All in all the little priest should have been content – even proud of what he had achieved in Shelding during these last twenty-two years.
But even had Ermal been given to prideful thoughts, he would no longer be able to sustain them. He felt this strongly as he sat in his small living room, staring into the fading fire. Mulgrave was asleep upstairs, and the house – save for a few creaks from the ageing timbers – was silent.
‘You are worse than a fraud,’ Ermal told himself. ‘You are a liar and a coward. You are a weak and loathsome man.’ He felt close to tears as he sat in his deep armchair, a blanket around his thin shoulders.
Over the years he had gathered some knowledge of herbs, but all of his concoctions were actually based on camomile and cider vinegar, with just an occasional dash of mustard. There was no lasting medicinal benefit to be obtained from any of them. Ermal’s talent came from within. When he laid hands upon the sick he could heal them. He would close his eyes and know what ailed them, and he could either draw it out or boost the patients’ own defence mechanisms, causing them to heal themselves. At first he had kept this gift entirely secret. This was not originally out of fear, but more from a natural shyness and a desire to remain unnoticed. He did not want people to stare at him and consider him different. He did not wish to be unusual or special. As a youngster Ermal had desired comfortable anonymity. As he grew older – and more inclined towards the spiritual – he had felt that his gift should be put to use helping people. It took him a little time to come up with the idea of herbalism as a disguise for his talents. It seemed such a small lie, and one for which he believed the Source would forgive him. After all, was it not the Source who had made him shy and humble? On top of that there was the memory of his father – an equally shy man. ‘Do good in secret, Ermal,’ he had said. His donations to charity were always made anonymously, or through a trusted intermediary who would not divulge the origin of the good fortune. ‘All that we have comes from the Source,’ Ermal’s father claimed, ‘and it is arrogance itself to claim credit for our ability to finance good deeds.’
For Ermal this became a life philosophy. And he was happy as a priest and a healer. He enjoyed the love of his parishioners, and the gratitude of those he healed.
All this had changed four years before, when the Redeemers had arrested old Tarn Farley.
Guilt burned in Ermal’s heart as he remembered the man. Tarn had lived alone on a farm just outside Shelding. Ermal had visited him one morning, almost fifteen years ago. It was a bright, hot summer’s day and Ermal had been walking his parish, knocking on doors and chatting to residents who did not – or could not through age or infirmity – attend services. Most of the people greeted him warmly enough. Occasionally he would be turned away by those who had no interest in matters spiritual.
At last he had come to Tarn’s cottage. The original farm building had caught fire some years previously, and was a burnt-out shell. The small farm had long since ceased to be a going concern, and Tarn had sold his best fields to a neighbouring farmer. He lived alone in a cottage close to the derelict farmhouse, keeping only two dozen hens and an old rooster. The cottage was small, but tidily maintained and the front door, Ermal remembered, had a fresh coat of green paint upon it. He tapped at the frame.
Old Tarn opened the door. He was a tall man, stooped by time, with an unruly mop of white hair, long and unkempt. Tarn’s face was heavily lined, but his eyes were a bright button blue, untouched by the years. They were the eyes of a young man, keen and still curious about life and all its hazards and wonders.