The tale of the cursed one
When the logcabin collapsed, the beams went splintering, the walls tore apart, and a stray artillery shell wiped out the entire Hargreaves family. Little Freddie was home, right in the blasts centre. Old-timers still whisper that they had to drag the bodies out with great effort, yet Freddie emerged alive, unscarred. He was only blackened by soot, with a tiny cross etched on his bare chest. They peeled it off a sign of sin, they said. He was about five then.
A distant relative, Granny Agatha, took the boy in.
A decade later, long after the war, a terrible fire broke out in the village of Brindleford: a lightning strike hit the transformer at the local power station. The houses on the right side of Main Street went up in flames. The fire devoured everything. People fled, but most livestock and outbuildings were lost.
The fire brigade arrived, doused the blaze, yet half the street stayed charred. When the last sparks faded, the firemen coiled their hoses, stowed them in the trucks, and stared in disbelief. All the houses in a row went up in smoke, but one stayed untouched. Its lowset, squat maybe the fire just flew over it? they mused.
The locals werent satisfied with that excuse. It was Granny Agathas cottage, where young Freddie still lived.
Soon the whole village was buzzing that Ethan the cursed one was behind it.
Granny Agatha was a devout old woman who taught the boy to pray. Hidden behind curtains were icons tucked in a corner of the kitchen. Her prayers were private, secret, and hardly anyone liked them.
She baked scones for the church in the neighbouring hamlet and went there often, Freddie in tow. The parish paid her a modest stipend for the work, which kept them fed. They even kept a chicken.
Ethan was eventually sent to school, but he lasted only a short while; he proved incapable. He sat meekly at the back desk, motionless, eyes wide, smiling as if admiring the world, yet he never did the assignments, heard nothing, learned nothing.
He was blond, with a jaunty tuft on the crown of his head. Agatha would joke that God kept an eye on him through that tuft.
One summer the whole village celebrated a river festival. A halffinished raft with five boys broke away. Mothers ran along the bank, shouting, while the men argued how to stop the raft and rescue the lads. Granny Agatha joined the frantic crowd Freddie was on that raft.
Its your daft son who sent the raft downstream, one mother shouted at Agatha.
Quiet, Tatiana, quiet, Agatha warned. Pray instead, and be glad Freddies on board. God will save him and take you in his mercy.
The raft capsized. As Ethan began to drown, he glimpsed his mothers face, smiling and reaching out; he clutched her hand. All the boys were pulled to safety.
Granny Agatha died young. Freddie stayed in the village, first as a shepherd and then as a nightwatchman. He spent his wages fast buying sweets and rolls from the shop and handing them out to anyone who asked. He visited the sick and the elderly, buying them anything they wanted, and often paying extra for himself. When asked what hed eat, hed reply, God will provide. I wont go hungry. And indeed, God seemed to provide. Everyone kept feeding him, and he repaid the favour by helping whenever he could.
Soon his pay was only partly issued; the village clerk started buying groceries for him herself and handing them over gradually. Freddie, of course, gave most of those away too.
He threw himself into his work. When he lay on his back in a field, eyes closed to the sun, he again saw his mothers visage. Shed say, Youll never be killed or maimed, Ethan youll be a joy to the world.
People in the village were a mixed lot. Knowing Freddies steadfast, generous heart, the local combineowner, Mr. Ivan Chambers, hired him for a construction project payment in meals. He piled the heaviest tasks on him. Freddie grew gaunt, his skin darkened, his back hunched. The villagers raised alarms, but Chambers kept saying, Ill pay him later. He wants the work.
Then Freddie vanished. No one could find him. When Granny Noreen dragged the village constable to Chambers yard, they discovered a frail, exhausted Freddie, barely breathing. An ambulance whisked him away.
Chambers shouted that he wasnt to blame and that hed almost cured him himself.
Freddie had a ruptured appendix. Surgeons operated and, miraculously, saved him.
Not long after, while fixing a jammed combine, Chambers got tangled in the threshing gear. He survived thanks to the medics, but was left a lifelong invalid.
Another incident involved Kolya, the village drunk, who tried to help Freddie by slipping him drink after drink, then teasing him. Youre a saint, you cant be bothered! theyd say, as if the poor lad could take it. In the end Kolya drowned in his own booze.
Freddie kept his nightwatch duties. One spring, when the winter wheat had turned into a rolling green sea, a delegation from the county passed through his fields. He barred their way, waving a stick, banging on a tractor. Tempers flared. The collective farms were a showcase for the region, and the delegation, along with local press, had come to admire them. The farm director lost his temper.
Enough! Ill fire him, he roared. Hes a fool, a fool! Ill enter him in the competition for best watchman.
His deputy, Valentina Curvy, pleaded, Maybe not, Ivan Sergeyevich? Hes the cursed one. Our yields have been steady since he started guarding those fields four years ago. The harvests up, you know!
Dismiss him! I said it! the director barked. Theyre just making up stories!
Freddie was sacked. A week later, an unexpected frost killed the winter crops.
Unemployed, the villagers told the parish vicar about Ethan. In the nearby hamlet, Vicar William was restoring a halfruined church. He invited Ethan for confession and penance, then appointed him as the churchs assistant. He declared to all that Ethan was as pure as a newborn babe.
At first Ethan was a odd job man for the building crew. When the church neared completion, he took up cleaning. He scrubbed the walls, polished the staircase, shone the floor until it mirrored the light, leaving Vicar William overjoyed: We havent seen such cleanliness since the church was consecrated!
Ethan prayed with such sincerity that parishioners would stare at him, eyes wide, whispering prayers while his deft hands fluttered like doves over the icons, his cheeky tuft bouncing in rhythm.
Soon word of Ethan spread through the countryside: that he was always protected by God, that anyone who wronged him suffered, that he was almost a saint. People flocked to the church just to glimpse Saint Ethan, to shake his hand, or better yet, to have him bless them. Wealthy ladies arrived, patrons followed, and the oncemodest chapel was renovated, heated, lit, an avenue laid before it, the grounds landscaped, and a car park built. The church was unrecognisable.
A TV crew came to shoot a piece. Vicar William thanked the camera, then the reporter begged the saintly Ethan to say a few words.
Saint? Oh, come off it, William chuckled. Hes just a good man, not much of a talker.
But the reporter persisted. The crew and the vicar trudged over to Ethan, who was digging a flowerbed nearby.
Ethan, could you say something to the viewers? she asked.
The crew prepared for a star interview with the local hero whod saved hundreds. Ethan stared at the cameras, a puzzled smile on his sunbleached face, his blond hair now almost white, his beard golden, his skin weathered, his eyes bright with faith.
When the microphone was pressed to his lips, he pointed at the flowerbed and boomed, Im planting lilies here; theyll grow and bring joy to everyone.
Then he went back to his work. The reporter blinked in bewilderment as the camera was switched off.
His mothers voice lingered in his mind: Youll be a joy to the world, Ethan. And thats exactly what he kept trying to be.
