper drifted into his thoughts. He turned to see a mother in the gloom, clutching two boys who were weeping and writhing with hunger. In a moment of uncharacteristic selflessness, driven by a need to escape his own isolation, Johannes held out his sandwich. "Perhaps this will help

 

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you," he offered.

The mother’s face seemed to light up. She grabbed his hand and kissed it with joy. "You are a good young man. It is in these trials that the true metal of a person is revealed!"

She took a bite, then split the rest in half for the boys. They cheered as if the tears had never touched their cheeks. The eldest, sharp-eyed, nudged her. "I knew you were hiding food, Mother! I knew it!"

"No, my son," she said. "This kind young man here gave it to us. Go on, hug him and thank him!"

The boys rushed to give Johannes a warm, genuine embrace before dancing away to devour the bread. Johannes laughed at the sight, trying to suppress the swell of emotion in his heart. For the first time in his life, he had given something away without expecting a return or offering an insult.

Suddenly, a heavy silence fell over the pen as a man stood up to address the crowd.

"Beloved of Christ, my brothers and sisters," he began, his voice resonant. "Know that the darkness surrounding you is not the final word. Christ himself walked the path of pain before us, and he transformed the cross from an instrument of torture into a gateway to life. You are helpless today, but no one can enslave your hearts if they cling to hope."

"Do not look at your wounds as punishment, but as the means by which the Savior purifies your souls and strengthens your faith. As

 

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gold is refined in the fire, so are your spirits refined in this trial. Every tear you shed is kept by the Lord, and every sigh becomes a prayer rising to the heavens."

"Remember that Christ said: 'In the world you will have tribulation, but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.' You are not alone; you are partners in his suffering, and partners also in his coming glory..."

Johannes listened, mesmerized. It was the first time he had experienced such an atmosphere or heard a sermon like this. Finally, the man said: "Let us cry out to the Father from the depths of our hearts, and turn away from evil and vice in this darkness, that God may answer our groaning and turn our sorrows into hope."

In an instant, the crowd was submerged in a sea of reverence. Murmurs of supplication rose, mingled with the sounds of honest weeping. Johannes was the lone, silent witness. He was torn by the memory of Catherina and her prayers—prayers he had never given the slightest thought to, viewing her faith as nothing more than a fairy tale.

But seeing this diverse crowd, bound by nothing but this shared belief, planted a question in his soul he had never known before.

After a while, the mother finished her prayer and turned to Johannes. "I didn't hear you praying with us?"

"I'm not a Christian," Johannes replied. "You're not... what?! Are you a Jew?"

"A Jew? What's that?"

 

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She looked puzzled. "What do you mean, 'what's that'? A Jew, of Judaism!"

"I don't know it. Another story?" Johannes asked. "What do they believe in?"

"They don't believe in Christ, but they believe in the Lord."

"That," Johannes murmured, "is very interesting."

She exhaled sharply, her voice thick with indignation. "And why? Why do you harbor such a specific dislike for Christ?"

"I don't know him," Johannes replied bluntly. "But regardless of who he was, I cannot believe he is the son of the Lord."

"That is a pity," she said, her tone softening with a touch of condescension. "I saw a kindness in you and hoped you would be among those Christ redeems." She paused, narrowing her eyes. "But who are you, then, if you are neither Christian nor Jew?"

"I simply believe in a Sovereign Lord. I try to reach out to Him; I feel Him with my heart. I don't know what you call that state."

The woman traced a sign of the cross in the air near him and murmured, "I pray the Lord guides you." Johannes shot her a sharp look. "If I were Christ, I would hate you all!"

She recoiled, visibly offended. "May Christ forgive you! Why would you say such a thing?"

"Because you broadcast the most hideous moments of his life constantly. Do you have any idea what a man looks like when he is crucified?"

"Of course," she snapped. "We see them at executions, and we

 

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have the icons in the church."

"Yes, and it’s far too grotesque for anyone to take as a symbol— unless they were fueled by spite."

Her voice rose to a shrill pitch.

"Jesus! No! You suffer from a profound misunderstanding. We do not love the moment of his crucifixion for its own sake; we hold it as a symbol to remind us of his sacrifice for our sakes. Did you not just hear the Deacon say, 'The cross was transformed from an instrument of torture into a gateway to life'? We learn from him how to turn pain into joy with the Lord!"

Johannes yawned, abruptly changing the subject. "Why are the women huddling over there?"

"To stay as far from the men as possible."

"Everyone here is strange," he remarked with his usual bluntness. "This is the most bizarre night of my life." He turned to her with a casual suggestion: "Will you sleep with me?" She erupted like a sudden storm. "How dare you speak to me like that? Is this why you gave me the sandwich, you... you animal?!"

Johannes shrank back, startled by her ferocity. "No. You could have just refused without all the shouting."

"Are you even sane? Go find someone like yourself!"

The woman grabbed her two children and hurried away toward the cluster of women, leaving Johannes in a state of bewilderment. He truly didn't understand why she was so angry. As he lay down, he muttered to himself, "I'm starting to wish I

 

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could ask Jonathas why he hid this world from me, even though he knew it existed."

He stared upward, his mind drifting. Christ sacrificed himself for them... but why would he need to sacrifice anything if his Father can do all things? He sat up suddenly, a thought striking him. I wonder, did Christ anger his Father the way I angered mine? On the other hand, Catherina should really wear a symbol representing my sacrifice for her instead of that cross!

