“Priest Sampson, when will I be able to do more for the temple than hand out goods?” Evalie whispered, her voice low, as the woman she had just handed a slip for rations was replaced by a frail farmer standing next in line.
“In time, dear Evalie. For now, focus on the task at hand—your full attention is needed.”
Evalie suppressed a scowl as the farmer approached the table in the Temple’s entryway. Sampson smiled warmly at the farmer. Evalie sighed but turned her gaze back toward the task at hand.
Suddenly, a wave of desperation and panic hit her with the force of a storm. It took all of Evalie’s control not to collapse into tears under the intensity of the emotions that weren’t her own.
“Please state your need and how we may assist you,” Father Sampson said, stepping in smoothly when Evalie hesitated, visibly overwhelmed.
“Well, I—,” the farmer began, his voice shaky. “I need crops. A terrible fire swept through some of my fields. I’ve nothing left to salvage for the next season.” He held his head high despite the glimmer of unshed tears in his eyes.
Evalie, still recovering from the surge of feelings, didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she hastily scribbled a note and passed it to Priest Sampson: He needs food for his family but is too proud to ask outright.
Father Sampson glanced at the note before turning back to the farmer. “You have a wife and children?”
The farmer nodded. “Aye. My wife and I just had a baby.”
“Why, then, do you ask only for crops for next year when your family is struggling now?”
The farmer’s shoulders sagged as tears finally slipped down his cheeks. Teeth clenched, he replied, “I didn’t want to ask for more than I needed. I didn’t want to overstep the kindness the Northern Temple of Solara has shown us.”
“I understand your pride,” Father Sampson said gently, “but you have a family to consider. Don’t let pride keep you from asking for the help you need. This is exactly when the Temple can serve you best. Don’t wait until hunger drives you to desperation. We can offer aid now, and I’m certain next year we’ll see your crops grow again.”
The farmer bowed deeply. “Thank you, Priest Sampson. In truth, we’re struggling to fill our bellies. Our newborn can’t latch because my wife hasn’t eaten enough to produce milk. We’ll accept any help you can offer, but I don’t want charity. Put me to work, if you can.”
Sampson studied the farmer with a thoughtful gaze. “We do have fields that need tending. Many volunteers help to feed the hungry. We could use an extra pair of hands.”
The farmer straightened, his spirit lifting. “I’ll come every day—”
“What is your name, farmer?” Evalie’s voice cut through. Though soft, her voice carried a weight of authority.
“Harold,” he wavered, his voice uncertain.
“Farmer Harold,” Evalie began, her tone steady despite the emotional turmoil she’d absorbed. “You won’t come every day, nor will you come right away.” She held up her hand when he began to protest. “We need strong, healthy workers in the fields. Right now, you look dangerously close to collapse.”
Harold glanced down, ashamed.
“We cannot risk your health. Instead, use the next two weeks for recovery and finding a temporary job to get you through this rough patch. The timber company and butcher shop both will need help well past harvest time. After those two weeks of searching, please return to the Temple and tell me where you found work. If your strength has returned and the new job demands are not too much, you’ll come to the Temple at least once a week to tend our fields.”
“But surely I can do more!” Harold’s voice cracked, panic creeping into his tone. He did not want charity, but he was concerned that he would not give enough back to the Temple, which was helping him more than any temporary job could.
Evalie closed her eyes and took a steadying breath, feeling the panic creeping into her as well. She opened her eyes and spoke with a steady tone, although her shaky hands gave away her true demeanor to Priest Sampson’s keen eyes.
“I believe you can do much, Farmer Harold. But your family needs you. You can help your family more by taking on paid work during and after the harvest. This way, you may provide for them through the winter without relying fully on the Temple.” She sensed his hesitation and so continued. “Many who come through and ask for rations walk this path, Farmer Harold. Do not think you are not helping the Temple, for if you are helping the community, you are helping the people who worship at the Temple.”
Harold clenched his jaw, frustration clear in his expression. This path was not as straightforward as a direct exchange with the Temple. However, a straightforward exchange with the Temple would feel more like a handout, which Harold did not want. He realized that there were no shortcuts when caring for his family during a rough patch, especially ones that would keep his pride intact.
The farmer forced himself to relax, realizing that Saintess Evalie was providing him a situation that kept his pride yet also care for his family. “Aye. I suppose they don’t call you an Empath for nothing, Saintess Evalie?”
Evalie smiled kindly. “I’m writing down rations for your family for the next two weeks. Visit the distribution center for provisions, and ask them if they can arrange for a wet nurse for your baby while your wife recovers.” She slid a parchment toward him.
Harold’s eyes widened. “Saintess, I can’t accept—”
“Your Saintess has spoken,” Priest Sampson said firmly. “It would be wise to heed her words. Evalie can see your need as if it were her own. She also knows the needs of the Temple and what we can spare. Trust in her judgment.”
The farmer bowed deeply. “My family and I will attend services more earnestly from now on, Saintess.”
“We look forward to seeing you,” Evalie smiled softly. She then gestured for Harold to make his way to the distribution table. As the farmer left, both smiling and tearful, Evalie turned away, swallowing her own tears.
“Why don’t you take a break, Evalie? I’ll finish today’s distributions,” Priest Sampson suggested, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Evalie took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Let me try one more. If I can’t make it through a full day of duty, how will I ever progress beyond handing out goods?” Father Sampson nodded in understanding and signaled for the next in line to step forward.
A tall man approached, burdened with three ragged backpacks. His hair was wild, his clothes worn and dirty. Bowing to both Sampson and Evalie, he spoke. “Good afternoon, Priest, Saintess.”
Evalie chuckled softly. “I’m not a Priestess yet. Please, tell us how we may assist you.”
The man’s posture was firm, his voice unwavering. “I come from the Southern Temple of Solara. Our provisions have been depleted. The war on the southern border has left us unable to aid our people or the soldiers. We need all the help we can get.”
Evalie blinked, taken aback. Given the war, his request made sense, but as she probed him with her empathic gift, she felt… nothing. No emotion at all.
B.R. Quinn 