When the timber snapped, the beams shattered and the whole structure tore apart, the blast of the shell killed the entire Whitaker family. Frank Hughes, only five, lay in the very centre of the explosion, alive but blackened by soot, a crude wooden cross burned into his bare chest. The elders whispered that the cross was a mark of sin. Franks aunt, Agnes Brown, took him in.
A decade later, long after the war, a terrible fire ravaged the village of Little Whittington. A lightning strike hit the transmission tower, and the houses on the far side of the high street ignited one by one. Flames devoured everything; villagers fled, but the livestock and outbuildings were lost. The fire brigade arrived, doused the inferno, yet half the street lay in ruin. As the last embers faded, the men in the fire trucks stared at the scene, baffled.
Why did every house burn to the ground while that low, squat cottage was untouched? one asked.
It was Aunt Agness cottage, another answered, pointing to the modest stone house where young Frank still lived. Rumours spread through the village like wildfire: Frank was cursed.
Agnes, a devout old woman, taught Frank to pray. Hidden behind lace curtains were small icons in the corner of the kitchen, and their prayers were whispered, secret, and never spoken aloud. She baked scones for the parish of the neighbouring hamlet and went there often, Frank at her side. The church gave her a modest stipend for her work, and they survived on it, keeping a single hen for fresh eggs.
When the parish school took Frank in, he lasted only a term. He sat at the back bench, eyes wide, a faint smile on his lips as if he were watching a play, but he never answered, never listened, never learned. His blond hair was a bright crown atop his head, and Agnes would joke, God watches you from that little halo.
One summer the whole village gathered for the river fête. A halffinished raft, overloaded with five boys, broke free and drifted downstream. Mothers screamed from the banks as men scrambled to stop it. Agnes ran, for Frank was on that raft.
Your idiot set it loose! shouted a mother at her.
Silence, Teresa, silence, Agnes hissed. Pray instead, and thank God that Frank is on board. Hell be saved and youll be spared.
The raft capsized. As Frank began to sink, he saw his mothers face looming above the water, smiling, hands outstretched. He clutched them and was pulled up. The other boys were rescued, but Agnes died that night, her life snuffed out as quickly as the fire that had spared her cottage.
Frank stayed in the village, first as a shepherd, then as a night watchman. His wages vanished as quickly as they came; he spent them on sweets and fresh rolls, handing them out to anyone who asked. He visited the sick and the old, buying them anything they needed, often paying with his own pocket. When asked what he would eat, he answered, God will provide. I shall not go hungry. And God did.
Soon the parish clerk began handing him his pay in installments, buying food himself and passing it on. Frank gave most of it away, his generosity never waning. He worked with zeal, and whenever he lay on his back in a field, eyes closed to the sun, he saw his mothers visage again, whispering, You shall never be killed nor maimed, Ethan. You will bring joy to the people.
Word of Franks unwavering kindness spread. The local contractor, Ivan Chapman, hired him on a farm building project, paying in food. He threw the hardest labour at Frank. The boy grew gaunt, his skin darkened, his shoulders hunched. The overseers raised the alarm, but Chapman only muttered, Ill pay him later. He wants the work.
Then Frank vanished. Agness neighbour, Nora Whitby, dragged the village constable to Chapmans barn, where they found Frank, emaciated and feverish. An ambulance rushed him away. Doctors discovered peritonitis; they operated and, against all odds, saved his life.
A week later, while repairing a combine that was still humming, Chapman was pulled into the cutting bar and ripped apart. He survived, but remained a cripple for the rest of his days.
Later, the village drunk, Colin Drake, tried to help Frank with a bottle of whisky, insisting it would cheer him up. The men mocked him, warning that a sick man needs no drink. In the end, Colin drowned in his own liquor.
Frank returned to his post as a watchman. One spring, as winter wheat turned to a rolling green sea, a delegation from the district arrived to inspect the collective farms. Frank, stern and nervous, barred their passage, his stick snapping against the road. A heated argument erupted. The collectives director, furious, shouted, Enough! Hes a lunatic, this cursed watchman. Hes been here four years, and the yields have never been better! The deputy, Valentina Curwen, pleaded, Maybe we should keep him, director. Hesspecial.
The director ordered Franks dismissal. That night a sudden frost killed the winter crops. Unemployed, Frank wandered the village, and the parish vicar, Father William, heard his story. The vicar, restoring a halfruined chapel in the neighbouring hamlet, invited Frank for confession and penance. He then made Frank his assistant.
First, Frank was a handyman for the building crew. When the chapel neared completion, he took charge of cleaning: scrubbing walls, polishing stairs, sanding floors until the oak shone like a mirror. Father William beamed, Our chapel has never been so spotless since its dedication. Frank prayed with such sincerity that parishioners watched him, eyes wide, whispering prayers as his delicate hands moved like swallows over the icons.
News of Ethan the Blessed spread through the countryside. Tales of miracles, of curses falling on those who harmed him, and of his nearsaintly aura drew people to the chapel. Wealthy ladies, patrons, and philanthropists arrived, funding a restoration, adding heating, lighting, a manicured lawn, and a parking lot. The oncehumble chapel became a landmark.
When a regional TV crew came to film, Father William thanked the camera, and the reporter begged the saint for a comment.
Saint? No, Im just a man of God, he said shyly. Yet the reporter persisted, and a crew followed him to the garden where he was planting lilies.
Ethan, say something to our viewers, the reporter urged.
Frank smiled, bewildered, and, pointing at the flower beds, declared, These lilies will grow and bring joy to everyone. He returned to his planting, his blond hair brightened by the sun, his beard flecked with gold, his skin weathered by labor, his eyes alight with faith.
A voice from the past seemed to echo, You will be a joy to the people, Ethan. And he kept planting, the village watching, believing, and the legend lived on.
