The church was cold and dark, a perfect reflection of the mood of the village. Father Ansel shivered, drawing the thin black cloak closer around his bare frame as he walked down the aisle. In an alcove in the side of the church, a single candle burned, and a single man knelt before it. Ansel walked up behind him, his sandals flapping regularly on the cold stone floor.

"Joseph, my friend," his frail voice quavered, "you must go home."

The man kneeling turned his head silently, and the candle flame reflected the tears running freely down his face. Without a word, he turned back to the candle rack and closed his eyes.

Father Ansel sighed. "Joseph," he said as sternly as he could manage, "Maria was a note of harmony in a world of discord, a light in the darkness. She was placed here on earth for a short time, and our lives are richer for it. We will all miss her, and we all grieve for her death. But she is gone, Joseph, and we must carry on. Maria would not want you to grieve this way."

Joseph spoke this time without turning around. "Father," he said thickly, "Maria was an angel. We loved each other like no man and woman ever did before. We were a perfect match, and now we are torn apart. Please permit me to mourn in my own way, in my own time." His voice broke at the last word, and his shoulders hunched over.

Ansel shook his head sadly. Raising a hand to smooth his unruly mop of grey hair, he started to speak again, then thought better of it. He turned and left Joseph to his mourning, walking slowly behind the altar to the rear exit of the church. It was a small church, for a small village, and Father Ansel had devoutly continued the old tradition of keeping a candle burning in the church for a month after a soul in his charge passed on to their reward, a tradition which had been discontinued in several larger towns. He wondered if Joseph would stay in mourning for the entire month.

A chilly breeze greeted him as he opened the rear door. He hurried down the short path to his cottage, remembering a similar chill that had been in the air at Maria's funeral that afternoon. The entire village had been there, even old Mrs. Miller with her rheumatism. All of them had loved Maria, and they all had come faithfully and silently to mourn her passing. Never before had the words of the service come so brittle and sharp from Father Ansel's lips, and never in all his fifty-odd years as priest of this village could he remember a better-attended funeral. He remembered, too, the odd silence, broken only by his fragile words and Joseph's muffled sobbing. Even the dogs and cats seemed to feel the atmosphere of grief surrounding the town, and not a sound had been heard from them all day. Not even, Ansel reflected, from his own faithful Rex, normally a very expressive creature.

Rex was asleep, curled up in front of the fireplace, when Ansel entered the cottage. He closed the door quickly on the chill night air, and stood basking in the warmth of the fireplace. John, who was studying to be a priest and had already completed the minor orders, was asleep in one of the cots. The other was empty, and after a moment Ansel crossed the bare wooden floor and sat down on it. He removed his cloak, lay back, and pulled the covers over himself. Sleep did not come easily to him, however, and when it did, it was troubled and brought dreams to him, memories of Maria Smith. Maria as she had been when she first passed through the village, radiant and lovely; Maria at her wedding to Joseph, her lovely rosy-red lips shaping the words 'I do.' And later, nursing Mrs. Miller through a severe illness, or consoling old Barrister on the death of his wife. She had been a blessing to the village, and he wondered in his dream how life would go on without her. He was not very surprised when John shook him awake, crying that Joseph was mortally ill.

There was already a crowd of people at the smithy when Father Ansel arrived. They parted to make way for him, heads bowed, then closed behind him. As he passed, he heard dark mutterings, and he looked reproachfully at the small group of villagers behind him as he entered the low stone building.

There was little light; the windows were closed with black shutters, and the only source of illumination was the lantern on the table. There were two people in the center of the cold building, bending over another who thrashed and moaned from time to time. Coming closer to the thrashing form, Ansel recognized the large, muscular body of Joseph. He was gripping his stomach, and every few seconds he would go into convulsions. A basin lay nearby, half-full of something. Father Ansel knelt by the side of one of the other figures, who he recognized as Leo Johnson, the village doctor.

"Is he that bad?" Ansel asked. There could only be one reason for his summoning, but he devoutly hoped that he would not have to say the Last Rites twice in one week -- and over two of his closest friends.