He let out a dry laugh. But she’ll keep sanctifying the cross. She’s probably become a nun by now. I wonder if the child has been born yet, or if the pregnancy even survived. I hope she didn't end her life over the thought that she killed that maid, or lose her mind.

He stood up and stretched. "I’ll never know. Regardless, I’ll pray too."

He stood to direct his heart, but his tone was dejected, his hunger finally gnawing at his resolve. "O Most Powerful, You didn't even protect me while I was praying. I know I am a wretch and I don't matter to You, but give me a sign of Your existence. Don't let me feel like I'm just a madman."

Johannes slept alone that first night, simmering with resentment at the village women who had rejected and insulted him so violently. He found himself pining for his lost authority, wishing he could show them exactly what they had lost by spurning him. He thought back with a heavy heart to how Isabelle, Alisia, and the others used to fight over him, and he grew bitter toward

 

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Jonathas, whose indifference had made a bad situation intolerable.

The hardships intensified the next day. Johannes felt as though his head might split from a mounting migraine. He spent the entire day working to the rhythm of cracking whips, the screams of women, and the endless wailing of children. The drivers were in a foul temper, meting out double punishments for the slightest errors—kicking, insulting, and cursing. He realized, with a shock, that the "tamed" slaves of the past had been a blessing he hadn't appreciated. When the shift finally ended, he stood at the back of the line to the pen. He snatched his sandwich from the driver with a visible flash of anger.

"It was a hard day," the driver muttered. "When one new slave arrives, we worry until they're broken in. But forty at once? It's chaos."

"My head feels like a drum," Johannes snapped. "At least you get to sleep somewhere quiet."

"Is there no hope of you returning to your place soon?" the driver asked. "We're all waiting for it, quite impatiently." Johannes sighed and took a few steps before the driver added, "Is everything alright in there? Stay close to the door, so you can call us if any trouble starts."

Johannes scanned the place as the sound of weeping died down. He watched them divide the food fairly again, and suddenly found them pressing a portion into his hand as well. He added it to the sandwich in the pocket of his new tunic.

 

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As he went to find a spot, he felt fingers on his shoulder. He turned to see the shadow of a man behind him. "May I speak with you a moment?"

Johannes frowned. "Are you the one who was talking about Christ yesterday? I recognize the voice."

"Yes. I am a deacon in the Church of the Virgin..."

"What do you want with me?" Johannes interrupted irritably.

"To be honest, I had a strange dream last night about a young man among us here. He was the son of a leader... someone important. A voice in the dream told me this young man has vital religious questions."

Johannes’s throat went dry. He froze for a heartbeat before averting his gaze. "Sweet dreams."

He turned to leave, but the deacon caught his shoulder. "Wait. The drivers avoid you, and I just heard you speaking to one of them quite familiarly. I am certain the vision meant you." His voice dropped to a whisper as he shrugged."Though I cannot fathom why an important person would be performing hard labor and sleeping in a stench like this."

Johannes looked down as the deacon continued, "Do you have a religious dilemma? Or do you need help...?" Johannes exploded. "Isn't it enough, everything I'm suffering?! Now I can't even sleep with a filthy woman?! And all because of your Christ and your... your religion!"

The deacon placed a steadying hand on Johannes’s shoulder.

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"Easy, easy, my brother!"

"How can I be 'easy' when I'm here with more than fifteen women and I can't get near one of them without her screaming in my face?!"

The deacon placed his other hand on Johannes's shoulder, his voice calming. "I understand your problem. Come, let us sit and talk."

Johannes sat devouring his sandwich with a scowl, while the Deacon sat beside him, taking a slow breath. "I understand your anger," the Deacon said, "for I am a man just like you. But look—a woman also has the right to be dignified, to have her own sacred space where she only admits the one who honors her."

"That is the very problem you people created when you started distributing the food fairly!" Johannes snapped. The Deacon looked shocked. "Is distributing food fairly a problem now?"

"Yes! Before, the men had something to entice the women with. Because of that, everything was fine."

"What do you mean 'before'?" the Deacon asked. "Everyone here was kidnapped only days ago and—"

Johannes cut him off, his words sharp and fast. "There were thirty-seven here before you, and they were all killed. I am the only one who..." He trailed off, a lump forming in his throat.

"K-k-killed?" the Deacon stammered, horrified. He steadied

 

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himself and asked, "And were those women happy? Or were they forced?"

"Hap—or let’s say, they were content."

"Content?" the Deacon countered. "The same way we are 'content' to take a handful of food in exchange for a full day of misery?"

A cynical smile flickered across Johannes's angry face. The Deacon continued: "Justice is taking responsibility for the woman you desire—providing for her, protecting her, and bearing the burden of a child if one comes. That is how the Lord is pleased with the purity of the bed."

"Don't hide behind the Lord," Johannes growled. "He is the one who made her weak, and He is the one who made me crave her whether I want to or not. Guess what the result is after this 'arrangement'?"

The Deacon paused. "You have sharp teeth made for biting, don't you? So, do you bite everything you see, or do you choose?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Johannes asked, repulsed.

The Deacon touched Johannes’s hand. "It is the same. You have the power to do with any woman, but you must choose and limit yourself, so as not to harm yourself or those around you. To use your need as an excuse to exploit the weakness of women is exactly what the master of this place does by exploiting our weakness. Do you believe he is not in the wrong?"

