The bell rang at six. It always rang at six. It was a heavy sound, dull and final, like a stone dropped into a deep well. I sat at the table in the hall. The wood was cold. My hands were cold. Across from me sat Father Thorne. He did not look up. He was cutting an apple. The knife was sharp. It glided through the skin with a wet, precise sound.

"You are late," he said. His voice was dry. Like dead leaves.

"I was in the field," I said. "The rain."

"The rain does not stop the clock, Elias."

I nodded. I did not argue. I never argued. To argue was to sin. To argue was to be wrong. I waited for him to finish. The apple was red. It bled onto the white cloth. A small stain. A small crime.

"What is the work for today?" I asked.

Thorne wiped his hands. He looked at me. His eyes were pale. Blue like the sky before a storm. He smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"There is a man," he said. "In the north field. He is sick. He is dying. He is a heretic."

My heart stopped. Then it started again. Faster. Harder. A hammer in my chest.

"Heretic?" I whispered.

"He does not pray to the right gods," Thorne said. "He speaks to the earth. He listens to the wind. He is lost, Elias. We must save him."

I stood up. My legs were weak. The room tilted. The apple core sat on the plate. The stain was spreading.

"How?" I asked.

"You will go to him," Thorne said. "You will bring the light. You will bring the word. You will bring the fire."

"I cannot," I said.

"You must."

"It is not my place."

"It is your duty."

I looked at the window. Outside, the sky was grey. The trees were bare. They stood like sentinels. They had stood there for a hundred years. They had seen many men come. They had seen many men go. They did not judge. They did not care. They simply were.

I thought of the trees. I thought of the roots. Deep in the dark soil. Holding the earth together. Keeping the water. Keeping the life. The trees were patient. They did not rush. They did not force. They simply grew.

"I will go," I said.

Thorne nodded. He picked up the apple core. He threw it into the bin. The sound was soft. A thud. A end.

I walked out into the yard. The air was sharp. It bit my face. It filled my lungs. I breathed it in. It tasted of iron. Of blood. Of rain.

I walked to the stables. The horses were there. They were brown. They were strong. They stamped their hooves. They breathed out clouds of white mist. I looked at the nearest one. A mare. Her eyes were dark. They were kind.

"Ready?" I asked.

She snorted. She did not answer. She did not need to. She knew what was coming. She had known for a long time.

I climbed onto the saddle. The leather was warm. It smelled of sweat. Of dust. Of life. I kicked the horse. She moved. We moved. We rode out of the gate. The gate closed behind us. The heavy iron clank was loud. It echoed. It rang. It was the sound of a door closing.

The road was long. It was straight. It went up and down. It went through the woods. It went over the hills. I rode fast. The wind was in my face. It pushed me. It pulled me. I was a speck. I was nothing. I was a man on a horse. I was a servant. I was a tool.

I reached the north field. It was a small clearing. In the center, there was a man. He sat on a rock. He was old. His hair was white. His eyes were closed. He was breathing. Slowly. Deeply.

I dismounted. I walked to him. He did not open his eyes. He did not move.

"Heretic," I said.

He did not answer.

"Open your eyes," I said.

He opened his eyes. They were clear. They were bright. They were full of light.

"I am not a heretic," he said. His voice was soft. Like wind in the grass.

"You are," I said. "You do not pray."

"I do not need to," he said.

"To what?" I asked.

"To the earth," he said. "To the rain. To the sun. To the life."

"That is wrong," I said.

"It is true," he said.

I looked at him. I looked at his hands. They were rough. They were stained with soil. They were the hands of a worker. The hands of a farmer. The hands of a man who lived in the world.

I felt a anger. It was hot. It was bright. It burned in my throat. I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout. I wanted to tear him apart.

"Stand up," I said.

He stood up. He was tall. He was strong. He was not afraid.

"I must take you," I said. "I must take you to the fire."

"The fire?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "The fire is the only way. The fire cleanses. The fire purges. The fire saves."

He looked at me. He looked at my face. He saw the anger. He saw the fear. He saw the doubt.

"You are afraid," he said.

"I am not," I said.

"You are," he said. "You are afraid of the truth."

"I do not know the truth," I said.

"You do," he said. "You have always known."

I looked at the trees. They were still. They were silent. They were watching.

I looked at the man. He was smiling. It was a gentle smile. It was a sad smile.

"I will not go with you," he said.

I felt a shock. It was a physical blow. It hit my chest. It knocked the breath out of me.

"You must," I said.

"I will not," he said.

I reached for his arm. I grabbed it. His skin was warm. He was alive. He was real.

"Let go," he said.

I did not let go. I pulled. He pulled back. We stood there. Struggling. Fighting.

The wind picked up. The trees began to sway. The leaves rustled. It sounded like a whisper. It sounded like a warning.

I looked at the ground. The soil was dark. It was rich. It was full of life. I saw a worm. It was small. It was pink. It moved through the dirt. It was free. It was alive.

I looked at the man. His eyes were still on me. They were full of pity.

"Let go," he said.

I let go.

I fell to my knees. The dirt was cold. It was wet. It seeped into my clothes. I felt the earth. I felt the roots. I felt the life.

The man walked away. He walked to the edge of the clearing. He looked back at me. He did not say anything. He just looked.

Then he was gone. He disappeared into the woods. He was like a ghost. He was like a shadow.

I sat there. I sat for a long time. The sun began to set. The sky turned red. Then orange. Then purple. Then black.

I stood up. My legs were stiff. My body ached. I walked to my horse. I climbed on. I rode back.

I did not speak. I did not look around. I just rode.

I arrived at the gate. It was dark. The gate was closed. I knocked. No one answered. I knocked again.

The gate opened. A guard was there. He held a lantern. The light was yellow. It was dim.

"Where is he?" the guard asked.

I did not answer.

"Where is the heretic?" he asked.

I did not answer.

"Speak!" he shouted.

I looked at him. I looked at his face. It was hard. It was cruel. It was a mask.

"I do not know," I said.

The guard laughed. It was a cold laugh. It was a mean laugh.

"You are a liar," he said.

"I am not," I said.

"You are," he said. "You are a coward."

I did not argue. I did not explain. I just walked past him. I walked into the house.

The hall was empty. The table was set. The apple core was in the bin. The stain was still there. It was dark. It was old.

I walked to my room. I closed the door. I sat on the bed. I closed my eyes.

I thought of the man. I thought of his eyes. I thought of his smile.

I thought of the trees. I thought of the roots.

I opened my eyes. The room was dark. The shadows were long.

I got up. I walked to the window. I looked out.

The moon was full. It was bright. It was white. It hung in the sky.

I looked at the ground. The grass was silver. The trees were black.

I felt a peace. It was strange. It was quiet. It was deep.

I knew I had failed. I knew I had lost.

I knew I was free.

I walked to the door. I opened it. I walked out into the night.

The air was cold. It was clear. It was clean.

I walked to the field. I walked to the clearing.

The man was gone. The rock was there. The trees were there. The wind was there.

I sat on the rock. I closed my eyes.

I listened.

I heard the wind. I heard the trees. I heard the earth.

I was alone. I was not alone.

I was part of it.

I opened my eyes. The stars were out. They were bright. They were far.

I looked up. I looked at the sky.

I did not pray.

I just looked.

I just breathed.

I just was.

The bell rang at six. It was morning.

I was still there.

I stood up. I walked home.

I did not speak.

I did not look back.

I just walked.

I was a man. I was a servant. I was a tool.

I was free.