CH-028

After making his confession to Father Alistair, Father Symeon felt utterly drained.

It was as though he had spent day after day, year after year, climbing some great mountain, and had finally reached the summit. Yet unlike others who might feel the joy of reaching the top, he felt no sense of lightness, no relief, no expectation for the future.

He only felt exhausted — as though every gap between his bones had been filled with a lazy heaviness, making it impossible to do anything or think about anything.

He still had many things that needed to be done. But he had no energy to do them.

"Then go rest," Father Alistair said.

Was that all right?

The thought had barely surfaced before Father Alistair's voice answered it: "It's fine. We'll take care of things this evening. Resting now in the daytime is also a preparation for doing better later."

He was persuaded. Father Symeon lay back down at Father Alistair's direction, and quickly slipped back into sleep.

The dream was very quiet and very long, like a river without end, flowing steadily onward.

He did not dream of his daughter.

He had imagined countless times — if only he hadn't been so pressed to finish the sculpture commissioned by the church hierarchy that night, if only he had been more attentive and noticed that his daughter was simply being too well-behaved and hadn't told him she was sick — then everything would have been different.

That was the dream he wanted to have.

But perhaps, he thought, the Lord knew that such a dream would only leave him more hollow and more tormented?

And so he had never once dreamed of a second chance — only of the agonizing years he still spent working for the church hierarchy.

In that time, he was like countless other sculptors across the Northern Lands.

Though he had not taken holy orders, he had worked specifically for the church, because the church had abundant commissions and great need, so they were willing to pay. At that time, Symeon was a sculptor of some renown. Beyond oil paintings and frescoes, his sculpture was also outstanding, and his particular specialty was drawing from the stories of scripture for his creations.

In the dream, he found himself back in the scene of creating the sculpture "God So Loved the World."

Fine stone dust floated through the workshop, drifting slowly through the slanting light that entered the room.

He stood before a great block of stone, chisel suspended in midair, having long delayed the moment of descent.

The figure's outline had been defined long ago, and it had been finalized from the very start.

It was a divine figure standing with bowed head, a wide and flowing cloak draped from head to foot like a translucent veil, faintly and softly concealing the deity's countenance and form.

Everyone's gaze would be drawn first to the deity's two slightly outstretched hands. The palms were turned upward, meaning to receive the suffering of all people, and so the deity's palms were the focal point of the carving. Under Symeon's hand, the palms conveyed the soft texture of living skin — a laborer's hands, yet without a trace of roughness, exuding instead a compassionate and tender gentleness.

Having finished just the hands, Symeon already sensed that this life-size sculpture would leave its name in the entire history of church art — and so he was meticulous about every detail, seeking to align it as closely as possible with scripture.

Only when he finally arrived at the face did Symeon hesitate.

In truth, he had initially assumed the face would be the easiest part, since there were reference works for everything — he had only to think about the deity's expression at the end. But when he actually arrived at this point, he suddenly felt that the deity's face was the most difficult part of the entire work.

The scripture said: "No man shall see me and live," and various interpretations had also said, "No one has ever seen what God looks like."

He suddenly became stuck at this point, unable to arrive at a concrete vision.

What did the divine face look like? Was it majestic and full of divine authority — or merciful and full of humanity?

He found he could suddenly not imagine a being he had never believed in. Was it because his lack of faith left him unable to express the divine nature?

This doubt tormented him again and again.

He only changed to a finer carving knife and continued slowly advancing along the folds of the cloak, working day and night, intoxicated in his wait for inspiration's arrival.

However, unhappily, the inspiration never came — and fate descended its merciless punishment, taking from him his young daughter.

On the day of his daughter's death, he threw the unfinished sculpture into a river, along with all his obsession and pride. From that day on, he never touched a carving knife or a paintbrush again.

……

Though it was a dream that should have pierced the chest and torn one apart, the grief within Symeon was not cold or sharp, but instead quiet — almost tender.