When Johannes remained silent, the Deacon added: "By the way,

 

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for your wife to believe you are her only man is a psychological pleasure in itself—and the same for your children. You were created strong to be the pillar of a family!"

A memory flashed in Johannes's mind—how Catherina used to shrink away from anyone but him. He realized then that he had savored being considered her man; it had made it easy for him to sacrifice everything to save her.

The Deacon added, "How can we expect the Lord to look upon us with mercy and redeem us from this tyrant, if we ourselves oppress those who are weaker than us? We must be just even in our pleas to the Lord; like the two plates of a scale!"

The Deacon balanced his palms in the air. Johannes let out a faint whisper. "Justice... a word I never heard except in Jonathas’s mockery."

"Your name is Jonathas?"

"No, I am Johannes. Fine—if the Lord loves justice as you say, why did He make animals prey on each other? Why the law of the jungle?"

"There is justice even in that," the Deacon explained calmly. "Just as animals prey on others, they are preyed upon. They live in the same danger they pose to others.

Moreover, without predation, the carcasses of animals that multiply every day would be scattered everywhere. I don’t think I need to explain what would happen to life then."

Johannes replied dismissively, "The same applies to humans; any of us may conquer or be conquered."

 

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The Deacon turned his head to process the thought, then turned back. "How do you feel about the master of this place, who enforces that law of the jungle?"

Johannes let out a sigh heavy with sorrow. The Deacon smiled. "That is why the Lord established justice—because He does not want you to have to heave that sigh!" Johannes shifted his position, narrowing his eyes at the man. "If this were truly His will, He wouldn't have let people break it."

"And if the Lord forced people to carry out His will, Where will their love for Christ be tested?"

Johannes waved his hand dismissively. "God doesn't need to test us. He knows everything about us."

"But we do not know ourselves. We need a reason for our destiny. Imagine if you opened your eyes to find yourself in Hell for no reason. How would you feel?"

"Exactly how I feel now," Johannes said. "I was born without a will of my own."

Suddenly, Johannes was jolted as a small creature rushed toward him and huddled between his legs. To his surprise, the child’s sob broke through, barely intelligible: "Food... give me food... please." Johannes recognized him; it was the same boy he had fed the day before. The child clung to his legs, begging with a heart-wrenching voice. But Johannes’s resentment toward the boy’s mother bubbled up in his mind. He kicked the child away. "Get away from me! You won't get my food unless there's something in return."

 

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The child curled into himself and replied innocently, "But I have nothing to give you, Uncle."

"Oh, there is something..." Johannes began with malice, but the Deacon lunged like a hawk, pulling the child away and pressing his own portion of food into the boy's hand. "Take this. Don't ever ask this man again, my son."

The moment the food touched the boy’s hand, he let out a joyful laugh, hugged the Deacon gratefully, and ran back to his mother. Johannes’s furious voice followed him: "What business is it of yours, you—!"

The Deacon’s voice didn't waver. "There. You chose evil. You are not as 'will-less' as you claim. You just failed your test. Your selfishness is no different from the selfishness of the master of this place."

Johannes let out a diabolical laugh, relishing the Deacon's shock before saying with bared teeth, "Well said. He is my father, and I am proud!"

The Deacon recoiled, the words dying in his throat. He shook his head in disgust. "I understand he is your father... but to be proud of him? At least not while you are down here!"

Johannes finished the rest of his sandwich and shrugged. "Actually... he is my father, and I am not proud." He stood up as the Deacon called after him: "Remember, the Lord gives you time because you are in a trial. But when it ends..."

Johannes lingered for a moment, listening, then walked away.

 

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When he stood to pray as was his custom, he found he couldn't direct his heart to the Lord this time. The Deacon’s words buzzed in his mind like a live wasp.

He shook his head and whispered in a rage: "Who said the Lord wanted me to feed the boy anyway? Maybe the Lord loves the law of the jungle. Maybe He delights in His own power when He sees the weak suffer."

He abandoned his prayer in a fit of pique. I have enough of Jonathas delighting in my suffering, he thought. He lay down to sleep, grinding his teeth, tossing and turning in a sharp, bitter mood.

The echo of his soul cried out: I am alone in this world. They are all my enemies. No one even cares how I feel.

Johannes began the next day with a shattered spirit, consumed by the feeling of being an outcast. Things grew worse when the handle of his coal bucket snapped. He fell, and the heavy coal stones crashed onto his feet. He screamed, writhing on the ground and cursing in a fit of peak rage.

He clutched his foot, trying to check for broken bones, when he was startled by the crack of a driver’s whip nearby. Johannes snarled at him, "Get away from here! Don't you see what happened to me?!"

The driver, breathing heavily, replied, "That's not how I work. Get up, or else!"

Johannes bit his lip and tried to rise, but a bolt of agony shot

 

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through his foot. He doubled over on the ground, gasping. But the grace period was over, and the whip rained down on him without mercy. He endured it, then growled, "Stop! You’ll regret it if you don't stop!"

The driver raised his lash again. "I cannot show you leniency."

"Go and call your head.. I’ll speak to him."

"I can't leave my post. Isn't it easier just to stand up?"

"I think I broke my leg and—"

"Not my concern. Tell the Leader about it."

