13April2025
I still cannot believe how the threads of my life have tangled together, as if some invisible hand were stitching a tapestry I never asked for. When the timber rotted and the beams snapped, when the shell of a stray artillery round blew up the whole Hartwell family, I was therein the very heart of the blast. The old folk still whisper that they struggled to gather the charred remains, yet I emerged untouched, save for a blackened patch on my chest and a small cross smudged with soot. They say the cross marked my sin; I shrugged it off; I was only five then.
My aunt, Agnes, took me under her wing. Ten years later, long after the war had finally ceased, a terrible fire ripped through our village of Thornwick. A bolt from a lightning strike hit the lightning rod of the nearby power substation, and flames leapt up the houses on the right side of the high street. The fire devoured everything, men fled, but livestock and outbuildings went up in smoke. The fire brigade arrived, doused the blaze, yet half the row of cottages was still ash. When the last sparks faded, the men rolling up their hoses stared at the scene and asked themselves why one low, squat cottage had been spared.
That one belonged to Aunt Agnes, they muttered. Its the house where young Eddie lived. And so the gossip beganEddie, the cursed boy.
Agnes, a devout old woman, taught me to pray. In the corner of her cottage lay icons hidden behind lace curtains; the prayers were whispered, secret, and seldom heard beyond those walls. She baked scones for the church in the neighboring hamlet and often walked there with me, collecting the modest stipend the parish gave her for the work. We kept a hen for eggs, and that was enough to put meat on the table.
I was sent to the village school, but I never stayed long. I sat at the back bench, eyes wide open, a smile on my lips as if I were watching a play I could not understand. I never did the exercises, never took in the lessons. My blond hair was a bright halo atop my head, and Aunt Agnes would joke, God watches over you from that little crown.
One summer, the whole village gathered by the River Wye for the annual fete. A halfbuilt raft, overloaded with five boys, broke free and drifted downstream. Mothers screamed, men argued about how to rescue the boys. Aunt Agnes shrieked, That ridiculous fool has untied the raft! I heard a woman named Tamsin yell, Shut up, Agnes, just pray! but Agnes, ever calm, replied, Keep praying, dear, and be grateful that Eddie is on that raft. God will save him and take care of you.
The raft flipped. As the water closed over me, I saw my mothers face, smiling, hands reaching toward me. I clutched them and was hauled out, along with the other boys.
Agnes died young. I stayed in Thornwick, first as a shepherd, then as a nightwatchman. My wages vanished quicklyspending them on sweets and buns, handing them out to anyone who asked. I visited the sick and the old, bought them anything they wanted, often covering the cost myself. When asked what I would eat, Id answer, God will provide; Ill not go hungry. And He seemed to provide. Villagers fed me, gave me shelter, and I repaid them with whatever help I could muster.
Eventually the parish clerk began to withhold part of my pay, handing me food parcels directly. I still handed out most of the groceries. I worked hard, and whenever I lay on the field and closed my eyes to the sun, I saw my mothers apparition again, saying, You shall not be harmed, Eddie; you are a joy to the people.
Because of my unfailing kindness, a local farmer, Mr. Chapman, hired me to help build his new barn in exchange for meals. He piled the heaviest loads on my shoulders. I grew gaunt, my skin darkened, my back hunched. The other workers raised alarms, but Chapman only said, Ill pay you later; you love the work.
One day he vanished, taking his tools with him. Aunt Nora, a neighbour, dragged the village constable to Chapman’s farm, where they found me, emaciated and feverish. The ambulance rushed me away. They said I had peritonitis. Surgeons operated and miraculously saved my life.
A few weeks later, while repairing a combine harvester, Chapmans son, Luke, got his hand caught in the machinery. He survived but was left a lifelong invalid.
There was also the drunken local, Colin, who tried to get me drunk in the village pub, insisting Id cheer up. I never drank; his attempts only ended with him falling into the river, drunk as ever.
I kept the nightwatch job for a while. In early spring, when the winter wheat turned to a sea of green, a delegation from the district came to inspect our fields. I, stubborn as ever, blocked their path, waving my stick, clashing with their car, and a quarrel erupted. The collective farm director, Mr. Lawson, was furious.
Enough! he roared. Hes a lunatic, a cursed fool! Well enter him in the competition for a regular watchman position.
Valentina, the deputy organiser, pleaded, Perhaps we shouldnt, Mr. Lawson? Hes the cursed one. The harvest has been bountiful ever since he began watching. Four years of record yields!
Lawson snapped, Dismiss him!
A harsh frost hit that night, killing the winter crops. Left jobless, I turned to the village vicar, Reverend Basil, who was restoring the halfruined St.Marys Church in the neighbouring hamlet. He invited me for confession and repentance, then asked me to stay on as his helper. He praised me, saying, Eddie, youre as pure as a newborn babe.
At first I was a kitchen assistant, then I took charge of cleaning the church. I scrubbed the walls, polished the pews, swept the floors until they shone like mirrors. Reverend Basil could not stop beaming; the church had never been so immaculate since its consecration.
My prayers were so sincere that parishioners would watch me, eyes wide, whispering prayers as I moved. My hands, quick and light, seemed to flutter like doves over the baptismal font, while my unruly tuft of hair bounced with each bow.
Word of Eddie the Blessed spread through the shire. Tales of divine protection, of punishments befalling anyone who crossed me, reached even the wealthy ladies of the county. Patrons arrived, funding a renovation: new heating, electric lighting, a paved driveway, a modest car park. The church transformed beyond recognition.
When a regional TV crew came to film, the vicar thanked the camera, then the reporter asked, Can Saint Eddie say a few words?
Saint? the vicar chuckled. Hes just a good man, not much of a talker.
But the reporter insisted. A crew followed me to a flowerbed I was tending.
Eddie, say something to the viewers, they urged.
I stared at the camera, smiled sheepishly, and pointed at the beds of lilies I was planting.
Here Im planting lilies; theyll grow and bring joy to everyone, I announced, then turned back to the soil.
The camera crew, bewildered, switched off.
My mothers voice still echoes in my mind:
You will be a joy to the people, Eddie.
I try to honour that every day, whether Im digging a trench or sowing a garden, knowing that perhaps I am not cursed, but simply a conduit for something larger than myself.