When Father Symeon woke again, dusk had arrived. Not even a trace of sunset color remained in the sky — only a sweep of crimson and purple clouds. Father Symeon stared out the window at the scene for a long time, and it wasn't until the door was knocked that he truly became conscious once more — that he was now a priest.

He was told that the whole town had been stirred up by the removal of the clock; the demon, feeling challenged, had gone into a frenzy in the night. The entire town was seized with terror, its people deathly silent. And the mayor, full of rage, blamed it all on Father Symeon's rash and hasty action.

He was supposed to give an account of himself today.

Father Symeon hastily threw off his covers, and at the doorway found the young Finnian peering in.

Though they hadn't been acquainted long, the boy had a liveliness about him that other children his age lacked — a quality that made adults fond of him.

"Perfect, you just woke up!"

Finnian walked through the door carrying the white vestment robes used for delivering sermons, and said with a grin: "Father Alistair has prepared everything for you and sent me to tell you to dress in your full priestly vestments. He also brought your Bible for you, so all you need to do is get dressed and you can go straight to the square — everyone is waiting for you."

Waiting for me? Everyone?

Father Symeon didn't feel that anyone would be looking forward to seeing him.

"What does Father Alistair plan to do?"

Finnian said as a matter of course: "Exorcise the demon, of course! Isn't everyone troubled by this very matter? You're the priest of this pastoral district — who else would exorcise the demon if not you?"

Father Symeon immediately panicked: "But I don't know how to do anything like that!"

Finnian said: "Father Alistair said just do what you know how to do. You're good at delivering sermons, aren't you?"

Father Symeon truly was not skilled at sermons — he only knew how to follow the text of the Bible and read along.

Finnian, noticing that Father Symeon wasn't reacting, immediately understood what he was hesitating about and reminded him: "I've heard that when you tell the stories about sin and evil, it's like you become a completely different person. Whoever sees it doesn't dare say a word — apparently not even demons would dare stand against you."

If that were truly the case, then Stonehollow pastoral district would have nothing to fear from any demon. But Father Symeon recognized that this must all be Father Alistair's arrangement. And so he chose to comply.

*

By the time they reached the square, there was still a line of crimson on the horizon, but it could no longer provide enough light for the whole town. In the center of the square, a row upon row of candle lamps cast a soft glow, like stars fallen from the sky. In addition, Father Alistair had had Raymond hastily construct a wooden stage. The backdrop consisted of several pieces of wood leaning against each other — simple but distinctive, lending a degree of solemnity. In the center was a familiar pulpit, and on it, a thick and heavy Bible.

"......" Father Symeon, who had rushed over with Finnian, was stopped in his tracks by the scene's setup, utterly uncertain how to approach.

But there was no time to be surprised — the faithful who usually attended mass, upon hearing that Father Symeon was going to perform a public purification ceremony, had also come over to ask how they might help. Now, having heard and come over, they held their instruments in one hand and chairs in the other, taking their seats one by one.

Passersby stopped to observe from a distance; families living near the center of the square pressed against their windows to see what was about to happen. The mayor and other constables were maintaining order, with two individuals visibly bound beside them — clearly mid-arrest.

Father Symeon stared, riveted: "......"

Finnian explained beside him: "You don't need to rush onto the stage — just wait for Father Alistair's arrangement, and go up when he tells you."

Seeing more and more people beginning to notice the stage, Father Symeon, who had yet to deliver his sermon, already felt dizzy and light-headed.

At that moment, a young man's voice rang out from the stage — warm and crisp: "Tonight at nightfall, Father Symeon will bring peace to the residents of this pastoral district."

The voice served as a signal.

The accordion was the first to respond.

The first long note cut through the stillness of the night — a quiet, solemn melody that resonated through the vast open square, like a whisper from deep within the soul, like a song being sung within the hearts of all present, making people instinctively hold their breath. Then, one by one, the other musicians fixed their eyes on their sheet music and began to add their instruments. This was a piece no one had heard before — as the audience listened, they seemed to see a sacred figure stepping up onto a high platform.