The whip began to fall like rain again. Johannes collapsed under the weight of the torture, curling into a ball to minimize the damage, his leg having failed him. Minutes felt like years as he swallowed the bitterness of humiliation. Finally, the driver stopped, shouting, "I’ll give you a chance. I’ll be back."

Johannes lifted his head, tears of pain blurring his vision, trying to extinguish the burning fire across his back. He wiped them away and tried to stand before the driver returned, but the pain in his foot was so electric he didn't dare try again.

He spent the time gathering the scattered coal back into the bucket, then knelt, battling the pain and watching for the driver. He looked up at the window of his old room, dreaming of his bed, until his tears blurred his sight again. Until when? Is there no end to your wrath, Father?

He leaned his hands into the dirt and sobbed, knowing that a broken foot was a death sentence here. He seized a moment of

 

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quiet as he watched the driver striking someone else on his way back. Panic shrieked in his heart.

He turned his eyes to the sky, then cast himself down in prostration:

"Please... help me this once, and I will stop defiling Your creation. I swear by everything dear to me... save me!"

The executioner arrived with a low, predatory growl. "I gave you a long enough grace period," he spat, his voice rasping like gravel. "Why haven't you stood up? You’re forcing my hand, sir. You’re making me hurt you."

Johannes swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat catching. He reached out an arm, not in plea, but in a grim command. "Pull me up. Perhaps if I can just stand, I can limp my way through it." The giant hesitated, a flicker of something crossing his face before he hauled Johannes to his feet. Johannes swayed, putting his weight on his good leg.

"See?" the executioner remarked. "The rot is in your head, not your foot!"

Johannes fixed him with a stare of cold, concentrated venom. "Remember this moment," he whispered, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Because I will make you pay for it. Dearly."

The executioner’s bravado faltered. The color drained from his cheeks as he hurried to retrieve the bowl, handing it over with a hurried, stuttering apology. "It isn't personal, sir. If I bend the rules, it’s my neck on the line."

 

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Johannes scorched him with a look, his fingers gripping the bowl —its handle snapped and jagged—like a weapon. Then came the moment of reckoning. He took a tentative step. Expecting the lightning bolt of agony that had previously crippled him, he was met instead with a jarring silence from his nerves. He took a second step, then a third.

A bewildered sense of wonder washed over him; he almost refused to believe his own senses. As the executioner called out a question behind him, Johannes simply looked toward the heavens in wordless gratitude and walked on.

In the hours that followed, something in Johannes shifted. The questions of the divine began to gnaw at him with a new urgency. He sought out the Deacon, eventually finding him huddled in a dark corner, his silhouette writhing in the throes of some internal misery. Johannes steadied his nerves and sat.

"Why is it," Johannes began without preamble, "that you believe God favors weakness over strength?" The Deacon bristled, his defense sharp despite his frailty. "Compassion and mercy are the true marks of strength, Johannes! They are not weaknesses."

Johannes gave a stubborn, cynical smile. "No. The strong man does as He wills. He does not bow to the whims of others."

The Deacon’s moaning ceased for a heartbeat. He turned hollow, sunken eyes toward Johannes. "It is quite the opposite. Mercy is

 

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the zenith of power. No one can truly give unless they possess a surplus—a strength that overflows their own need."

Johannes scratched his chin, grappling with the weight of the man’s words. "Fine. You have a point there."

"And that," the Deacon wheezed, "is why God can give to us all; because He is the Mightiest. If He loved tyranny and brute force, would He not have fashioned us into creatures of malice? Would He not have left us in perpetual, mangled agony?"

Johannes sat bolt upright, his eyes widening. "You’re right! How did I miss that?" He paused, adding in a low, shamed hiss to himself: "My mistake was that I defined 'strength' by the likes of Jonathas."

Suddenly, a fresh wave of hunger tore through the Deacon. He collapsed, writhing in a losing battle for self-control. Johannes felt a pang of guilt; he could almost smell the phantom scent of roasting meat lingering in his mouth. "What is your labor here?" Johannes asked urgently. "Do you dig, haul, or pull?"

"I... I pull..." the man gasped.

"Listen. Tomorrow morning, meet me when I load the coal into the wagons. I’ll slide some food to you."

"May... Christ... bless you," the Deacon managed.

Johannes’s face darkened with irritation. "I want God to bless me, not Christ!"

The Deacon, clutching his stomach, whispered through the pain, "Can the sun bless you without its rays? Christ is the spoken Word of God in our world."

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{{ If you are not interested in the details of the religious debate, Go to the end of the bracelets (((

"Enough of that," Johannes countered, his voice ringing with confidence. "Am I the same as my father? Right now, my father is drinking himself into a stupor with harlots, while I sit here, soothing an empty belly and looking for the least filthy patch of dirt to sleep on. Can you say he and I are one? We share a face, and I carry his name—Vilmos—but we are worlds apart."

The Deacon sharpened his fading voice. "You don't understand. It isn't a physical union like a human father and son; it is a union of Divine Essence. When God desired to show His love for mankind, He sent Christ—His Second Person—to inhabit their frailty and save them. To see Christ is to see God."

Johannes gestured wildly to his own chest. "And when you look at me now, you see my father! We share the same essence of a gangster. Does that make us one? He is the most powerful man in this mountain, and I am the lowest. How can you call us one?"

The Deacon traced a faint cross in the air. "A King puts on the rags of a beggar to visit his subjects in prison. Does his poverty negate his crown? God wore your helplessness to share your pain, not to lose His majesty."

