Chapter 26 – Ashes of a Man
Psalm 34 : 18 (NIV)
"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."
---
The new church stood where the open field once lay, a house built not from stone but from hope.
Its walls were pine and cedar, raw and breathing. The scent of sap still clung to every beam. When the wind passed through the slats of its half-finished roof, the whole place hummed softly, as though the structure itself was learning to pray.
They called it The House of the Living Word.
No idols guarded its entrance, no polished altar claimed the center. At the heart of the church rested a single wooden table, plain and sturdy, and upon it lay The Canticle of Fire, open to the middle of its pages. Above it hung the village bell, newly rehung from the old shrine's beam. The sound it made was gentler now, less command and more invitation.
---
That morning, before the sun had fully risen, people began to gather.
Evelyn stood near the table, a faint smile on her lips as she guided the children in a quiet hymn. Their voices were soft, untrained, but honest. The song had no name yet — just a pattern of gratitude, built from their own words.
"Light that stays,
Light that heals,
Teach our hearts what mercy feels."
Liron stood by the doorway, arms crossed. The light coming through the gaps in the roof dappled his face with gold and shadow. He watched the children sway as they sang and turned to Micah beside him. "It's strange," he murmured. "We build a house, but I still can't find the words to pray inside it."
Micah nodded slowly, his old eyes tracking the shifting light. "Faith isn't the fire, boy. It's the waiting for warmth."
Liron exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. "Then maybe I'm still waiting."
"Then you're halfway there."
Outside, more villagers approached — some bowed their heads immediately, others lingered near the threshold, not yet sure how to cross from the world of idols into something so bare. Vivian was among them, her daughter's hand tucked into hers. The little girl carried a bundle of yellow flowers, the same kind that grew wild near the mountain's base. She whispered, "For the new house," and placed them on the step.
Evelyn's hymn ended. Silence filled the gaps between the wooden beams. For the first time in months, it wasn't the silence of fear. It was the quiet that comes when people finally stop running.
---
But not everyone was inside.
At the edge of the village, beneath the leaning shadow of old trees, Teuwa's hut remained untouched. No one visited him except Regbolo. The man who had once been their High Priest now lay on a thin mat, wrapped in what remained of his blackened robes. The bell's faint ringing reached him, but he didn't move. It only reminded him how far he'd fallen.
The world outside had found peace; inside him, there was only the slow ache of memory. He had believed himself chosen — a bridge between gods and men — yet all his prayers had been swallowed by the same darkness he'd served. The idols were gone, their shattered pieces swept from the shrine, but their echo still haunted him.
The sound of footsteps stirred him. Regbolo entered quietly, carrying a clay bowl and a small piece of bread.
"You shouldn't have come," Teuwa rasped without turning.
"I came because no one else would," Regbolo answered, setting the bowl beside him. "Drink."
Teuwa's lips twisted. "Mercy from the man I ruined. Do you think that saves me?"
Regbolo didn't flinch. "I think it saves me."
For a long while, there was no sound except the faint tremor of leaves outside. Teuwa stared at the bowl, but didn't lift it. "You think your God forgives everything?" he asked finally.
"No," Regbolo said. "Only those who let themselves be forgiven."
The answer landed softly but stayed. Teuwa's eyes flickered, just once, as though a spark had brushed his mind and failed to catch.
"Rest," Regbolo said, standing. "The light has done harder work than this."
He left, but before the door closed, he turned once more. "The church bell rings twice a day now," he said. "If you ever want to hear what mercy sounds like, open your door."
---
By the time the evening bell rang, Regbolo had returned home, uneasy.
Something in Teuwa's stillness had unsettled him — too calm, too final. He turned back as the sky deepened into rose and amber.
When he reached the hut, he knew before stepping inside. The air was still, heavy. On the wall, drawn faintly in ash, were words written by a shaking hand:
"The Fire has spoken, but I am deaf."
Teuwa lay beside it, his robe folded neatly, his staff broken once more across his chest. A thin trail of dried blood marked his wrist.
Regbolo sank to his knees. He didn't call out; there was no one to hear it. He only closed the man's eyes and whispered, "Then may the silence finally speak to you."
He rose and walked to the new church. He didn't use the small bell rope. He grasped the main one — the one hung above The Canticle — and pulled once.
The sound carried through the open roof, up the slope, and into the forest's edge. It was not mournful. It was acknowledgment.
---
People came quietly. No one asked what had happened. They saw it written in Regbolo's face.
Elena entered last, The Canticle in her hands. The congregation turned toward her instinctively, waiting. She placed the book on the table and opened it to the Sixth Song.
"The flame purifies all it touches,
and the faithful shall walk through it unburned.
Every lie shall meet its maker,
every heart shall show its true color in the heat."
Her voice was steady. Then she looked up. "Teuwa's heart broke under its own fire," she said quietly. "But the flame spared his breath long enough for him to see that light does not wound for sport. It wounds to heal. Let us pray not for his death, but for the mercy that follows it."
The people bowed. Evelyn began a soft prayer, her voice trembling: "Lord of flame and breath, teach us mercy that does not shrink, and peace that does not boast."
When she finished, Liron added quietly, "Maybe mercy's the hardest miracle."
No one disagreed.
They carried Teuwa's body at dusk to the hill behind the new church, burying him beneath the cedar trees that framed the valley. No song was sung. Only the wind spoke, moving gently through branches that had outlived many men and would outlive more.
---
That night, the church glowed faintly from the lanterns the villagers left burning. It wasn't celebration. It was remembrance.
At dawn, The House of the Living Word opened again. The air smelled of fresh-cut wood and wildflowers. Half the village knelt inside; the rest stood outside, listening. The morning light pooled across the floorboards, touching every bowed head with warmth.
Vivian's daughter walked to the doorway and placed a single yellow flower on the step.
"For the man who forgot the light," she whispered.
Elena, standing behind her, smiled faintly. "The fire spares," she said softly, "and even ashes remember."