Within this resonant music, Father Alistair invited Father Symeon onto the stage.

Father Symeon couldn't stop himself from murmuring quietly: "I don't know what to do."

Should he tell a story from the Bible about how divine punishment was brought down? That didn't seem quite right...

Father Alistair said, gently but firmly: "Father Symeon, it's just like any ordinary mass — simply say whatever is most familiar to you. Don't worry! I believe this purification ceremony will surely bring quiet nights back to the residents."

Left with no choice, Father Symeon stood at the front of the stage, trembling as he opened the Bible.

The audience below fell into extraordinary silence.

Before turning the page, he looked out involuntarily over the crowd.

Though it had been the music that drew everyone's attention, the audience below naturally turned their eyes to him all the same. Quickly, his gaze was drawn to a girl of about four. The child sat quietly nestled in her father's arms, those clear, bright eyes blinking as they looked up at him. He thought of his own daughter, who had died so young — she too had had those same bright eyes. And he had not been able to protect her.

He lowered his head and read the first line — and found the familiar verse there in the Bible.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son."

His fingertips traced over that line, and within his heart floated grief, pain, and a love intertwined with regret.

In this moment, he suddenly understood the heartbreak behind God's love for the world — and also its steadfastness.

His gaze moved gently over everyone around him. If from this day forward there was something he could do for them, he would do his utmost to make this entire ceremony the best it could be.

As though he were doing it for his own child — for their sake.

The sermon that followed was more powerful than any he had delivered before.

His voice was even more arresting than the music: "Brothers and sisters, we gather here tonight to bring a more peaceful life to our home. Sometimes we ask: why, when we find ourselves in hardship, do we receive no help at all? Like a long nightmare from which one cannot awaken. Like a moonless road through the night, too dark to walk."

"We ask: Lord, if you truly exist, why do you not appear? Why do you not let us know you?"

"Yet the Lord says, 'My face cannot be known to any person — for those who have seen my countenance cannot remain alive.'"

"Is this true? If it is true, then those who receive the Lord's help must have seen it. Would they truly die?"

"No. The truth is that the Lord is compassionate."

"He loves the world — not only the holy, but also the lost, the weak, the fearful, those who err again and again. He is near us, never departed, only unnoticed. He has placed a light within our hearts."

"Tonight, the painful darkness will not endure forever."

Having finished these words, Father Symeon felt a rush of warmth in his chest — yet his rational mind told him that none of this could possibly have anything to do with an actual exorcism.

Just as he wondered what story to tell next, Finnian's voice suddenly rang out incongruously from within the crowd: "Father Symeon, what is happening to the Bible in your hands?"

His voice was full of shock, as though witnessing a miracle.

The crowd immediately hushed, and all eyes snapped back to the Bible in the priest's hands.

"Did you all see it?" Finnian grabbed the arm of the person standing beside him and said with excitement and conviction: "A glowing butterfly just flew out of the Bible."

The audience was collectively stunned — they hadn't seen anything...

A stir arose.

Some people moved closer; families watching from windows even opened their shutters to look more carefully.

"Huh? I didn't see anything."

"I didn't either..."

Restless murmurs rose and fell.

Low whispers went back and forth, yet Finnian stood utterly unmoved — he even ran up onto the stage, showing no stage fright whatsoever, and called out: "Is it because only the faithful can see it?"

Those words struck Father Symeon's heart like a bolt of lightning.

Father Symeon suddenly began to doubt whether he was truly loyal to the Lord — because he too had not seen a thing.

But then Finnian suddenly shouted: "Father Symeon, catch the butterfly quickly! It's about to fly away! Those who can see it, come help — this is the Lord's blessing!"

The atmosphere snapped taut at once.

Father Symeon's heart was in turmoil. His hand rose of its own accord into the air, trying to catch a butterfly that existed nowhere. He half felt it was absurd, yet was also overcome by an inexplicable sense of the sacred.