"Look at me!" Johannes cried, gesturing to his soot-stained skin and his miserable surroundings. "Do I look majestic to you? Does my presence here, starving alongside you, make your hunger any

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less biting?

A powerful, loving King should enrich the poor, not become just another mouth to feed!"

"No!" the Deacon cried out. "A King who only gives gold remains a stranger. But the King who loves the poor so much that he hungers with them becomes their brother. Christ did not come to abolish poverty; He came to give you a dignity that hunger cannot break."

Johannes folded his arms, his resolve hardening like iron. "As for me, I would rather kneel at my Father’s feet and receive strength and plenty, than writhe in the dirt alongside him as we both starve."

He leaned in toward the Deacon, his voice a low, burning vow. "The Strong One who shares His power with me out of love—that is the God I am looking for."

Johannes tightened his fist, his voice thick with defiance. "No man bound by hunger and need like me could ever be my Lord. This cannot be the God who created me—if that were so, then my mother and father would be more deserving of that station!"

The Deacon leaned in, his explanation surging with renewed fervor. "No, Johannes. Christ was no ordinary man like your parents. He is as light emanating from fire. The Lord is 'Father' because He is the wellspring of love, and Christ is 'Son' because He is the embodied image of that love."

 

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He gently patted Johannes’s back, his tone softening. "Your trouble is that you view the world through the narrow lens of power and self-interest ; you do not yet grasp the ecstasy of infinite love."

Johannes shifted his weight, a sudden, sharp movement of his foot betraying his inner tension. When he spoke, his words were heavy with realization. "On the contrary. Today, I realized the true value of being loved by the powerful. And because of that, I thirst for more of His love..."

"Beautiful!" the Deacon exclaimed. "You have confessed your thirst; now you must turn to the Source. Christ used His power to drench us in His love—raising the dead, healing the sick, silencing the storm, walking upon the waves..."

Johannes turned away, his voice grating with irritation. "He has not raised me, nor healed me, and I have never seen him walk on water. I haven't even seen his face.

On what basis should I worship him? There isn't a single shred of proof that he even existed—how do I know he isn't just a story conjured by a deceiver?"

The Deacon’s voice remained sweet, untroubled. "We do not need to see miracles. His Resurrection is our miracle. Can you imagine a man, crucified for over a day, rising from the dead and walking? Christ conquered death and agony to give us hope. That is why He is the Son of the Living God!"

 

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Johannes let out a dry, cynical half-smile. "When he comes to visit these lands, let me know so I can believe he rose. Until you show me something, or cite something I can actually witness, your words are not evidence."

The Deacon’s tone leveled. "And you... do you see the Lord?" Johannes struck his chest firmly. "Yes. I see Him!" The Deacon scoffed. "Truly? Show me how." Johannes ignited with passion, his contemplation pouring out of him. "Since I was a boy, I have been awestruck watching Him turn the water of a foolish man and woman into a human being who feels and thinks!

I see Him ruling over all men, even the mightiest, taking their lives against their will, steering their existence according to His eternal plan.

You see them singing of their lusts, using that fleeting ecstasy to forget that they are compelled by it!"

He paused for a heartbeat, leaning in until his nose nearly touched the Deacon's. "Does this happen on its own? No! There is a Power that controls everything, whatever we name Him—the Lord, God, the Controller. He is here, governing all!"

The Deacon pulled back, wiping his face. "Yes, well said. But my point was exactly that: you cannot see Christ with your eyes, just as you cannot see the Lord. Therefore, you cannot deny Christ’s existence, his miracles, or his Great Resurrection simply because they are invisible to you."

Johannes’s voice sharpened. "You don't understand me. The Lord

 

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was, and still is, giving life and taking it, long before I existed and long after I die. But of Christ, you speak in the past tense: he raised the dead, he healed the sick, he walked on water. Is this a God? He is of no use as a God—not even to that storm that began without his permission!"

The Deacon recoiled. "And what makes you so certain he cannot still do those things now?"

"Ask instead: what proves to me that he does?" Johannes countered. "Look at the universe, its precision and its vastness. Give me one piece of evidence that says this continues to happen by a person with these specific traits called 'Christ,' and not by the Lord Himself. Give it to me. I'm listening."

The Deacon’s eyes narrowed. "I tell you that Christ is the Lord Himself in His eternal, divine essence. How can you ask for something the Father did that the Son did not? It is like a thought in the mind. Christ said: 'I and the Father are one; he who has seen me has seen the Father!'"

Johannes fell silent, sharpening his thoughts like a blade. Finally, he spoke. "If that child over there came to you and said, 'My father and mother are one; he who sees my father has seen my mother,' what would you understand?"

The Deacon did not answer, merely taking a deep breath. Johannes continued. "You would understand that they are so deeply in love, so perfectly in harmony, that they represent one another to such an extent that seeing one is as good as seeing the other. You wouldn't think they were literally the same person or

 

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shared the same nature—that they were both men or both women—would you?"

He gestured emphatically. "And from Christ’s words, we understand the same: that he loves the Lord and represents His teachings to the letter."

The Deacon interrupted sternly. "You are merely searching for a meaning that serves your own ends!"

