If Matthieu had to have a birthday, the equinox suited as well as any day; the vernal, this time, though he'd been known to claim them both within a year. Equable, fairly balanced--he'd tweaked Darius about it all day, since Marette cornered them after Mass with the blunt question that could not be put aside. While Darius would not have mentioned the Immaculate Conception in the same breath, the devil had no such qualms, and gleefully seized the date. Darius chided himself. It was warm trousers from Marette and socks from Blanca Matthieu wanted and cakes from the Miller's wife, too greedy to wait for Easter bounty. The women would fit him out, poor lamb; poor goat, with a wicked pinch for the priest's behind. He deserved no gifts from Darius beyond the food and shelter and bed they shared. It was Lent, the hard winter slow to end. The bees slumbered. The ground was cold. Passion Week was a fortnight hence. Matthieu, stripped to basics as he was, had enough. More, and he'd leave me, thought Darius that night, watching the firelight lick the knife of Matthieu's cheek. Leave this sanctuary. "What?" asked Matthieu. He sat, as usual, on a blanket on the hearth, scratching marks with a bit of stone. "I like having you here." "Hmph." Matthieu's fingers curled into a cage. "For slave labor." "For sweet company." That made them both smirk. "I saw a white bird standing on the bank of the stream. There's mud now; the ground is thawing." "Frozen mud." "Black mud, wet around its feet. It caught a frog." "Frozen frog..." "You're cross as two sticks. I thought you worshiped spring." "All things in their time, my son." "It's time. I say it's mud season, frog season; and speaking of the good rich earth, what goes for pagan rituals? Any sacrifices? Any seeding the ground, any virgins plowed for the village crops?" "Your mind is a bog. This is a decent Christian parish." He blinked away from proof to the contrary. "Easter in three weeks, a procession and a fete. Plays, music, food..." "Ribbons on mules. Three weeks! Mud now, migrating fowl, frogs beginning to peep. Blood beginning to flow. Nature's not bound by your liturgy." He stood, brushing his hands. "I'll prove it, you withered branch." Not so withered last time you picked a fight, thought Darius. His loins prickled. Matthieu's sullen mood had dampened their bed lately. All proper for the season, for the abstinence he should be practicing. But he wouldn't say no to some sign of blood rising, imagined or not. He looked up keenly. Matthieu was scuffing into his clogs, winding Darius's heavy cloak around himself. "Fool, what are you after?" "Proof," said Matthieu, at the door. He pulled it open, on a cold rush of air, and slammed out. Darius gaped. He shut his mouth with a snap, and twitched his cassock smooth across his prickle. "Spring," he snorted. "The first cuckoo's sung, for sure." +++ Time passed, hours, surely, and the fool did not return. The house felt incomplete without him. That was custom, and custom would pass, Darius knew. He meditated on solitude, on the fading of the familiar, with his hands folded in his lap and growing cold. He offered his discomfort as penance for delinquent prayers. His feet were cold. It was past time for bed. Fool himself, for sitting up. The stream was but half an hour's walk in daylight and the farthest Matthieu had wandered yet from Holy Ground alone. So far as Darius knew. The stream swelled downhill, it flowed by the mill into a pond. Was the fool stalking through those reeds? Did he know to avoid the Miller's house? The Miller's dogs? The sweet, golden Miller's... He jerked awake. When had he slept? The oil lamp guttered. The fire had gone to embers and smoke. Stiffly he stood, and poked the mess in the hearth. Matthieu could find his way home. Let him stand under the stars, thinking his own long thoughts and letting the night blow his humours clean. He banked the fire. He pinched out the wick. He picked up Matthieu's thin, patched cloak and his walking staff and left the house. The day's clouds had been swept away. The moon was dark, the sky was black and clear, studded with stars. Darius held his breath, to keep his vision of the heavens sharp. He thought he recognized Mars. Bad luck for Matthieu, if Mars it was. The wives had been too welcoming, the men too reserved in his company. There was something unsaid in the air, something the confessional had yet to yield. He felt a yellow choler in the church today, between his shoulder blades at Mass. The winter snows banked grievances; spring broke them out. Whatever was festering would rise to the surface soon enough. A faithless woman. A thieving neighbor. A drunkard son. No news from the outside world, these last two months, unless it dropped from the beaks of birds. He walked direct to the riverbank and found nothing there. He felt no sign of Matthieu. The ground, of course, was solid underfoot. Frozen. Old snow clumped around broken reeds and stones. The stream ran deep and fast to his right. A small stand of trees and saplings blocked his way, forcing a detour from the bank. He slid on a stone and jammed his staff hard into the ground, to steady him. No Matthieu, still, and he didn't know whether to worry or laugh at himself. What did he expect? To find him strolling, or napping in a nest? To the edge of the Miller's land, he decided. He'd walk up and then curve across and take an easier way home. The cold seeped through his socks. In the distance, he heard dogs; the Miller's, they must be, and raging upset. A starving fox, a badger out for an incautious stroll? He stumbled forward, into the tingle of Presence. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and strained to see. There was nothing human against the darkness, nothing... he stepped closer to the riverbank and stumbled again, over a root. A hand, not a root, a hand gripping his ankle, grasping his cloak, tripping him over his staff, dragging him down, into the snow and reeds and.... "Mud," said Matthieu, in his ear. "Thou pestilent dog!" "Hush." "Thou snake! Thou pissing swine!" "Hist. Quiet." A laugh! The crapulant toad was puffing mist in his eyes, gasping, coughing; cold. Darius's sight cleared: Matthieu lay on the ground next to him, head bare, shivering in his shirt. His hands pulled at Darius's cassock, clumsily. "Wait, child." Darius was on his knees now, with Matthieu trying to sit up. He pulled wide his cloak, fumbling with the closing. Matthieu pressed against his chest, dragging the cloth around to cover his shoulder and back. Chest to Darius's cassock, under the cloak, he felt like nothing human; like a side of venison, like meat hung in December. They clung to each other, Darius willing warmth into the rigid flesh. Another laugh? "What have you done, devil? Where is my cloak?" He kissed the cold cheek, the icy temple. "Lost." The stiff lips moved against his throat. "My good cloak lost? Did a frog take it? A thieving crane?" He passed his hand over short fine hair, across the curve of Matthieu's skull, down to the shirt. It was wet, his clothes were all wet, and gritty. Rage took him suddenly, a red rush of heat pounding from his chest, blotting his sight. He crushed the precious body to him and bit his lip to blood. "A white bird, wading in the mud," said Matthieu, his words muffled in the fierce embrace. Darius held him so, hearing his heart thud, waiting for calm to reassert itself. Matthieu was quiet (oh, for once, quiet), his arms wound around Darius's back. He held him so, while false dawn lightened the sky, until the water soaked through to his breast. Alive, alive. Of course, alive. He'd been too long apart from others of his kind. He kissed the side of Matthieu's neck and heard a chuckle, a real, snorting laugh. "God's body, Father, let's to home, first. If you can find my balls, they're yours." "Bah." Darius pushed him off, firmly, gently. "Home, and explain yourself." He found his staff. His knees creaked as he unfolded, leaving Mathieu sprawled still on the snow. He reached down to clasp an arm: "Rise, sinner and walk!" He said loudly and hauled Matthieu, tottering, to his feet. A scream ripped the air behind them. Dark in the gray light, fallen on his knees, was the Miller; beside him, his wife, her shawl across her face. "Jesu, Jesu, a miracle!" she cried. The Miller stared, face paler than his flour. "Be calm," said Darius. "Be...be not afraid." Matthieu snickered. The Miller scrambled sideways like a crab, rolled to his feet, and ran away. A shovel and a rope lay where he dropped them on the rocks and dirty snow and broken reeds. His wife stood where she was, dumb as a tree. The dogs barked insanely, down the hill. When Darius touched her shoulder, her shawl slid off hair that was loose, disordered, blonde white in the growing dawn. Cold, cold, cold, in a white wool gown, too fine for the middle of this plain night. She held the shawl across her mouth. Her eye was blackened and her cheek puffed and red. "Be afraid," said Matthieu. "Be not foolish, be off home with you." His teeth chattered, spoiling his stern aspect. Darius sighed and surrendered the cloak. "Home, Marie. Confession today, you and your husband both. God bless you and keep you." He tugged Matthieu away, walking briskly, near running from the cold. The woman stayed behind them, speechless, staring after. He saved his breath; his roiling mind busied his blood. He stumbled on, he ran, Matthieu trailing after, until he reached the garden gate. Home, home, Holy Ground and fire. "Christ," puffed Matthieu, coming through the door. "You run like a calf." "What did you do?" The fire was slow coming up, the lamp sputtered, and the world was set across his path tonight. This morning. It was full light already. No cloak, no sleep, no peace...he caught his breath. Had he not gone... "What did you do?" he raged. Matthieu, naked, pulled blankets from the bed. "Build up the fire. Heat a drink. I'm frozen through. Nothing," he said, to Darius's glare. "I was struck behind. I woke in the stream. Fire, drink, bed." "A white bird wading in the mud. What mud, devil?" Running water, a woman in white, dark of the moon--some old ways never passed. Or was it the handsome stranger, the fickle wife, and the jealous, violent man? He picked up Matthieu's sodden trousers, to have them taken, gently from his hand. Matthieu, close to, naked under a blanket, wrapping an arm around his waist. The curling lips met his, softly. Fierce. Hungry and alive, life in that kiss and fire. His agate eyes glinted. "My savior, my warmth, my resurrectionist; I owe you this." Another kiss to both cheeks, his mouth, his throat. A fumbling at his cassock's rope. Darius closed his eyes, in ease, finally, in relief. And on his shoulder, in his ear, a damp and muddy croak. ++fin++

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