Leo turned without surprise, as though informed by a sixth sense of the presence of the old priest. Tight-lipped, he nodded. "He took witchroot powder," he clarified. Witchroot powder, Ansel knew, was a deadly poison, but only in sufficiently large doses. It was widely used in the village as rat poison.

Joseph sat upright just then, and the doctor's wife thrust the basin under his chin. He vomited weakly into it, then lay back, a little calmer, but still groaning. John joined them then, eyes wide with apprehension.

"Is there anything you can do?" he asked Leo.

Leo looked at the young man grimly. "I have sent to the apothecary in the next town for an antidote. Until then, we can do naught but make him comfortable -- and pray." John, seeming to take the hint, bent his head in prayer.

Ansel drew Leo aside. "To the next town," he said. "That means the magistrate will hear of it."

"Maybe not," Leo replied. He pushed a lock of dirty blond hair out of his eyes. "If young Henry is discreet about it --"

The priest shook his head. "You know as well as I that Lord 'Hangin' John' knows everything that goes on in his little corner of the world. Saving Joseph's life may not be worth the trouble. Not if he took the witchroot to take his own life."

Leo nodded slowly, his slim frame sagging with weariness. "I know that, Father. But saving men's lives is my business, and if there's any chance, I have to try. Besides," he said, brightening a little, "he can say it was an accident. They'll never be able to prove otherwise."

The priest shook his head sternly. "That's between him and God. No doubt he'd be able to get away with it, and I might even be able to forgive him. After all, a man is not responsible for what he does when he's under a great strain. But he should not have tried in the first place."

Leo lay a friendly hand on Ansel's shoulder. "Not to destroy your faith in your congregation, Father, but I think that given the choice between staying alive and keeping a clear conscience, most of the good folk in this village would live with the stain."

"No doubt you are right, my friend. And that is the crux of my work here: Teaching people to make the right choices, and extending the Lord's forgiveness to them if they stray." With that, they returned to the side of the ailing smith, waiting and praying.

Less than an hour later, the apothecary arrived -- but not alone. Father Ansel did not notice the second figure immediately, having devoted all his attention to the apothecary, who had taken a powder from the small leather pouch he carried and mixed it into a cup of water. With the help of the doctor and his wife, he forced the mixture down Joseph's throat. And though the effect was not instantly noticeable, the tension drained from the room. Father Ansel relaxed, and he heard John's relieved exhalation.

"He'll go to sleep in a few minutes," the apothecary said, standing, "and he'll be very weak for a few days, but he'll live."

Leo stood and shook his hand. "We are in your debt, sir."

The short, pudgy man peered up at him. "Nonsense, my good man. No debt incurred for the saving of a life. Just make sure he gets plenty of rest."

"And make sure he is still here when the guards come for him tomorrow," a high, nasal voice said from the doorway. It was then that Father Ansel noticed the tall, thin man leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb, smiling slightly. Lord 'Hangin' John' Stevenson, the county magistrate.

Leo started toward him, fists clenched. "'Twas an accident, Stevenson. He mistook the witchroot for sugar."

The magistrate's expression did not change. "That's as may be," he said, "but he's been near to death by his own hand, so he must stand trial for suicide in the King's Court." He seemed to want to say more, but a clopping of hooves drew his attention, and, glancing outside, he realized that the apothecary was leaving in the carriage they had shared. Leaving the smithy, he broke into a run, shouting, "Hey, wait! Stop there!"

Father Ansel and Leo stepped out into the sun, blinking, and laughed briefly at the spectacle of the finely-dressed magistrate running through the dust cloud kicked up by the horses. "Still," Leo said, "it will not improve his disposition in this case." He shook his head suddenly. "Bah! What am I worried about? The worst that can happen is that we'll lose our smith for a few weeks."

The priest said nothing, but rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Joseph Smith went to stand trial the next day. A couple of the townsfolk went along, to keep him in good spirits, but Father Ansel was not among them. He did, however, permit young John to join the group, though it meant he would have to attend to several little chores himself for the first time since Father Harold passed on and John joined him. After all, it was John's first chance to see a large town, and he couldn't deny the boy that.