"That is because I start from the principle of the Lord’s absolute greatness," Johannes fired back. "I cannot accept that one of His 'persons' is a son who is born, crucified, and killed. Look at all this majesty and power everywhere! How can you accept reducing it to such a fragile form of life?"

The Deacon gazed at a child nearby, weeping from hunger. "On the contrary," he replied. "The purpose is for the Lord to have mercy on our weakness, and to teach us how to transcend agony toward His mercy."

{{ To Here )))

Johannes turned away, exhaling a long sigh. His eyes fell upon the shadow of a young man propping up an elderly father, both broken by the sting of the lash. He turned back with a devastating question. "Tell me, why did the Lord create fatherhood and son-ship in all creatures?"

"So that their lineage may continue and life may endure," the

 

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Deacon answered.

"Then does the Eternal, Everlasting Lord need a son to continue His life? Or is He merely playing? Or did He feel jealous of His own creations? Which of these do you accept for your Lord? Which one?!"

The words stumbled in the Deacon’s mouth. He chose silence for a long moment, glancing around anxiously to ensure no one was eavesdropping. Finally, he leaned in and whispered, "To be honest with you... there is a Christian sect that believes Christ was a Messenger from the Lord, not the Lord Himself. The title 'Son of God' is a metaphor for the depth of the Lord's love for him."

Johannes let out a triumphant cry. "Now you speak the truth!" The Deacon grabbed him quickly. "Lower your voice, please!" Johannes didn't understand the need for such secrecy, but he lowered his tone.

"The Lord is the one who gave Christ the power to raise the dead and heal the sick, and it was He who raised Christ at his resurrection. Just as my father used to give me some of his strength in my days of glory, before he deprived me of it now."

The Deacon coughed, bowing his head. "I realize now why I am here. The Lord wanted to teach me a lesson—that He can grant wisdom even to criminals, using examples from their own world."

Johannes laughed heartily. "And I won't hide it from you either; my lesson was that wisdom can be found even among slaves!"

"Wait a moment! I am no slave!" the Deacon protested. "I have

 

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been free all my life; it was your gang that kidnapped me!" Johannes burst into laughter. "Yes, I suppose I keep forgetting that!"

Johannes walked a few paces away before turning back. "What do you think about praying with me today? Try it. It seems strange at first, but it brings peace to the chest."

"What do you mean 'try it'?" the Deacon asked. "Didn't you see us all praying yesterday?"

"No, not just with humbleness or folded hands. You can bow and prostrate while directing your glorification to the Lord."

"You mean as Christ did," the Deacon noted. "He would put his face to the ground while speaking to the Father."

Johannes looked stunned. "And after that, you tell me he is the Lord himself? Was he prostrating to himself? Imagine my father bowing to his own reflection—it would be hysterical!"

He smiled, then added playfully, "Come then, let us pray as Christ prayed!"

The Deacon stood up, leaning on Johannes’s hand. "I see you believe in his existence now!"

"I don't mind him being a teacher. Existing in that way doesn't conflict with the Lord’s greatness. On the contrary, I wish the Lord would send me a teacher like him!"

The Deacon seized the opportunity, his face lighting up. "Aha! That is the heart of it. Christ is the Father’s Messenger to you, to

 

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teach you what the Father wants from you, so that every man doesn't have to wander and speculate as you are doing now."

Johannes scratched his head. "I can accept that, as long as his message can be proven through reason."

"Yes, but once you accept him as a teacher, you must submit to his message even when reason falls short. You cannot encompass the Lord's wisdom or deduce it every single time."

Johannes’s response came in a low murmur. "Fine. I suppose so."

"Then, would you come to the church to learn the Lord’s teachings, if the chance arose?"

Johannes gave a knowing smile, his eyes narrowing. "If the church believes in the Lord’s absolute power and Christ’s messenger-ship, then yes!"

They shared a brief laugh before the Deacon added, "Then, you are a Christian, Johannes."

Johannes didn't comment. Instead, he began showing the Deacon how to bow and prostrate in his own way. They did so together, side by side. When they finished, they sat on their knees, their thighs touching. The Deacon reached out and took Johannes’s hand.

"It is a good feeling. You feel the Lord is near."

"Didn't I tell you?" Johannes replied. "That’s why Christ did it!"

But the Deacon’s voice turned weak and serious. He clutched his stomach, his back hunched in pain. "Listen to me... I feel this is my last night. If the Lord has tasked me with teaching you, let us

 

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put sleep aside tonight and speak of Christ’s teachings. Perhaps your father will change his mind soon, and you won't have another chance to hear the truth again."

"Can you?" Johannes asked. "You look like you're in agony."

"I won't be able to sleep regardless. It would please me to do one last good deed before I die."

And so, Johannes spent the night listening to the Deacon, who spoke through labored breaths and winces of pain. Johannes bit his lip, wishing he had given the man his entire sandwich, regretting the wretched state that clouded their final conversation.

In the morning, Johannes pushed himself to the limit. He even endured several lashes to delay his shift in the coal line so that he might cross paths with the Deacon’s shift at the wagons.

He finally reached him. The Deacon was dragging his feet more than the wagon, his back bent double from hunger. The driver’s lash had added to his torment. His eyes sparked with a desperate light when he was secretly handed a meat sandwich. He shoved it into his mouth all at once, terrified of being caught. But as soon as Johannes turned his back, the sound of violent coughing pierced the air.

