I filed the thought away and soldiered on. “And does the castle have a name as well? Any chance you know somebody who could take me up there? A local guide, perhaps?”
At that, Yefi shook his head. “You’re not likely to find anyone in this town who’ll take you up there, nor even speak of it. I’ve lived in Nevazut for years now, having leapt at so satisfying an assignment as restoring this church to its former glory, even if I’d not heard of the town in which it sat. But despite my own repeated inquiries on the subject, I’ve not so much as heard a local refer to the ruins at all, except obliquely. Even then, they speak in the hushed tones of the frightened, or the reverent. They refer to it variously as the Great Death, the Stone Protector, the Shadow Cast Upon the Valley. I confess, I don’t even know the castle’s true name, and after a few months here, I learned it best to cease inquiring on the subject. It was only once I abandoned my curiosity these people began to accept my presence here.”
“You’re telling me I should do the same? Abandon my curiosity, that is.”
Yefi looked around once more, moving only his eyes, so the townspeople at their distance could not see.
“I’m telling you,” he said, sotto voce, his face a mask of amiability despite the sudden weight his quiet words carried, “that this conversation is perhaps best continued inside.” And then, loud enough for any person dropping eaves to hear: “I know you’re just passing through, my friend, and eager to get back on the road, but my day’s work has left me parched. Perhaps you’d indulge a lonely man of the cloth and come inside for a drink before you go?”
With that, he opened the front door to the church and stood aside to let me in. For a moment, I just stared at him, puzzled. Then, after casting another glance around the village’s central green to see three dozen locals doing their damndest to pretend as if they weren’t watching, I stepped into the hallowed darkness.
12.
“You wanna tell me what that was all about?” I asked the priest once we were both inside the church, and the heavy wooden door had clapped shut behind us. “The folks I’ve met since I arrived don’t speak a lick of English. Can’t imagine they’d have picked up much of our conversation. And anyways, I’m just a tourist passing through.”
“Like hell you are,” Yefi replied. “You, like they, understand a great deal more than you’re letting on.”
My hand crept once more to the gun in its concealment holster beneath my jacket. “I’m not sure I take your meaning, Padre.”
“You take my meaning fine,” he told me, “and I assure you, I intend you no harm. This is a place of worship, after all. Too long ignored, alas, both structurally and in intent, but a place of worship nonetheless.”
I eyed him for a second, and saw no malice in his features, no threat implicit in his posture, so I relaxed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? All the sudden, I get the feeling like you’re here for something other than quiet meditation, or fixing up a dilapidated old church.”
“To your first point, you’re quite right. As for your second, though, you’ve missed the mark. I am, in fact, here to fix up this dilapidated old church, as you so callously called her; however, my reasons for doing so are far from contemplative. For you see, while Nevazut — quite by design, though whose or what’s exactly I could not say — does not appear on any maps, it’s long been at the fore of my Church Patriarch’s mind. The locals are not wrong to refer to the ruins that lord over them as a shadow, for a great darkness resides in Nevazut, and taints every aspect of its inhabitants’ lives. Yet for whatever reason, they welcome this darkness, into their homes, into their hearts. It fuels them. Guides them. Provides them strength and solace, when instead they should be seeking both in the love of one another, and in our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. That is why I was sent here. To drive the wickedness from these Godless people, and turn them once more toward the light of God’s grace. That is why I’ve dedicated myself to restoring His house; I consider it the first step toward restoring His flock. Or, at least, I did. Now I fear they’re too far gone for my humble ministrations to save.”
“Save the sermon, Padre, and skip ahead to the specifics.”
“Certainly,” he said, “although for that, I think perhaps we’ll need a drink.”
He retreated into the church’s gloomy interior, sparking a camp lantern as he did. The interior of the building was suddenly awash in amber light, which reflected off the lacquered surfaces within and suffused the church with warmth and numinous beauty. What little watery light trickled through the tiny panes of leaded glass that graced the church’s only windows had not done any justice to the stunning craftsmanship contained therein. Even in its work-in-progress state, it was really something to see. The steep pitch of the roof was two planes of honey-colored tongue-and-groove fading upward into darkness. Rough-hewn beams, each carved from a single tree trunk and affixed to one another with iron brackets and nails the size of railroad ties, propped the structure up. A few of these beams were splintered and met in a shallow V where they had weakened; replacements still golden-fresh were stacked along one wall, together with replicas of the original brackets and hardware to match. A roped-off spiral staircase missing half its steps led upward to the organist’s balcony, and then up further to the bell tower. Pews of oak, some unfinished, others stained matte brown, still others stained and varnished both, rested above floorboards so old and age-desiccated their dishwater-gray surfaces bowed upward at the edges, showing black beneath, basement or earth I wasn’t sure.
At the front of the room was an unfinished wooden altar scattered with tools. Larger items — a radial saw, a couple sawhorses, a stack of two-by-fours, another of plywood, and a couple dozen paint cans full of stain and polyurethane — were scattered haphazardly beside it. Above the mess hung a utility light, a bare bulb in a hook-hatted metal cage whose cord connected to an orange extension below, which in turn snaked away into the darkness to the rear of the church, beyond the altar. A faint engine thrum from outside suggested it was plugged into a generator.
I watched as Father Yefi set the lantern down atop the altar and clicked on the hanging light. Under its harsh glare, the magic in the room receded. Now it was just an old and dusty church once more.
It was then I realized this was more than just a church to Yefi, because behind the altar I saw a military cot upon which rested a tousle of blankets and a well-worn Bible; a mini-fridge; and a hot plate, beside which sat a stack of canned goods, a single saucepan, and a wooden spoon. “You live here?” I asked him.
“I do,” he said. “It may sound foolish, but there are times I do not feel safe out there, among the villagers. Here, I am safe, if perhaps less comfortable.”
“I didn’t see a lock on the church door.”
“The safety of which I speak is not merely corporeal,” he replied, “although that which I fear is barred entry from this place just as surely as if it were locked.”
“And what is it that you fear?” I asked him.
“Before I tell you that,” he said, fetching two chipped, age-clouded juice glasses and a bottle of ?uica from beneath the altar and pouring us each a belt, “let me ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you come to Nevazut?”
I thought long and hard before I answered. Then I figured fuck it, thinking long and hard ain’t what I do, so instead I dove right in. “You mentioned a great darkness resides here,” I said. “If that’s true, then I aim to kill it.”