CONTENT WARNINGS: None I don't think
[Excerpt from The Book of Peter]
Do not be fooled; not even the Watcher has any power over nature, over fate, over whatever story the unpredictabilities of life choose to pen for us. The Watcher is no master and no author- they are a guide. They are the candle's flame on a dark night, a listening ear for the lonely elderly man, a hand on the shoulder of a grieving wife. It is not the Watcher's responsibility to alter the events of time to suit us- to assume such is human vanity, which has no place in our way of life. It is up to every Peteran to do whatever they are able to make positive change to the world, so long as they make every effort possible to keep the peace. If we go about our methods without peace, our efforts to make a better world will shatter, and the hand that feeds the poor will also be what poisons them.
Áine
The entrance dwarfs me, as does the cloaked statue who greets me. There's a smell I can only describe as archaic. I'm a little unnerved by the place. In all my life I've never been to a building of faith. Most towns seemed to have their own beliefs, whatever gave them hope most of the time. None of them really had a dedicated place of worship, usually just doing talks outside in the villages. This feels more like a place of organised faith, something across towns and perhaps even countries. I know nothing of the etiquette, and don't wish to cause immediate upset- so I try to relax myself before I enter.
The singing has died down, and has become replaced by a man's voice. If this is the man doing the sermon, it sounds like a much younger voice than I'd expected.
The huge doors take quite the push, and make a roaring creek as I enter. I half expect a full hall, but instead it's only about four or five people. No-one looks back or acknowledges me at all, thankfully, so I take a seat at the back whilst the others are completely absorbed in the speech. That said, one woman near the front seems bored out of her skull.
I feel as if I have travelled back a few hundred years just sitting in this room. I almost feel as if the roof is about to collapse on my head. Once I finally settle down and relax, lost in the sometimes-rambling speech of this young man, I sense something in this room which completely distracts me from the sermon...and not a feeling I can easily explain. A sort of vibration, maybe, is a better way to describe it. Mother told me that we could sense each other, if we were nearby. Could it be someone outside? Someone in this room? My nervousness wears off a little, to at least know I am in some kind of shared company- even with a stranger. There is comfort in knowing you are not the only one, and I hope whoever else is near me feels the same way.
"I understand that, in trying times, it becomes tempting to believe any scary story you may hear, but you mustn't give in to fear. If you let fear take control, you easily let everyone else take control, and the only person who should be in control of yourself is you."
"You know, Mother Joyce was a lot more fun," the red-haired lady says, prompting the others to laugh. Even the young man behind the lectern stifles a chuckle, even if it ends with a sort of awkward grimace.
"I understand, but it can't all be fun and games, can it?" he replies, with an unexpectedly-bouncy tone. "If...When things improve, then we can have fun- but until then, we all have to reflect on ourselves and the current events, and do what we can to help those in need- as we always do."
He gives a nod, and everyone leaves for a moment, joking amongst each other and laughing. As everyone else leaves, they wave to me, and I awkwardly return the greeting. I'm glad that I am at least welcome, but I'm still working up the courage to ask for some kind of next step. I notice his eyes meet mine, and he approaches me with a warm expression. That sensation from earlier, it's still here...
Reynold
I almost can't believe it, and the shock of it left me on-edge the entire sermon. I'm used to it from the women and children in the refuge, but nothing so strong as it is now. At first, it is homely and comforting, but over time, it has left a heavy feeling in my chest. Every time you sense it from someone new, It tells you a different story of fear and uncertainty without words, but that silent connection was life-saving for some.
"I hope you don't feel too awkward after that. I think you did a great job."
"Oh, thank you, but don't worry. We all get along; it's all in jest."
She pauses for a moment, about to say something, but no words leave her lips for a moment.
"It's quieter around here than I thought."
I can tell by her accent that she's from much further out than Henford or Willow Creek. If I didn't know any better, I'd wonder what brought her from all the way over there to this quiet little town.
"Ah, yes, that. Well, as of late, I suppose a lot of people have found...other paths to follow."
"Well, that's all I ought to say on the matter. What brings you here, anyhow?"
The young woman awkwardly tugs at her scarf for a moment, then shakes her head. "I've had to leave my home after staying there my entire life. I decided I needed something new, but you know what the world is like about us-" Her eyes widen like an owl's, and her posture stiffens for a moment. "Women! You know what the world is like about women. I don't have a single Simoleon to my name, so I'm hoping I can-" She stops for a moment, already regretting her words, but she doesn't need to.
"You needn't worry. It's been part of our way of life for hundreds of years to do everything we can to look after women and children in need. If you do need a place to stay for a while, we do have a refuge, though it's a little tightly-packed. They're close-knit bunch."
"I don't have any money to offer to you, though."
"Oh, it's not about the money," I reply. "Where possible, the women who are able help out with our charitable efforts- feeding the poor and such, mainly. Some of us offer education to them as well. The children in the refuge are all good friends with the poor children. We all help each other out, in a way."
