...Peter stayed with the couple for two days. It took this long to get rid of his shiver and stop sniffling. The days had been uneventful- Victor, the Father of poor Brother Isaac, spent his days with a whip in his hand. He brought lumber to the town and demand was high on account of the storm. It was the worst flood most in the town had ever witnessed. Victor had a large cart drawn by 2 mules. Gladius and Jude. They were steady and never rested. Victor never rested. He worked every day of the week.
Peter hadn't known this was something good people were capable of. Working on sundays and no hellfire? Peter wondered what it took to be wise. What was the proper angle at which to look inward? He had been looking at some supposed force- and began feeling stupid.
Victor was no sinner. His wife might have been a saint if there ever were such things.
Brother Isaac- A fool, but Peter could sympathize for he too had worn the same blindfold.
Peter laid in bed staring over at his coat again- through its thread to the letter inside. He had avoided mentioning it at all cost and in some cases so deftly diverted the conversation he could laugh. He didn't however once he began feeling sick again. For their future sadness.
He felt well enough to head back to his room in the monastery and started to his feet. They still ached but compared to the initial pain of thawing this was nothing. Peter grabbed his jacket from its resting place near the wood oven and threw it over his shoulders. He couldn't enjoy its warmth once his fingers brushed the letter in his pocket. He had to tell them. He didn't want to see their faces. He didn't want to go back to the monastery.
The sun was peeking through the clouds, through the window into the cottage where Peter stood weary. He drew the letter and dropped it on the edge of the table. He looked at it a second and turned around. Sick. His caregivers had gone to Victor's family home and Peter's escape was unnoticed.
Peters thinking was so different- Godless. In his recovery it had all begun to seem so foolish and now standing in the mud it was illustrated. Sung to him. He had dropped his bible on the bank of the rushing stream and could see it from meters away. Blossoming and soaked. Dead. It was never alive. It isn't real. Its pages have turned to oatmeal and grit- but the mud is still mud.
Peter followed the river south and never prayed again. He never punished himself for this foolishness- he was enlightened.
Depart and open your eyes.
It is just that simple.
Mud will always be mud
and Bibles become weapons.
