A Little Sting
He liked to surprise Matthieu with a bit of luxury, with a witty turn of phrase, with attention called to some local beauty, reborn and doubled in the reflection of Matthieu's eyes. He liked to make him laugh. He trusted, he hoped, his fascination was unobserved. Was it a sin? He gave a shoulder to the idea. It was simple pleasure in fellowship, in having a ready bedmate (though Matthieu had his own bed now, and the priest slept undisturbed most nights) and a companion for his meals. It was an unrealized hunger fed. It was conversation on subjects mortals could not follow or advance. It was impermanent, he knew. If sacrifice purified the soul, small indulgence made it human and whole.
May, lovely May. Darius stepped through the garden gate and was surprised himself by a bolt through the chest. Sweet Lisette, crowned with flowers, stood on tiptoe in Matthieu's arms sharing a kiss. It was an icon of spring, it was tenderness, caught against the light and framed by the Brother's blooming vines. It was the best humanity could offer.
Matthieu's eyes were closed (I know the heat of them under my lips in the dark), his fingers were pressed into the curve of her long waist (I know, I know). "No," said Darius, and Lisette cried out and jumped.
"No!" cried Lisette and clapped a hand to her ear.
"Pardon," said Darius.
Matthieu had eyes only for the girl, solicitous, gentle, holding her chin and uncurling her fist. "A rude bee, seeking nectar. There, child, he's paid for his sin." He stroked her tear-tracked cheek. He turned her in his arms, sheltering her from the priest's stricken gaze. "And here's the Father to pray over him. Come away, I'll soothe the hurt." Stones, his eyes were stones, looking at Darius and then away.
No, no, no. The bee twitched on the ground and died, gold against the fertile soil. Darius breathed. He marveled at the pain. Well. He bent and picked up the bee; a brother buzzed around his head. Maybe it was his thrumming blood that made the noise. He breathed again and squinted in the honey light.
January, that first white week of Matthieu's coming, was all glazed snow without and glowing heat within. Digging was out of the question, to Matthieu's smug delight, but there was snow to tamp down and shovel away, to his disgust. When the second snowfall lay heavy against the door, and the shovel lay misplaced outside, and the devil lay naked on a blanket on the hearth, drinking mead and reciting Catullus, Darius decided there were things that should be said.
"First and foremost, I serve God," he began.
"I don't," said Matthieu. "Have you settled on your one god, then?"
"You braying ass, I've been five centuries a priest."
"I thought you liked the dress. And the convenience, my lovely strategist, and the stability of power."
It was an old argument that Darius brushed aside. "You'll be a Christian while you stay, regardless, you'll be observant. And you'll be discreet," he cautioned.
"I'll even sleep here on the hearth," Matthieu said, tearing into a new loaf and grinning like a wolf.
"Please yourself. You're welcome to half the bed, if you let me steal some sleep." Darius, sitting like a Christian himself at table, spread his bread with a bit of butter brought by the midwife. He was short on his rest, true, and his senses were inflamed, and a few nights of Brother Matthieu letting the heat of the hearth soak his bones might benefit them both. He knew the offer to be insincere. Matthieu, prickly as he was in daylight, grasped the priest tightly at night. His use was gentler, his manners improved, but his hunger and need blazed hot. Darius wondered that the flock didn't hear their cries across the frozen snow, that the dead didn't tremble from envy in their graves.
His mind was in his eyes, or in his flush. Matthieu managed to smirk and scowl at once. "The door needs a bar, and the bedroom a curtain across the entry. Those women were in and out four times before this storm, bold as you please, hoping to find me with my trousers down. I wonder, if she came upon me using the priest on the common table, would it cool or heat the daughter's blood?"
Darius looked at his hands. "Mére Marette and her daughter are their neighbors' eyes and ears. You cannot plunder as you will, here. Lisette is a treasure guarded well."
"It's not plump Lisette I want. It's freedom to scratch my naked balls and to plunder the saint in peace."
"Nor am I a saint."
"That's not the local opinion."
It was another invitation to spar, which Darius deflected with his own attack. "Behave as a civil man, and stay. Consider your good fortune. A place to live and recover yourself, in sanctuary, out of the world's eye. A place of peace and good crops and wholesome company."
"And in such holy company, who then am I? Avalokiteshvara to your Shakyamuni? Ahriman to your Ohrmazd?"
"You are my brother, whom I love."
"Oh, dear Darius. I am far less a saint than you pretend to be."
"That much will become apparent. Do no harm, do some good, is all I ask. These folk are inclined to love you, if you're industrious."
"And keep away from their daughters."
"They prize children. If you must indulge, marry a widow with her own brood and content with them. Marette likes the look of you," he teased.
"Marry! You have me dug in deep as the widow's privy pit. A week, a month, holy Darius, no more. Until the weather warms."
