Serial fiction/ Christian fiction/ Medieval Romance
The House of God — Part Six
Morning greetings and travel preparations

A note: This short novella was written in Bulgarian in my twenties. I’ve decided to translate it and share it with you this month. I hope you’ll enjoy it!
Start with the previous parts:
June 8, 1135
This morning, the discomfort from the bee stings on my body feels muted. I write in the dark, not seeing where my quill goes. Maybe the letters are on top of each other, and nobody will be able to read what I have written. But is this diary intended for anyone other than myself?
I’m alone in the tent. It’s still dark — the dawn is not yet broken from the east — but the men are outside. I can hear two voices. Although they speak quietly, their conversation is as clear as the pearls of morning dew on the green aloe leaves.
‘How’s your neck,’ that’s Winston. He sounds petulant, like a child who can’t get his way despite days of whimpering. A gold shaft of hope pierces the darkness around me: maybe he’ll give in simply because he’ll get tired.
‘Better, ‘Peter answers, and his voice, on the contrary, sounds composed. Our optimistic sea companion seems to have returned, with a touch of additional certainty that tells me that I won’t witness the enigmatic melancholy in his eyes again. ‘I think that tomorrow I’ll be able to look up at the mountains.’
A brief silence follows and then Winston asks:
‘Why do you want to go there, Peter?’
‘Well…we promised the good people in the village we’ll get them the Fire of the Gods, didn’t we?’
‘Don’t joke with me. You talked Kolskeg and Hazel into going there, fire or no fire. That’s not even the mountains in India. Why do you want to go there?’
‘These mountains might not be the Indian ones, but they are high enough,’ Peter says. ‘They will do.’
‘For what?’
‘For seeing God.’
‘So you believe what Hazel believes? That we can see God up there?’
‘I do,’ Peter says. ‘But not because He’s up there. He’s also right here, with us, now. It’s the journey we need, Winston, not the place.’
‘So all those horrors we’ve been going through…you really think they are part of the journey?’
‘Yes. And the only reason for your possible inability to overcome them is not because God hasn’t accepted you but because you haven’t accepted God. I know what’s happening in your heart, Winston. Once, the same thing happened in my heart. I allowed other people to convince me I was unworthy. That God can’t give the full riches of His kingdom to a mere mortal, because we’re all unworthy. Why would you think you’re different, they kept asking me, Why would you think you’re worthy of everything and the rest of the world is not? I didn’t know the answer to that question and slowly, their words grew on me. I lost faith. Not in God — in myself.’
A short silence follows again. Winston coughs.
‘Hey, I…’
‘Tell me, were there people in the past that made you feel unworthy?’ Peter asks softly. ‘People you think might be responsible for you becoming a thief?’
‘Yes. My father. He… he was always nagging me, saying I was good for nothing and bound to end up on the gallows, and…well, I almost ended up that way. If it wasn’t for Hazel…’
I have heard that story before, the sad story of poor parents whose constant battle with life’s hardships made them unable to offer solace and understanding to a child lagging in his development. By the time the child had finally become what his mother and father wanted, both physically and mentally, he was already a broken soul.
Hearing Winston confide his secret with another person validates his being in a manner I haven’t expected. Tears well in my eyes and I brush them away in the darkness.
‘If you have never felt worthy in front of people,’ Peter says, ‘You’ll never be able to feel worthy in front of God. Yet you have to understand, Winston: God is not like people. He accepts you for who you are. If you let Him live in your soul, He’ll feel comfortable there. He won’t feel it’s not a good match. Every human soul is the perfect match for Him because He has created it.’
‘What do you want me to do, Peter?’
‘Just walk with us. Finish this journey with us. Remember what Charles Oldman once did? He finished his journey. He believed in himself and he did it. Didn’t you say he was your inspiration? Or was it Hazel who told me that?’
‘You said he died in the mountains.’
‘That Peter who still had doubts in his heart said that. The Peter you see now in front of you is a Peter whose neck will be no longer bent. Never. The Peter you see now believes that Oldman reached the top of that mountain and met God. Let’s do the same thing.’
More silence. And then Kolskeg’s rumbling voice.
‘Hey, I’m back! I’ve got us some fresh fruit for breakfast! Is the lady up?’
Peter and Winston laugh.
I close my book, crawl outside, and join their laughter.
Winston and I embrace — carefully because our bodies are still not fully healed — and he whispers in my ear: ‘I haven’t forgotten why we wanted to climb a very high mountain. We wanted to get married there.’
‘Yes, ‘I kissed his lips, ‘I haven’t forgotten either.’
‘Do you think there’ll be gold up there? ‘ Kolskeg eats a banana in two bites and points at the peak that soars above the rest: snow wraps it like a white shawl that slowly untangles as the peak widens down into areas of red and brown shrub and green pine forests. The pine forests, in turn, shift into marula and acacia groves as they draw nearer to us: so close that their foothills appear to be only a day’s walk across the valley.
There must be,” Peter winks at him and grabs his sack. He slings his sword, and Winston picks up his bow. The tribe people took leave of us with gifts: a dagger for everyone, swords for Kolskeg and Peter, and a nice wooden bow for Winston, who had informed them of his skill as a marksman. ‘There must be something for everyone.’
I’ll express my gratitude to Peter later.
For now, I’ll just follow him.
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