ruler is well,” the bishop said. “He seems resigned to staying in Sweden afterall those years away. He’s down south. Untiringly making new plans, of course.”
With his inner eye the priest saw the royal, the tall muddy boots, his curly hair white from dust, his blue coat smelling of smoke and gunpowder.
“There are rumors,” he said, “about how the new wars are going for us.”
The bishop rose.
“I’ll show you to your room,” the priest said.
“I’m certain your maid can do that.”
The bishop swept his black cloak around himself and left the room.
The priest sat on the bench outside his house, his fingertips on the soft leather cover of the Bible in his lap. Across the green the door to the verger’s cottage was open. There was movement in the kitchen of the vicarage where the widow of the former priest still resided. A child ran from one of the further cottages to another.
The roof ridges of the empty houses in each district, Settler Town, Trade Town, and, further away, Lapp Town, were dark toward the light blue sky. There was a smell of grass in the air. And here he sat, priest of nothing.
The stone wall of the tall church was a compact white. By its entrance the iron bell hung still in its wooden structure. It seemed brooding. Foreign.
“No bell,” the priest said to the verger in the morning.
“Of course not,” the verger said.
The priest didn’t have time to deal with the potential insubordination. Where was his Bible? He hadn’t slept well and had a headache. “Are the books out?”
“Yes,” the verger said. “The bishop asked to see them.”
“The bishop is already in the church?”
“He said he always rises at dawn.”
“God in heaven.”
The priest pushed past the verger down the stairs. The verger should have woken him. Surely, that was obvious. He had forgotten his Bible. Had he brushed his hair? He couldn’t remember. He dragged his fingers through it and felt dirty.
As he entered, the bishop was sitting in the priest’s own chair facing him, his large hands flat on the desk’s leather top, his index finger tapping.
“Good morning,” the priest said. He lifted out the wooden chair opposite the bishop and slid onto it sideways.
“You have not asked for any grain from the parishioners to support you over the past year,” the bishop said.
Nothing like a surprise attack. The bishop would have made the King himself proud.
“No.” The priest pulled his fingers through his hair again. The bishop was looking at him. “I am alone. I cleared land behind the provisional vicarage to sow barley.”
“I was worried that, with the widow still remaining, the demand on the congregation would double,” the bishop said.
“No, there was no need.”
“Her year of grace will soon be over.”
The priest nodded. The widow would have to abandon the vicarage and its lands.
“It’s a shame they did not have any children.”
The bishop flipped a few pages. “I see you managed to solve a dispute among the women about their seating arrangements.”
“Oh, that.” The priest crossed one leg over the other. He nipped at his cloak to make it fall straight.
“No, but how did you do that?” The bishop’s oval eyes did not blink.
“I preached about why all Jesus’s disciples were men.”
The bishop burst out laughing, a deep laughter that made his stomach hop. The priest hadn’t heard one of those for a long while. The bishop shook his head. “We have such a problem. All over Sweden. The country is being torn asunder, and the women fight against their status, striving to sit underneath the pulpit. God help us.”
The bishop looked up to the roof as if he expected God to lift it off and intervene at this precise moment. “Very well,” he said. “What about the parishioners?”
“Twenty-two new children since last year—all baptized. Ten of them are Lapp children who were given new, Swedish names. Last winter there were twenty-eight funerals, this spring
With his inner eye the priest saw the royal, the tall muddy boots, his curly hair white from dust, his blue coat smelling of smoke and gunpowder.
“There are rumors,” he said, “about how the new wars are going for us.”
The bishop rose.
“I’ll show you to your room,” the priest said.
“I’m certain your maid can do that.”
The bishop swept his black cloak around himself and left the room.
The priest sat on the bench outside his house, his fingertips on the soft leather cover of the Bible in his lap. Across the green the door to the verger’s cottage was open. There was movement in the kitchen of the vicarage where the widow of the former priest still resided. A child ran from one of the further cottages to another.
The roof ridges of the empty houses in each district, Settler Town, Trade Town, and, further away, Lapp Town, were dark toward the light blue sky. There was a smell of grass in the air. And here he sat, priest of nothing.
The stone wall of the tall church was a compact white. By its entrance the iron bell hung still in its wooden structure. It seemed brooding. Foreign.
“No bell,” the priest said to the verger in the morning.
“Of course not,” the verger said.
The priest didn’t have time to deal with the potential insubordination. Where was his Bible? He hadn’t slept well and had a headache. “Are the books out?”
“Yes,” the verger said. “The bishop asked to see them.”
“The bishop is already in the church?”
“He said he always rises at dawn.”
“God in heaven.”
The priest pushed past the verger down the stairs. The verger should have woken him. Surely, that was obvious. He had forgotten his Bible. Had he brushed his hair? He couldn’t remember. He dragged his fingers through it and felt dirty.
As he entered, the bishop was sitting in the priest’s own chair facing him, his large hands flat on the desk’s leather top, his index finger tapping.
“Good morning,” the priest said. He lifted out the wooden chair opposite the bishop and slid onto it sideways.
“You have not asked for any grain from the parishioners to support you over the past year,” the bishop said.
Nothing like a surprise attack. The bishop would have made the King himself proud.
“No.” The priest pulled his fingers through his hair again. The bishop was looking at him. “I am alone. I cleared land behind the provisional vicarage to sow barley.”
“I was worried that, with the widow still remaining, the demand on the congregation would double,” the bishop said.
“No, there was no need.”
“Her year of grace will soon be over.”
The priest nodded. The widow would have to abandon the vicarage and its lands.
“It’s a shame they did not have any children.”
The bishop flipped a few pages. “I see you managed to solve a dispute among the women about their seating arrangements.”
“Oh, that.” The priest crossed one leg over the other. He nipped at his cloak to make it fall straight.
“No, but how did you do that?” The bishop’s oval eyes did not blink.
“I preached about why all Jesus’s disciples were men.”
The bishop burst out laughing, a deep laughter that made his stomach hop. The priest hadn’t heard one of those for a long while. The bishop shook his head. “We have such a problem. All over Sweden. The country is being torn asunder, and the women fight against their status, striving to sit underneath the pulpit. God help us.”
The bishop looked up to the roof as if he expected God to lift it off and intervene at this precise moment. “Very well,” he said. “What about the parishioners?”
“Twenty-two new children since last year—all baptized. Ten of them are Lapp children who were given new, Swedish names. Last winter there were twenty-eight funerals, this spring
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