You did not scrabble across eighty leagues to me for a week's respite. Darius smiled and nodded and reached for the honey pot.
January, May. More than a week, more than a month. His breath stirred the dead bee's wings. He let it fall. He picked up the rake and dragged it once through the earth, then carried it around the corner to the church doors. He blessed himself at the font. He blinked in the cool dimness, leaning on the rake, within the shadows of the porch.
The light was still sweet but thinner when he came out. Lisette was nowhere in sight; the devil stood square in the garden path, arms crossed on his chest, treating with mére Marette. Darius strode up to them with a firm and steady tread. Without taking the temper of Matthieu's face, he nodded at the widow and swung the rake, breaking the handle across the devil's back and knocking him face down in the dirt.
The widow laughed. The devil spit dirt. The priest said, "Pardon," and walked into his house.
"I told Lisette she was a fool," called Marette at his back.
"So did I," mumbled Matthieu, but no one listened to him.
He admitted the sin of anger over his solitary dinner bowl. Begrudgingly, he admitted the sin of striking his fellow man. There might have been some sin in breaking the blameless rake, but he was not prone to sophistry. Lisette is not the fool, here. Where is your common sense?
The door opened and the devil walked in. He glanced around the room in which everything was in its place. He took his bowl from the shelf and ladled in a portion of soup from the pot. Darius got up and went into his cell with his bed. There was a curtain, now. It raised and fell behind him as he entered, and then it raised and fell again, and Methos's hands were on his hips, Methos's forehead against the back of his head, Methos's breath against his neck.
"Thou fool, thou angry bee." Methos pulled Darius back, tight against his thighs. "I kissed a girl. Did I do such harm?"
"Take your hands off me." Darius folded his arms into the sleeves of his robe.
He felt a hot laugh against his neck and a kiss behind his ear. "I am no saint, Father." Long, strong arms wrapped around the priest.
"And I am no woman, to be wooed. Have you seduced Lisette?"
"No, man of men. A taste of sweetness offered, the merest sup from a flower."
"Serpent."
"You sound like a woman wronged. Are you so sure..."
"Methos,"
"Matthieu, Father. Your brother, Father." He laughed and kissed and clung. "Marette may be putting the lie to that falsehood now."
"Methos." Darius put dignity in the plea. He was ashamed to have been so foolish and so blind. He pulled gravity up from the soles of his feet and imposed balance and order on the world. Against his stiffened muscles, he heard Methos sigh.
"Oh, Darius, give over. It was a little weakness with no feeling in it. Love the sinner, hate the sin. Be a man, not an affronted wife."
"Get off me."
"I will not. Is it so evil, loving me? Shall I play the woman then? I will be docile as a mourning dove, I will be milk under your tongue. Darius, act your age."
The priest unsleeved his hands. He reached over his shoulder, where the prating jaw sawed against his ear, and siezed Methos by his nose. He gave a pull and wrench, by dint and effort he pulled the nose, the man following, around to face his face. Methos sputtered and gripped his wrist. Darius looked him in the eye. "I am done with carrying you across my back."
Methos pulled the pinching hand away. His nose was white, then red, healing. His eyes watered. He laughed. He kissed the priest's fist. "Then I will make love to your front. Faith, though, I'm partial to your fundament. Give over, Father, brother, husband, friend. Let us all be men together and admit a natural act."
"Stop your chatter and go. Find some work to do and leave me in peace." Darius pulled away, and Methos followed, still holding his wrist.
"I'm going nowhere. By God, I want you more than ever, now. Lisette was a flower, you are a forest entire. Tree and root," he clutched Darius's sex through his robe, "I would play woodchopper. Hah, I see a smile."
"You lead me into temptation and foolishness," said Darius. It was true: he smiled. He tried to govern his face, but Methos had a determined and effective hand.
"I have a great love for you, Father. I would rather tempt you than any man or maid alive. I said that very phrase not yesterday to the bees." He was busy now untying the rope of Darius's cincture, pulling roughly at the knot.
"You talk of me to my own bees?" Darius pushed Methos's hands from his belt, only to have Methos reach around behind and squeeze his rump. Perforce, for balance, he gripped his devil by the waist.
"If not over, then under." Methos hauled at the back of Darius's cassock, pulling it up to his waist. "Lecture me on keeping bees. Some assistance, Father, if I'm to take you to your face." One long-fingered hand was now wedged in heat, exploring his crack behind; the other crept before, searching for his shaft. "My hands are filled. What will you do?"
"Oh, for a rake," cried Darius. He laughed on a gasp. "Kneel, son, and do penance."
"Patience is a virtue," grumbled the penitent, thudding to his knees. Darius gripped the bedpost; from under his robe came the muffled plea: "The next time I sin, could you not break the shovel, instead?"