"I see. So, are they all...whatever it is you follow?"
"Peteran? No, not at all. Half of them don't think the Watcher exists at all, but we extend our good nature to all those who need it. The Peteran monastery is a place for all to gather, whether they follow the teachings or not."
I can already feel Mother Joyce's eyes burning through me, and she's not even in the room. I understand she's well-meaning, but I'd be lying if I said she wasn't unnerving at times.
"Ah. Well, I used to do similar back home, helping those less fortunate. If you had any space in your refuge, I'd be happy to give you whatever assistance I can."
I tell her I'll have a word with the abbess, and she gives a sincere thank-you before heading off, saying she may as well get used to her surroundings. Part of me worries that I've unsettled her, but judging by the smile she gives me before she leaves, I think she understands that she'll be in good hands.
* * *
I return to my study, writing with the Watcher again, though even with Their guidance, it's impossible to know what to write sometimes.
There are texts in this study that date back all the way to almost nine-hundred years ago. Every single abbott and abbess who have ever served here has written with the Watcher. The texts were something between a diary and a scripture, and everyone brought something different to the table- some more well-meaning than others. It was entirely forbidden to read another's writings with the Watcher until after the person's death, though I've caught Mother Joyce peeking over my shoulder now and again. I have nothing to hide from her.
No matter how bleak the future seemed, you would spread the word to all that needed it that all would eventually work itself out, with or without the Watcher's guidance- and as the world grows more hopeless, it only gets more and more difficult. Our words are losing their power, and the persecution of the witches is taking even our most good-hearted followers from us, many of them falling for the lies and stigma. Many have even turned to Jacobism, and whilst I have nothing against the faith itself, some of its followers have been using the fear surrounding the witches to their advantage.
"Reynold! Are you still writing? Why aren't the pews clean?"
There's never long to be lost in thought enough to figure out how to put things right, not whilst Mother Joyce is around. She flings the door open, hand on her back, ushering me out of my chair. She takes one look at what I've written and flings the book into my hands.
"Goodness, this is the most pessimistic thing I've ever read, I've had the pleasure of being made to read the entirety of the Book of Jacob. Do you really have such little faith in the world?"
"There's only so much I can do with hopes and prayers, Mother Joyce. I can't keep lying to people. I don't know what the future holds; none of us do, not even the Watcher."
I put some of the books back on the shelf, making sure they're in alphabetical and chronological order before Mother Joyce has another reason to give me that characteristic scowl of hers.
"When I first began training you, what did I tell you was the most important facet of this faith?"
I make the mistake of sighing in front of her, and I see those nostrils flaring again.
"Hope."
"Precisely-"
"And how am I supposed to spread hope with all that's happening right now? People were promised work and a future along with all of these technological advancements, and instead people are losing their jobs and homes to the factories- not to mention what's happening with the witches. I can't keep lying to people, Mother Joyce."
Her snarl dissolves into a frown of concern.
"Brother Reynold, why do you think I chose to train you?"
"Because you needed a successor, nobody else wanted the role and then left it up to me?"
"Well...yes, but other than that?"
I raise an eyebrow. I don't know what she's getting at.
"If I didn't think you were capable, I wouldn't be trying to bring the best out of you. It is a difficult role, and a constant test of your faith, but I know you have it in you to be a brilliant leader. I've lead a longer life than most, but of course, nothing lasts forever. This monastery needs a breath of fresh air, a modern outlook. I understand the world seems grim for the young right now, but you have to learn that there's a difference between a white lie and a malicious one."
"Is there?" I reply. "Giving people false positivity doesn't seem particularly moral."
"It's what the people want, Brother Reynold. Outside of our charity, the less fortunate have little else to hold on to. If they want to believe the Watcher will always be there for them, even in times like these, then let them. Sometimes, convincing ourselves that all will turn out well is all that keeps us alive."
In an age ruled almost entirely by superstition, so many people hang on to that feeling- Mother Joyce is right about that- and I'd be doing more harm than good taking it away from them. I should have accepted it, but I don't like the thought of losing Mother Joyce. She has done much for everyone in and outside of the monastery, but I can safely say that she saved me. Mother Joyce gave me a second chance when I thought I had none, and there's no way I can truly repay her for what she's done for me. In fact, it's the only reason I bothered to take on the role of being her eventual successor.
"Anyhow, I ought to go and check on the refuge. Oh, and go and wash those spare robes in the wardrobe- your filthy cat has gotten her hairs all over them!"
With a slam of the door, I take a deep breath and gaze down at the aformentioned 'filthy' cat.
"Try not to take it personally, Whisper."
Áine
After a day of travelling about, getting used to the place, Mother Joyce has allowed me to stay at the refuge with the others. Since I am able, I have offered to help the monastery with almost anything I could. To my surprise, the man I spoke to earlier, Reynold, asks me to take an evening walk with him. I figure I may as well get to know the people I'll be staying with temporarily. It is a rainy evening, but the cool showers and comforting scent of petrichor are welcomed.