The Deacon was coughing so hard he began to choke. He collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, but his breath didn't return until the sandwich lay spat out on the dirt. Within seconds, a slave driver arrived, raising his whip. Then he paused. "What is

 

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this? Meat?"

The driver turned his gaze toward Johannes. "Is this why you were stalling? I was wondering what had gotten into you." Johannes looked at him, flustered, then said shamefully, "Cover me. Don't tell."

"You know the rules. You know how your uncle will react if he finds out you're feeding the slaves."

Johannes’s face went pale, a sense of helplessness washing over him. The driver began to lash the Deacon again, gesturing to Johannes. "Get back to work."

"Whip me instead, or I'll work double! Just forget what you saw!" The driver screamed, "I said get back to work!"

Johannes rushed through his tasks, seething with fear of Jonathas’s reaction. He had come down to this valley out of pity for Catherina—what hope for his own forgiveness was there now after this new transgression?

He worked with a wandering eye, searching for his friend the Deacon, but he could not find him among the standing, nor distinguish his voice from the cries of the suffering.

The sun was at its zenith when a driver led him to their head. The man sat Johannes down, pacing around him nervously. "If the food is more than you need, you aren't forced to take it."

"More than I need?" Johannes snapped. "If you gave me ten, I’d eat them all."

"Then why did you give it to the slave?"

 

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Johannes fell silent; there was no excuse, no lie that could save him. The Chief driver continued, "How can you be moved by pity when you’re this gaunt yourself? Are you really a Vilmos?" Johannes’s voice was barely a whisper. "Just cover for me. I’ve had enough trouble."

"Eat your sandwich in front of me, and don't let me see another act of pity, or I’ll tell him everything."

"Thank you!"

Johannes bit into his sandwich, feeling a momentary relief. "But... did the Leader order you to be lenient with me?"

The Chief driver glanced at him. "Why else do you think we do it? Do you think we’re mad enough to cross his orders?" A flicker of hope touched Johannes’s face. The driver added, "Just so you know, you’re getting on all of our nerves... I don't even know the risk I'm taking by hiding this for you."

"Does he ask about me often?"

"He doesn't ask. But I know he listens whenever I speak of you."

"Fine. Don't hide it then."

The Chief driver looked hopeful. "Are you sure?"

"He won't have mercy on you if someone else snitches. But at least there’s a chance he might have mercy on me."

The Leader smiled. "Well, you've unburdened me! But don't blame me if the punishment is harsh."

When Johannes finally entered the pen, he searched for the

 

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Deacon until he was at the brink of despair. Finally, he asked those distributing the food. A woman’s voice, heavy with sorrow, answered him.

"Didn't you see them when they killed him? Him, Alexandra, and her little boy?"

Johannes recoiled in disbelief. "Killed him? No!"

"And Alexandra," the woman continued. "She went mad when they killed her little son, so they sent her after him. And now there is her eldest son... he is breaking hearts, weeping all alone and refusing to let anyone near."

The woman surrendered to her tears, while Johannes stood frozen in a hollow daze. Only this morning, his mind had been a hive of hopeful thoughts, nursing the quiet expectation that they might finish their conversation tonight. But all of that had vanished. The friend of yesterday—driven by the desperate need for a crust of bread—had himself become bread for the beasts, a fleeting meal for the scavengers of the earth and sky. He had slipped into the cold shroud of the past before Johannes could even savor his presence in the present.

Johannes exhaled a ragged breath, the memory of the Deacon’s hunger-wracked body from the night before twisting like a knife in his gut. "He died hungry, too," he muttered, the words tasting of bile and defeat. "Was he supposed to pity the little ones? Is this truly what pleases God?"

In the suffocating dark of his loneliness, haunted by the echoes of his departed companion, his feet dragged him toward that wretched child. The boy was huddled in the corner, clutching his

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bruised frame in a vain attempt to hold the pain of the beating at bay. He trembled violently, his voice a mere rasp, hollowed out by despair and impotence. Around him, the women offered soft, frantic comforts, but the boy remained unreachable, a ghost still tethered to a broken body.

Johannes stood over him, the memory of the kick he’d once delivered flickering like a phantom pain. He exhaled sharply, a ragged sound as he wrestled with his own spirit to honor a vow made to God.

At last, his feet moved. His face was a battlefield of warring impulses, and as he drew near, a woman scurried away, frightened by the sheer heat of his suppressed rage. For a full minute, he simply loomed there—a pillar of a man who refused to bend.Then, the pillar broke.

He dropped into a crouch. His hand trembled, a violent struggle within his own muscles, as he reached out to shake the boy. He bit his lip so hard it bled, the sympathetic ghost of Catherina rising in his mind’s eye. Internally, he spat upon this weakness, terrified of the rot of pity seeping into his veins.

But as his palm touched the boy’s back, the child spun around and threw himself into Johannes’s arms. "Father..." he sobbed, his voice a frail reed. "I’m dying of hunger!" The boy clung to his shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled grip, pouring his agony into a bloody embrace. Johannes’s features contorted, hovering on the verge of an explosion of pure revulsion. In the hollow of his ear, Jonathas’s old mockery rang out: A duck embracing pig’s filth!

