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Thomas opened his eyes and gave the slightest nod. “Father Molnár?”
“I don’t think he suspects,” I said.
Thomas didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched, the closest he’d come to a smile in days.
Footsteps crunched behind us, slow and measured.
I looked up to find Father Molnár approaching. His silhouette cut through the twilight like something out of a painting—all black robes and bowed shoulders, with light haloing his thinning hair. He stopped just a few feet away and folded his hands.
“Brothers,” he said. “May I sit?”
Thomas straightened a bit. “Of course.”
Father Molnár lowered himself to the earth like a man who knew the ground well. For a while, he said nothing, just listened to the wind and the rustle of pilgrims settling into prayer circles or pockets of laughter and quiet exhaustion.
“I’ve seen the four of you,” he said eventually. “And your charges, the child and her father.”
I didn’t move. We hadn’t introduced Farkas as Eszter’s father, not to anyone.
“I’ve seen the way you walk at night,” he continued. “How your eyes don’t rest, and how your hands stay near your belts, even when you sleep.”
Thomas glanced at me, but I stayed still. Waited.
Father Molnár turned his head. “You’re not pilgrims, at least not those focused on a journey of faith.”
“No,” Thomas said after a moment’s pause. “We’re not.”
“I do not care,” Molnár replied through a thin smile. “I think . . . perhaps . . . you are something better. God works in ways no man could fathom. He uses tools to His design, to His will. Who is a humble priest to question His handiwork?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
Father Molnár looked past us, toward the chapel. “No one in this group will stop you. No one will follow. They are here for redemption and reflection, not judgment. Besides—” He sighed. “We have all done things we never planned, just to survive.”
Then without another word, he reached into his robe, pulled out a small cloth bundle, and placed it in my lap.
I opened it slowly.
The first thing I saw was a bottle of codeine, maybe half full. Beneath lay several strips of fresh white gauze, neatly folded, a roll of tape, a syringe, and a tiny tin of antiseptic.
I stared at it as though it was some frightened bird that might fly away at the slightest movement.
“I told them I was tending a sick pilgrim,” he said with a shrug. “And the pharmacist owed me a favor.”
Words stuck in my throat.
“If you’re going for the river, you’ll need to leave tonight,” he added. “I will distract the others, start a hymn, maybe, loud and long, something the children will join.”
After another moment, Thomas whispered, “Why help us?”
Father Molnár looked away and smiled at the horizon. “Because if I were fleeing darkness, I would want someone to light a candle at the door.”
I reached over and squeezed his arm, just once. “Thank you.”
He looked at us then, both of us, eyes sharp despite the softness in his voice.
“You may not wear the cloth,” he said, “but you carry the weight.”
He lifted his hand and made the sign of the cross over us, then whispered, “Dominus vobiscum.”