Where the Devil Says Goodnight (Folk Lore 1)

If he had money, getting that meat taken wouldn’t have been such a huge deal, just a waste of his time and effort, but as it stood, the sausages had already been spoken for and he’d need to tell Mrs. Sarnowicz that he wouldn’t be able to deliver. Which landed him back in square one when it came to paying off his debt for her husband repairing his thatched roof last winter.

The village was a web of sticky, unpleasant connections, and he was the fly helplessly trying to wriggle its way out. But he wasn’t willing to give up yet.

“Shoo!” he yelled at the crows gathering on the roof of his house and mocking him with their screeching. He was so used to their presence by now he wouldn’t have minded them following him everywhere if they didn’t shit all over. Most often—in his homestead.

Maybe Radek was right, and Emil could leave this place. Filip had been so triumphant over his discovery that he hadn’t noticed the trapdoor leading to a small cellar under the meat shed. And since the local pastor loved the liquor infusions Emil made following his granddad’s recipe, maybe there was a chance to secure some cash and sweeten this shitty day.

Pastor Marek wasn’t a bad guy, but he often criticized Emil for his looks, so Emil tied his mane into a braid, and changed into a plain black top that covered his tattoos, so his taste in heavy metal didn’t offend priestly sensibilities. He was about to leave his home when it hit him that there was a sliver of chance that he’d bump into Adam at the parsonage, so he ended up staying a bit longer to shave and splash on some cologne for good measure. He would not give up on this day so easily.

He took a bottle of the cherry-infused liquor he’d produced last year, and another of home-made advocaat for good measure, saddled up his horse to avoid wasting gas, and took a shortcut through the vast meadows.

The morning revealed the far-off mountains in their full glory, with fog still lingering among the poplars in a way that had Emil melancholic even though he’d watched this spectacle of nature his whole life. Jinx was especially frisky today, and so eager to gallop Emil decided to relax and let him.

Emil’s life was full of unlucky incidents and surprises that made his blood freeze, so he didn’t want to plan too far into the future. Details of what to do with his horse or house wouldn’t matter until he had the money to do anything about them, so for now, he enjoyed the cool, fresh air that smelled of dew, and rode Jinx toward the parsonage.

He passed two local guys, who’d called him a Satanist throughout high school, just because he wore black and listened to heavy metal. Fortunately for Emil, now that they were in their thirties, the bullying attempts from their teenage years had become harmless running jokes.

“You sure you don’t wanna buy the black one?” laughed Dawid, pointing at one of the sheep in the flock he was leading. It was an allusion to Emil being the black sheep of the village, but Emil took it in stride.

“Careful, or I’ll send my crows after you,” he shouted back before riding off, all the way to the cast iron fence surrounding the church grounds.

Emil tied Jinx to one of the tall poplar trees planted around the perimeter and entered the cobbled yard. There was only one service on weekdays, so the large open space was empty with the exception of magpies and sparrows, which congregated around pieces of bread Mrs. Luty must have scattered for them.

The weather was still mild, so Emil chose a bench in the sun and sat behind the church, waiting for Father Marek. The man had been Dybukowo’s pastor for over a decade now, and despite not being a believer himself, Emil knew the priest’s routines. Father Marek was like clockwork, and he’d be leaving the parsonage around nine. Of course, Emil could have just knocked, but there was the ‘tiny’ issue of Mrs. Luty, the housekeeper who hated his guts. He’d rather not cause a scene.

“Shoo!” he yelled in frustration when a huge crow descended on the back of the bench and narrowly missed his head with its wing. He was beginning to consider changing his cologne in the future, because he’d become catnip for the damn birds in the past few weeks, and couldn’t work out why.

“Emil?” The pastor appeared out of nowhere, startling Emil into rising to his feet, as if he intended to salute.

“Praise be Jesus Christ.” He forced a smile. He wasn’t into talking about God, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “You got a minute, Father?”

The pastor nodded with a self-satisfied smile that still appeared a little greasy from his breakfast. He was round—both in the face and body—soft at the edges and pleasant, yet plain like a sugar-glazed donut with no filling. Father Marek was the kind of priest who stuck to the most standard of sermons and didn’t bother to jump on the bandwagon of controversy by criticizing ‘LGBT ideology’ and all the other ‘enemies’ of the modern Catholic Church. And while Emil didn’t much like complacency, he was glad of the pastor’s unwillingness to stir the pot, especially in a place like Dybukowo, which already had so little understanding for otherness.