I've learned that Reynold Morgan is two years older than myself, and grew up with the Peteran faith. He is to be the successor of Mother Joyce. Whether or not he's truly ready for that role is anyone's guess, but he seems good-hearted enough. Mother told me to be wary of men, but I feel I have little reason to be wary of him for now. I ought to allow him a chance; I have my fire if all does not go to plan. Still, that eerie vibration is no longer comforting; it's anxiety-incuding, somehow, and I speak without thinking.
"I feel I need to address something, Reynold."
He doesn't make eye contact with me for a moment, and lets out a defeated breath. "This was partially why I'd asked you to walk with me so late," he replies, in a low, hushed voice. "You and all of the other women and children will be safe for as long as I am there, Áine- Am I pronouncing that correctly?"
I nod. "No need to worry. I will do everything I can to keep them safe. You see-"
I pause for a moment, and wonder if I am oversharing. I have not known this man for even a whole day, but surely I can trust someone else like me. How likely is it that I will meet anyone else like that? I will have to spend the early days of my new life taking chances.
"My father fled to help people like me some years ago. Mother took off after him, and neither came back."
His gaze turns towards the cobbled floor, and I can't see his expression in the shadow of the oil lamps above us. "I'm sorry to hear it, Áine. I hope that one day, you will find them."
"I appreciate you trying to have faith, Reynold, but do not worry. I know they are not coming back," I reply. "I must say, what you said during the sermon...it hit me close to my heart. It must be difficult, having to give the people a glimmer of faith with all that is happening to us. It takes a lot of strength to do that."
A little girl to my left, Annabeth, keeps looking me up and down with a grin on her face. "You're special."
"Annabeth!"
"Relax, Jeanie- we're all the same down here anyway," Catherine says to her. I don't mind.
"Special? Well, everyone is special in their own way-"
"No," she says, in a wavering, playful tone. "I mean, special. Like, you-can-do-magic-special!" Her voice turns quiet. "I'm special like that, too, but Jeanie and May say I'm too young to practice for now and that things are dangerous. One day, though, I wanna learn! What's your name?"
"Áine."
She seems confused trying to say it, and comes to about thirty different conclusions. Is it really so rare here?
"That's a funny name."
"Anna, be nice!"
"Okay, okay." She laughs, tapping me on the arm. "You will like it here. The Abbess, Mother Joyce, is really nice. She can be kinda scary when she's yelling at other people but she's nice to us! And Prior Morgan is nice too. He's like us too, you know, but we're not supposed to tell anyone-"
"-And you just did!"
"But Catherine is right! She's just like us!"
Somehow, I feel right at home amongst their jokes and their arguing- like we're already our own little family.
* * *
The three months I've spent at the rambunctious refuge have been more relaxing than I'd expected. I'd been practicing Practical magic, creating the little food I knew how to make to help feed the poor and the refugees alike. We'd all become close, sharing stories- some more cheerful than others. Annabeth and the boys got a good laugh out of me burning off my mother's eyebrows.
Everyone here has their own quirks, however. Jeanie just might be the most paranoid woman on the planet. I can't blame her for being that way.
On weekends, Withernham held a market stall selling all kinds of goods- seafood, bread, vegetables, even crystals- though the vendor would always market them as home decorations, he knew why most people bought them- witches using them for spells, potions, or merely for their various healing powers. The weekends were where the Peteran regulars would talk amongst the townspeople and visitors outside the square. Either Reynold or Joyce would do some kind of sermon outdoors, though more informal than the ones they performed in the monastery. Sometimes, you'd meet more people with awful stories to tell- widows, orphaned children...We did what we could to comfort them. I tried to take a leaf from the Book of Peter itself, to always spread hope wherever you go, even if all seems hopeless.
I did try to read the Book of Peter, but it's rather a long and monotonous read, so I just picked up some quotes here and there. Supposedly, this is an abridged version of the thousand-year-old book written by Peter, the man himself. To my surprise, the book isn't so much about him as much as it is his praising of the Watcher.
Great for those who need a change of perspective. Even better for those with insomnia.
Reynold and Joyce's library held quite the collection of books. Some looked so old they'd turn to dust if I touched them, and so I left them where they were, but there were books on any subject- history, sciences, various philosophies, even a few with plain spines on the magical beasts of old.
Supposedly, scholarly debate on whether or not dragons still existed had been ongoing for the hundreds of years they've been thought to be dead or supposedly confined to glass orbs. Many times when I'm in here, Reynold is sat at his desk poring through all sorts of tomes and reading the Book of Peter. I wonder how many times he's read it cover to cover by now?
I let him try something else I made using Practical magic, trying to remember my mother's recipe for an apple crumble. The Alumentum spell was a hard one to get used to, since it's easy to forget a step or two in a recipe. You do that, you end up with a hand full of floury mush.
"That's the one," Mother Joyce replies, plucking her own writings with the Watcher from the shelf.