In the winter of our 17th year, Johann was called to the see in Bonn. He had become an extraordinary man. He would be a bishop, perhaps even a cardinal one day. He was generous, wise, kind, all of the things the Lord had called his servants to be.

And, I realized, I had loved him. I had wanted him, in a way that a man should have wanted a wife.

“Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate…shall inherit the kingdom of God.”

My love for him was real. I knew it was real. Everything else was becoming as turgid as the mud in the streets of the town square after it had been trodden over by carriage: a stinking morass of dirt, fetid water, and all the waste that the townsfolk simply threw into the street. But Johann? He had stayed faithful. When he sinned, he confessed. When he took the punishments due for his transgressions, he thanked the old hypocrites for their part in helping him walk the path of the Son.

Those decrepit, shriveled serpents. They were not worthy to lay a hand on him. Oh, that they had turned the switch on me. I deserved those lashes, not Johann.

No. He had been a man. It would have been wrong to deny him his righteousness.

My nights had grown sleepless. My heart was a sty of loneliness and grief. The last good man had left the monastery, and all that was left was corrupting sin and its practitioners…and I was one of them.

“God rewards those who persevere,” My father repeated to me. I had confided to him my grief for my beloved’s departure, though I had not revealed how deep the ghost of him haunted me.

“How do I persevere, when there will be no end to the pain?” I asked one night, having grown angry and anguished at his thoughtless words.

“God never promised that your trials would end,” My father said, smiling like he was offering the words of Solomon, “You honor him by remaining grateful for his blessings.”

“I don’t want to go back,” I said. All I could think about was the press, the wicked old men, and the one I loved that would never be there again.

“You have been given a gift, Otto. Your wisdom and your piety are beyond your years. You will bring many to the Lord one day; you have been called to it!”

I sighed.

“Honor thy father and mother, for this is the first command with a promise.”

He was right. Saint Paul was right. I would fulfill my duty to the Lord.

That night, I ran my hands through the dirt of the field. It was soft and rich; the oxen had turned it this very day, and it would soon accept seed. I let the ground coat my hands, let them become the image of what I was, what we all were. Then I took my waterskin, pouring the contents over my filthy, sweaty hands, washing them clean.

******

One of the boys set the metal type into the tray, while the other prepared the ink surface. They would soon spread the word of God, make it ready for more of the Lord’s faithful to receive.

That was good. That was how it should be. They would grow to be fine servants of the Lord, and would receive his salvation on the day of judgment.

I would ensure it.

The axe was still buried in the stump at the base of the hill. It was rusting, and the handle was beginning to splinter and rot, but its edge was still razor sharp. Though it was old, and growing more fragile with each passing year, it too was still faithful. I hefted the familiar tool and took a deep breath.

******

The terror in the lecherous old abbot’s eyes was right, it was deserved.

“My brethren, be not many masters, knowing that we shall receive the greater condemnation,” I said, hands trembling.

The axe gave no resistance when I pulled it from his cleaved head.

One.