Marek lay back. He felt the warmth from the sun on his face, and felt his back relax a bit against the hard stone floor. ‘Do you think my bones are right?’ he asked Villiam.
‘Please, don’t ask me about bones. Tonight, we will only talk about normal things.’
Marek nodded. He had no idea what that meant. The wine had made him a bit softer in his mind, but no wiser.
* * *
*
So when the feast was served and all were gathered around the table—Lord, Marek, Father, and the visitors—Villiam tried his best to express his enthusiasm for the holiday. Everyone looked to be in the right spirit. The family wore their red clothes, dyed for the wedding, a bit faded by now but still vivid. Villiam considered it a sweet gesture. The northern man was typical—tall and bright-eyed and blond. His dark-haired wife was very small and nervous, reaching up to her dripping nose to wipe it now and then with a rag she pulled from her sleeve.
‘Isn’t it a blessing? It is, it is,’ Villiam nodded. ‘We are blessed to have you. As you are blessed to have us. Father, will you tell us all the story of Christmas? You always tell it in the most holy way.’
Villiam had always enjoyed the priest’s summary of the Nativity. It had been one of the few stories Barnabas had actually remembered from the seminary: ‘On Christmas Eve, Christ’s parents went to Bethlehem to be counted in the census. But they had no money to pay for a proper bed, so they took refuge in a horse stable, and that’s where Jesus was born.’
‘Well told,’ Villiam had said in the past. The priest’s commentary had focused mostly on the discomfort Mary must have felt, how the hay must have pricked at her back and bum as she lay there splayed open for all the livestock to see.
‘The son of God born in a pigpen, or what have you. Hilarious,’ Villiam had chuckled. No such foolery would be made tonight. Villiam sat up straight, smiling stiffly and holding his hands in prayer as he waited for Barnabas to recite the story. Marek yawned, and Villiam wanted to scold him, but the family was watching. ‘Father,’ Villiam said again. ‘If you would, I do believe the spirit of Christmas is upon us. Ahem.’
But now Father Barnabas was flustered. He couldn’t remember any details of the story, and the more he tried, the more flustered he became. Finally he cleared his throat: ‘The two of them traveled to Bethlehem, of course, and we all know what happened there,’ he said, lifting his cup. ‘To Christ.’
‘Hear hear,’ Villiam said and smacked his lips.
The priest was being boring on purpose, Villiam thought, simply to rub him the wrong way. How depressing. He tried not to frown. He looked from face to face around the table. The village children had tawny hair and smooth olive skin, light hazel eyes. One girl and one boy. Instead of following the priest’s lame toast with some irreverent quip as he would in the past, Villiam asked the boy’s name.
‘Emil,’ the little boy said, his mouth a soft pink thing. Villiam nodded, comforted by his beauty.
‘Eat well,’ the priest said. ‘And give news of the feast to all in the village.’
He scowled at Father Barnabas for his laziness. Marek immediately pounded his fist on the table as requested, and Villiam startled but didn’t laugh. He was now sufficiently distracted by the little boy to be quieted.
‘Marek, did you want to say something?’ Barnabas asked.
‘No, Father. Only to bless you and this food, amen.’
‘Amen,’ said the visitors.
‘Yes, amen,’ said Villiam.
The young couple sat shyly and waited for Villiam to begin to eat. They watched with lowered faces as he took a leg of goose from the silver platter and set it on his plate. He licked his finger. But Villiam was not interested in the food. Rather, he focused on the softness of little Emil’s mouth as he chewed. The young mother didn’t lift her eyes beyond her plate. She seemed very obsessed with her dripping nose. The daughter, however, ate as hungrily as her father, who thanked Villiam profusely for inviting them to take part in the occasion. ‘We’ve heard stories of the place, but to see it with our own eyes, nobody would believe us, how fine it all is. I didn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. I had to see it to believe it.’
‘You’re too kind, young sir,’ Villiam said. ‘It is all a testament to God’s glory, not mine.’ He looked at the priest to say something further, but Barnabas was picking the bones out of his fish stew. He’d been ornery and distracted lately. Perhaps the priest suffered from envy—Villiam would soon be father to the son of God; Barnabas would never attain such glory.