Father Alistair also stepped onto the stage, helping to cup Father Symeon's hands while whispering to him: "The Lord will guide you. Just believe — that's all."

The voice seemed to be speaking to himself, and to Father Symeon, and to everyone.

Finnian, who had also come up onto the stage, reached over and clasped Father Symeon's hands too.

Three pairs of hands overlapped above the Bible.

The music had stopped at some point, unnoticed.

The air seemed to congeal. The audience held their breath, watching their movements.

Then Finnian abruptly sneezed — and his hands instinctively loosened. But in that very moment, a small paper butterfly gleaming with faint silver light gently floated free from the three clasped hands.

"Oh—!" Someone in the crowd could not suppress an exclamation: "I saw it!"

"I saw it too!"

"My God!"

"A miracle—!!"

Finnian, flustered by his own mistake, rushed after the paper butterfly. Just as he was about to pounce on it, the butterfly split into two — spiraling slowly through the night air, trailing a soft luminous glow.

But how could Finnian possibly catch two butterflies at once? He could only grab the nearest one.

Yet the moment the paper butterfly touched Finnian's hand, it vanished into thin air.

A collective sound of regret rose from the audience below.

On the other side, Alistair carefully joined the chase after the other paper butterfly. In the same way, whenever Alistair touched the butterfly, it would disappear like a game of hide-and-seek, reappearing in another direction, never quite within reach. This had even the adults and children in the audience pointing out directions, calling guidance.

After great effort, Alistair finally cupped his hands around the one remaining fragile butterfly and solemnly placed it into Father Symeon's keeping.

Father Symeon clutched it tightly, terrified it would vanish from his hands too.

"This is clearly a miracle brought by Father Symeon," Alistair said, turning to the audience, his voice grave and solemn. "Only if it is opened by Father Symeon will it not disappear — and only then will it bring blessings to all."

He paused a moment, then turned back to Father Symeon: "Father Symeon — please—!"

Father Symeon felt Alistair give a gentle nudge to his elbow. The force was not heavy — more like a fateful guidance.

And so, acting on instinct, he clasped his hands and raised them above his head. The sleeves of his robe slid down, revealing the old scars left by his years of ascetic penance — mottled and crisscrossing.

A silence fell over the audience below. Complex expressions crossed people's faces — surprise, compassion, and reverence.

In this moment, Father Symeon felt none of the retreat, fear, or shame he usually associated with his scars. In their place was a calmness, a release.

It was as though he were lifting his faith itself, holding it high.

Then, watched by everyone's eyes, Father Symeon slowly opened his palms.

At the very instant his hands parted, light and shadow cascaded like water, and the bells of the square's clock tower rang out thunderously, shaking the heart.

Countless silver-white paper butterflies scattered from his hands, carried on the bells and the wind like living spirits dancing through the entire square, soaring over the crowd and into the night sky.

Some people reached out instinctively, then loosened their grip, afraid that catching one would disturb the Lord — afraid of breaking the moment. The bolder ones who did catch a butterfly found it fall still in their hands, the sacred words of scripture appearing before their eyes on its surface.

More and more people began to marvel; some had tears glimmering in their eyes, or began to pray, or quietly embraced the loved ones beside them.

And Father Symeon, who had done all of this, stared wide-eyed and instinctively looked toward Father Alistair. But Father Alistair did not look back at him.

Against the backlight, Father Symeon seemed to see an even greater light behind the other man's figure.

In that instant, Father Symeon felt he had grasped the answer.

"Everyone," Father Symeon drew a deep breath, his voice low and firm, "the Lord grants you his blessings—"

In that moment, the unrest that had stirred through the townspeople on account of the paper butterflies settled again to stillness.

The night wind was so gentle, and even the darkness no longer felt frightening.

They watched, rapt, as Father Symeon's gaze moved tenderly over the crowd, and at last he parted his lips quietly.

"Wishing you all — sweet dreams tonight."