The night the timber beams snapped and the blast tore the house apart, the whole Hemsley family was wiped out. Only baby Ethan lay amid the wreckage, his tiny body untouched except for a thin layer of soot and a faint cross burned onto his bare chest. The elders whispered that the cross had been a mark of sin, but the boy was five years old then. His distant aunt, Granny Agnes, took him in.
A decade later, long after the war, a lightning strike hit the power substation on the ridge above the hamlet of Brindleford. The righthand side of the high street ignited in a ferocious blaze. Flames leapt from roof to roof, swallowing everything in their path. People fled, but livestock and outbuildings were lost in the inferno. The fire brigade arrived, doused the last sparks, and rolled up their hoses, puzzled. Every house burned solid, except this one, they muttered, staring at the low, squat cottage that had somehow escaped the fires appetite. That was GrannyAgness cottage, the very place where young Ethan had lived.
Word spread through the village like a cold wind: Ethan is cursed.
GrannyAgnes, devout to a fault, taught the boy to pray in whispers beneath the icon screen that hid a modest crucifix in the corner of the kitchen. Her prayers were secret, odd, and never spoken aloud in the parish. She baked scones for the church in the neighboring parish and collected a small stipend, which kept them fed. A single hen clucked in the yard for their modest income.
Ethan was sent to the village school, but he could not stay. He sat in the back row, eyes wide, smile fixed, as if watching a play unfold, yet he absorbed nothing. He never completed assignments, never listened, and his mind seemed elsewhere. He had blond hair crowned with a wild tuft, and GrannyAgnes would joke, God watches us all from that little crown on your head.
During the summer fête on the river, a halfbuilt raft carrying five boys broke free from its moorings. Mothers shrieked on the banks while men argued how to stop the vessel. Agnes rushed forward, the raft wobbling with Ethan clinging to it. Its your fool who untied it! a grieving mother shouted at her. Quiet, Tara, quiet, Agnes hissed, pray and be glad Ethan is on board. God will save him and yours.
The raft capsized. As Ethan began to drown, a luminous vision of his mother appeared, smiling, arms outstretched. He clutched at her phantom hand and was hauled ashore. All the boys were rescued, but Agnes died soon after, her life snuffed out early.
Ethan stayed in Brindleford, first as a shepherd, then as a night watchman. He spent his wages quickly, buying sweets and fresh rolls for anyone who asked, and slipping a few extra loaves to the sick and the old. When asked what he would eat himself, he would grin, God will see to that. Ill never go hungry. And indeed, the parishioners fed him, and he repaid them by helping wherever he could.
Eventually the parish clerk began to pay him only parttime; she bought his provisions herself and handed them over in small parcels. Ethan still handed most of them out to others. He worked with a fierce devotion. When he lay on his back in a field, eyes closed to the sun, he saw his mothers ghost again. You shall never be killed nor maimed, Ethan, she whispered, you will be a joy to the folk.
Word of Ethans unwavering kindness reached the local landowner, Mr. Ivan Harrington, who hired him on a construction site for board and lodging. The work was brutal; Ethan grew gaunt, his skin darkened, his back hunched. Harrington scoffed, Ill pay him later; he likes the labor enough. Then Ethan vanished. GrannyNora, a neighbour, dragged the constable to Harringtons manor, where they found Ethan, gaunt and feverish. An ambulance rushed him away; doctors diagnosed a severe abdominal infection. They operated just in time to save his life.
Months later, while Harrington was repairing a combine harvester, he was drawn into the machines cutterhead and suffered a catastrophic injury. He survived only because surgeons worked miracles, but he was left a lifelong invalid. Another tragedy struck when the village drunk, Kolby, tried to help Ethan by giving him illicit drinks at the inn, then mocking him. Kolbys own drunkenness ended with him drowning in the river.
Ethan kept his watchmans post. One spring, when the winter wheat had turned a sea of green, a delegation from the county agricultural board arrived. Ethan, stern with a wooden staff, barred their passage, pounding the gate and shouting. A heated argument erupted; the boards director, Sir Ivan Sergeich, fumed, Enough! Hes a lunatic, a cursed one. Hes been on this post for four years and the harvest has never failed. Yet you want to fire him?
Valentina Cuddles, the deputy, pleaded, Hes bewitched. The crops have thrived under his watch. Dismiss him, and well lose what weve built. The director shouted, Fire him! The next night a sudden frost killed the wheat, leaving the village in ruin. Unemployed, Ethans fate seemed sealed.
A wandering vicar from the neighboring parish, Reverend Basil, heard of Ethans plight. Basil was restoring a halfruined church and invited Ethan for confession and repentance. He made Ethan his assistant. At first Ethan was a handyman, scrubbing walls, polishing the altar, and polishing the sevenpanel pews until they shone like mirrors. Basil marveled, I have never seen such cleanliness since the church was consecrated.
Ethans prayers were fervent; parishioners would watch him stare at the icons with eyes wide, whispering prayers that seemed to lift the very air. His deft hands moved through the rites as swiftly as swallows through the sky, his wild tuft bouncing with each bow. Rumours of Ethans saintly protection spread through the shire: anyone who wronged him met misfortune; those who helped him were blessed. Pilgrims began to visit, eager to lay a hand on the holy Ethan, to be blessed, or even to be baptized by him. Wealthy ladies, patrons, and benefactors arrived, funding a full restoration. The church was rewired, heated, and lit; a grand avenue was laid before it, the grounds were landscaped, and a modest car park was built. The oncehumble chapel became a landmark.
When a regional TV crew came to film, Reverend Basil thanked the camera, Hes not a saint, just a man of God. The reporter pressed, Can holy Ethan say a few words? Basil shrugged, He hardly speaks. The crew dragged Ethan away from a newly dug flowerbed.
Ethan, say something for the nation, they urged.
Ethan, bewildered, smiled faintly, his blond hair now flecked with gold from the sun, his beard and moustache shining, his skin weathered, his eyes bright with faith. He lifted the microphone, pointed at the flowerbed, and declared, Here Ill plant lilies; theyll grow for the peoples joy. He turned back to the soil, his hands already digging.
The camera crew stared, then the operator switched off. Ethans mothers ghost seemed to echo in his mind, You will be a joy to the people, Ethan. And so he kept working, the simple labor of planting, forever the humble servant who became legend.
