28April2025 Dear Diary,
I still cannot shake the feeling that I am somehow marked, as if a curse clings to my very soul. When the timber beams in the old barn gave way during the explosion that claimed the Izotov family, I was there in the very centre of the blast. The older men in the village still whisper how they had to dig through the rubble to retrieve the dead, yet I emerged unscratched, save for a thin film of soot on my skin and a tiny cross scorched onto my bare chest a reminder that even sin leaves its mark. I was only about five then.
My greataunt Agatha took me under her wing. Ten years later, long after the war had ended, a terrible fire ravaged the lane behind the electrical substation when lightning struck the lightning rod. Flames leapt from the houses on the right side of the lane, devouring everything in their path. People fled, but livestock and outbuildings were lost.
The fire brigade finally halted the inferno, though half the street was reduced to ash. As the last embers sputtered out, the men coiled their hoses and packed them away, puzzling over one oddity: every house in a row had been gutted, except a low, squat cottage that the fire seemed to bypass. Some muttered that its modest height might have spared it.
But the locals were not satisfied with such a flimsy excuse. That cottage belonged to Aunt Agatha, where the young Edward that would be me still lived. Rumour spread through the village that I was the bewitched. Aunt Agatha, a devout woman, taught me prayers hidden behind the curtains, icons tucked in a corner of the cottage. Her prayers were secret, rarely spoken aloud.
She baked scones for the church in the neighbouring hamlet and went there often, taking me along. The parish gave her a modest stipend for her work, and it sustained us. We even kept a hen for extra eggs.
I was sent to the village school, but I could not stay long. I was slow to learn, sitting quietly at the back, eyes wide, smiling as if I were watching a play. I never completed assignments, absorbing nothing. My hair was a pale blond, always a little tuft standing up on my crown. Aunt Agatha would joke that God kept an eye on me through that tuft.
One summer the whole village celebrated a river festival. A halfbuilt raft, overloaded with five boys, broke free. Mothers screamed from the bank while the men scrambled to halt the drift. Aunt Agatha ran toward the water; Freddie my dear friend was on the raft.
Your foolish son let that raft go! shouted one mother, tears streaming.
Silence, Tess, silence, Agatha warned, Pray instead, and be grateful Freddie is there. God will keep him safe.
The raft capsized. As I began to sink, a vision of my mother appeared, smiling and reaching a hand toward me. I clung to it, and the rescuers hauled us all out.
Aunt Agatha died young after that. Freddie stayed in the village, first as a shepherd and then a night watchman. He spent his wages quickly, buying sweets and rolls for anyone who asked, and often paying for himself. He visited the sick and old, buying them anything they wanted and sometimes buying for himself as well. When asked what he would eat, he would answer, God will provide; I shall never be hungry. And indeed, he was never short of food. Neighbours constantly fed him, and he never failed to return the favour.
Eventually his wages were only partially paid; the village clerk would buy groceries and hand them to him bit by bit, which Freddie, true to his nature, gave away even more.
He worked with zeal. When he lay on his back in the fields, eyes closed to the sun, he saw his mothers face again, telling him, You shall not die broken or maimed, Edward; you will be a joy to the people.
Word of Freddies unwavering kindness spread, and the local farmer, MrJohnston, hired him to help on his building site for food. The work was grueling. Freddie grew gaunt, his skin darkened, his back hunched. When the men raised the alarm, Johnston merely said, Ill pay him later; he wants the work. Then Freddie vanished. No one could find him.
When Aunt Nora dragged the village constable to Johnstons farm, they discovered Freddie, exhausted and ill, and an ambulance rushed him away. Johnston shouted he was innocent, claiming he had almost healed him himself. Freddie suffered a ruptured intestine; surgeons saved his life by a miracle.
Soon after, while repairing a tractor, Johnston got caught in the cutting mechanism and survived only as a lifelong cripple.
Another tragedy unfolded when the village drunk, Colin, tried to help Freddie by giving him a drink and teasing him. The village warned him that you must not fool a sick man, but in vain. Colin later drowned in his own drunkenness.
Freddie later returned to his post as watchman. One spring, as the winter wheat turned into a rolling green sea, a delegation from the County Agricultural Board arrived. I, nervous and defensive, blocked their entry, waving my stick and pounding on their vehicle. A scandal erupted. The boards director, furious, shouted, Enough! This fool is a menace! My deputy, Valerie Cuthbert, pleaded, Maybe we should not dismiss him, Ivan Sergeich? Hes the bewitched one. Our yields have been superb ever since he started watching the fields. Four years of record harvests!
The director ordered my dismissal. A week later, a sudden frost killed the winter crops. Unemployed, I turned to the parish vicar, Reverend William, who was restoring the halfruined StMarys in the next village. He invited me for confession and, seeing my devotion, made me his assistant.
At first I was a handyman for the building crew. When the church neared completion, I took charge of cleaning. I scrubbed the walls, polished the staircase, and shined the stone altar until it gleamed like a mirror. Reverend William could not have been happier; the church had never looked so pristine since its consecration.
My prayers became sincere and intense, and parishioners would watch me, eyes wide, whispering their own prayers as I bent over the icons. My fingers moved like swift doves in the sacrament, while the little tuft on my head seemed to bounce in rhythm with the hymns.
Soon the story of the blessed Edward spread through the shires. Folks said he was protected by God, that anyone who hurt him would be punished, and that he was almost a saint. People came to the church just to catch a glimpse, to touch his hand, perhaps even to be blessed. Wealthy ladies and philanthropists arrived, and the church was restored, fitted with heating and lighting, an avenue laid before it, a tidy car park added. The old stone structure was unrecognisable.
A television crew from the regional broadcaster came to film. The vicar thanked the camera, and the reporter asked him to have the saint speak. What saint? the vicar laughed. Just a good man, not much of a talker. The reporter persisted, and the crew followed me as I dug a flowerbed nearby.
Edward, say something to the listeners, they urged.
I stared at the camera, bewildered, a smile playing on my lips. My hair, still the pale blond with that stubborn tuft, was now even whiter in the sun, my beard and moustache dusted with gold, my skin weathered by labour, my eyes bright with faith. They handed me the microphone, and I pointed at the bed of soil, shouting, Here Ill plant lilies; theyll grow for everyones joy.
And I went back to planting. The reporters eyes widened in confusion as the camera was switched off.
My mothers voice still echoes in my mind: You, Edward, will be a joy to the people. I keep trying to live up to that.
