Well hey, your new headwear suits – I tried to lift his spirits a bit, and it worked. His face brightened, and he went on: And when I got here, I took the name Figured I'd draw less attention that way, just blend into the environment. Even if it's just by adopting a pseudonym. So? Did it work?
You and I are talking right now, aren't we? Which means I'm alive and mostly
Can't argue with You're a strong man, buddy. – My eyes were starting to close again.
Something in me had completely melted, and I'd turned into a napper — which I'd never been before. Must be the poisoning. And the beatings. No doubt.
I stretched out without shame and let my friend see I needed rest. He got the hint and politely returned to the fire. I lay there, and my brain filled up with the dumbest thoughts.
Like, whether Mattathia found it comfy to sleep in the wagon rather than by the fire. Or how many jugs Bartholomew could balance on his head at once. And with those pressing concerns, I passed out
— figuring the new day would bring me more action than this constant loop of getting knocked out and waking up again.
Scaffolding for new meanings.
In the beginning was the Word. And that Word was—TOO LATE!
How could he?!
Little Murilo was running like he was scared to miss the Last Judgment. His tiny legs moved fast over the short hallway paved with ancient mosaic tiles. But to him, it felt endless. People rushed past him—some bumping into him a little—but he clutched the sides of his robe and pushed forward, desperate.
Don't look at anyone! Got to make it in time! — That's what the boy kept telling himself, nearly out of breath as he finally reached the door he was searching for. Some kind of providence was dragging him there, along with a message from one of the brothers—apparently, the Monsignor was urgently looking for him.
He was inside. So was another priest—a stranger—very large, with long fingers covered in rings. He reeked of perfumed oils so strong they drowned out every other smell in the room, which was already crammed with shelves. Some held wine. Others held trinkets and actual treasures, which the boy would've loved to peek at—if he hadn't been so fixated on the conversation.
The unfamiliar priest was holding an abacus, slowly clicking the beads while muttering:
Gross revenue from indulgences in this quarter is down one and a half percent, which is regrettable. We need to measure the intake coming from...
The Monsignor noticed the boy and gave the other priest a tap on the shoulder to stop him. The man fell silent as the thin, pale Monsignor tried to animate his worn-out face. He even forced on a soft, polite smile.
Murilo, hello Thank you for gracing us with your presence. Please, have a seat on the couch.
The boy obeyed, quietly shutting the door and tiptoeing to the couch.
He didn't even dare to breathe. Damn! It wasn't every day someone of such high rank gave you attention.
But what confused him was the look the fat priest was giving him—some kind of weird, fatherly sympathy. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Meanwhile, in the Monsignor's dead eyes, little sparks of interest began to flicker as he said to his companion, rather animated:
This is our He's new here, but already proved himself a diligent, hardworking lad, with a fiery heart and true faith in Our Father. Honestly—he's the perfect candidate. Maybe it is time to take a break from our calculations and switch to... a different kind of measurement.
From the ceiling, sorrowful eyes of saints stared down at the boy. The scenes of their martyrdom were painted across the top, and he imagined those stretched-out arms reaching to pull him out of here. But they stayed frozen, unmoved by his silent plea. Instead, something else was offered to Murilo.
The priest reached under his robe and began to chant slowly:
Oh, my .. there's still some more measuring I could use. Would you help me out?
Grass rustled gently in the night breeze. Somewhere in the distance, predators howled. And my scream shattered the natural quiet.
You've corrupted His Message… — I think that's what I was yelling, thrashing on my mat, feeling like something was tearing me Maybe my mind was just tripping after what I saw, but it felt like someone was peeling my scalp—bit by bit. Not gently. They were ripping it off, just to make it hurt more.