Late in the afternoon of the third day after Joseph went to trial, Ansel visited the empty smithy. He opened the black shutters, letting the sun shine into the gloomy room. Walking slowly around the huge anvil, Ansel inspected a shelf that held several cunning puzzles in metalwork, remembering a similar one that sat alone on a table in his cottage. At the end of the shelf, there rested a delicate metal sculpture of a singing bird. The priest took it down, weighing it absently in his hand, then replaced it. There was a puzzle in his mind that was more convoluted than anything on Joseph's shelf, and it was worrying him.

To begin with, he knew Joseph was a clever man, and this attempt at taking his own life seemed clumsy. Why was he not in his bedroom, where nobody would have disturbed him until it was too late, where his moans would only have elicited sympathy from a distance and not spurred a curious passer-by to check in? Further, why use a slow-acting poison? Father Ansel was not knowledgeable in the matter of poisons, but he was sure there must be one that would act in a matter of minutes. And Joseph would have known that, too. Ansel could not believe that the point of Joseph's actions was to take his own life. But then, what was it?

He walked outside, squinting in the afternoon sun, and the answer burst upon him like a sunrise. He could not help but smile. "Joseph," he said to himself, "you roguish devil, you. I do believe you could cheat the Prince of Lies himself." It was then that he heard the carriage, and the horses. One horse came to an abrupt stop beside him, and John swung down.

"Father Ansel! Father Ansel!" he cried.

"Yes, my son?"

"He did not contend the charge!! They've sentenced him to death!"

Father Ansel smiled knowingly and sadly at the approaching carriage. "Yes," he said, "I know."

There was much weeping in the town that night. Joseph had asked only that the sentence be carried out in his home town and that he be buried there, and the court had seen fit to grant his request. In addition, one of the smiths from the town was sending his oldest apprentice to take over the smithy. Along with him came the executioner, an imposing man in a black hood who grumbled continually at the trouble of traveling, and worried that someone else might steal his job in his absence. The third visitor from town was another priest, Father Benjamin, whose presence the townspeople wondered at. "Haven't we got a perfectly good priest of our own? Does this Father Benjamin have God's ear more than our Father Ansel?" But Joseph only smiled and said nothing on the matter.

Father Ansel went to see him on the day he was to be hung. "Joseph, my friend, I shall miss you terribly," he said, sitting down.

"I'm sorry, Father," the burly smith replied. "But I must be with Maria, surely you can understand that."

Ansel nodded. "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I do. That does not mean I approve of your methods. I suppose you know that I cannot grant you absolution with a clear conscience."

Joseph smiled. "I thought not, Father. You are forever figuring out my puzzles. That is why Father Benjamin is along."

"All the same," Ansel remarked, "this puzzle is one of the cleverest you have devised. That was not even a lethal dose of witchroot you took, was it? You do realize that, though you may outwit the King's Court, you cannot fool the Lord?"

"I don't wish to," the smith replied. "But I feel that I am justified, and I can only hope that He will take my view."

"Then I wish you peace, my son," the priest said.

That night, Father Ansel took a tallow candle from the box behind the altar and walked toward the alcove. John joined him on the way.

"I don't understand, Father. Why did Joseph stage a suicide? If he wanted to take his life, why did he not just do so?"

Ansel sighed. "Because to take one's own life is a mortal sin, John, and to die with the weight of a mortal sin on one's soul is a terrible burden indeed. Therefore, since he was a gentle man and could not in good faith commit any other capital crime, he chose to pretend, to let the state take his life. In this manner, he could be granted absolution before death, and have a greater hope of joining his beloved Maria in Heaven."

"Ah..." John fell silent, and followed the older priest to the candle rack where one candle already burned brightly. Ansel lit the candle he held from the one already burning, then placed it beside that one.

"Peace, my friends," he said softly.

As a tear blurred his eye, it seemed to him that the candle flames rose and joined to shine as one.

This story is based on a true anecdote I once heard about a man who tried unsuccessfully to take his own life, and who was later condemned by an English court to death for that crime. I have embellished it somewhat, as well as speeding up the process of the English court; the problem I encountered was in not knowing when this took place. I placed it, at a guess, around the 1600's, when the Church still had a strong hold on the state (or at least I think it did)...