 

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Johannes’s face flushed a deep, suffocating crimson. He wanted to bolt, to vanish, to hide from his own skin. His hands moved to tear the boy away, but the child’s grip held fast."Let me stay here a moment," the boy whispered with a terrifying innocence. "God is going to take me to Heaven, just like he took Junior." Johannes stiffened, a sharp breath escaping him. Fine, he thought bitterly. At least it’s dark. No one will tell Jonathas. He sank to his knees, adjusting to the alien weight of the child in his arms, his breathing shallow and jagged.

"I smell food..." the boy whispered again, his voice tugging at Johannes’s threadbare coat. "Please... I’m so hungry... please." A jolt went through Johannes. He remembered the scrap of meat he’d pilfered when the Chief wasn’t looking. The moment he produced it, the boy pounced with such ferocity he nearly took Johannes's fingers with it. Johannes shook his hand out, sighing in irritation, but the boy’s muffled voice broke through his resentment.

"When I meet God in Heaven, I’ll tell Him you helped me. He’ll help you back. I’m sure of it."

Johannes fell silent. He tried to anchor his fraying nerves with the weight of faith.

Eventually, the din of the pen faded into the heavy silence of sleep. Johannes remained, exhausted, trapped by a boy who drugged his cruelty with whispers of the Divine. For two days, he had carried the weight of his promise; now, it felt like lead.

After an agonizing struggle, he finally persuaded the boy to lie down. As Johannes settled into his own uneasy rest, his gaze

 

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lingered on the huddled, shivering form. He loves God, even though God delivered him to this hell, Johannes mused. But why am I surprised? I don’t seek revenge on Jonathas. I would take him back in a heartbeat, even as he breaks me. Because... He lowered his head, the truth bitter on his tongue. Because I remember the grace he showed me long before the torture began.

He looked at the child with a cynical twist of his lips. Jonathas would go mad if he knew he is ushering so many souls into Heaven.

Morning came with a violent tremor. The boy was shaking him, voice thin with terror. "Uncle, wake up! The Driver is here!" Johannes bolted upright, his eyes bleary and stinging. The Driver stood there, a grim shadow waiting for him to rise. As Johannes stood, he felt those small, cold hands seize his legs. He could feel the child’s fear vibrating through his own bones. Panic flared. If he were seen like this, word would reach Jonathas. He tried to shake the boy off, but the child, sensing the shift, whispered the only "password" he knew: "I want to tell Him you were kind to me!"

Johannes froze, the memory of his vow catching in his throat. But the Driver’s voice cut through the air like a lash. "Looks like it was more than just a sandwich, eh?"

The blood turned to ice in Johannes’s veins. Pride, sharp and jagged, made the choice for him. He snatched the boy up and hurled him toward the Driver with a guttural roar. "You gossip instead of doing your job?!"

 

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The Driver reacted purely on instinct. He grabbed the boy's arm with such force that the sickening pop of a dislocated shoulder echoed in the room. He threw the child to the floor and beat him until the screams stopped. When he finally stepped back, the boy opened his eyes one last time. He fixed Johannes with a strange, haunting gaze—a look that froze into eternity.

The arrow of that stare pierced Johannes’s heart. A cold shudder racked him as he remembered the boy’s promise to speak to God. He looked down, his face twisted in a grimace. It was over. Everything between him and the Heavens was severed. "He won’t bother you again, sir," the Driver said casually. "Come, have your breakfast."

The man stepped closer, but Johannes looked up with eyes that were utterly vacant. The Driver faltered, his smirk dying as he met that hollow stare. He began to back away, sensing the storm. The dam broke. Johannes lunged. He threw himself at the man with a feral, soul-deep bitterness, his fingers clawing for the throat. He fought to stifle the man, to turn him into a sacrificial lamb for his own broken vow.

The Driver screamed for help. His fellows swarmed, a sea of hands dragging Johannes away. When they finally pried him off, the Driver stood coughing, and Johannes slumped, defeated. He realized then that he had become the very thing he feared they would see.

He spent the day bound to a chair, his soul feeling as though it might burst from his chest. He had broken his word. He had shattered his image in Jonathas’s eyes. One look from a dying boy

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had been enough to make him crush his own pride with his bare hands.

His body recoiled from the open sky. When the Chief of Drivers finally returned, Johannes’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The Chief approached, brow furrowed. "I don't think you've guessed the verdict," the Chief muttered. Johannes remained motionless. "He’s merely changing your post. You’re to be a slave driver now. Put that pathetic pity aside and think of yourself."

Johannes’s lip curled in profound disgust.

"You’ll get better food," the Chief snapped, irritated. "A bed. Clothes. What could possibly make you look so revolted? Look at the miserable state you’ve been in these last three months!"

Johannes’s eyes blazed with a silent, scorching fire. The Chief took a breath, forcing himself back to a calm, professional tone. "I meant... I’m glad you’re leaving this squalor behind, sir. Come, let me undo these ties so you can wash. We need to start treating that scabies."

As the ropes fell away, Johannes remained limp in the chair, making no move to rise. The Chief sighed, hovering for a moment as if trying to diagnose the malaise. He placed a hand on Johannes’s shoulder.

"Your pity for them," the Chief said softly, "only adds one more to the tally of the tormented."

In that moment, the words struck Johannes like a physical blow. They were his own words—the same indifferent logic he had used

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to convince Catherina to hang Elisabetha. He gasped. Finally, he understood that Catherina’s terror hadn't been of the helpless corpse; a glacial chill swept through him. He sat there, trembling, trying to hide his soul from the piercing gaze of the One in the clouds.

 

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