as a vagabond, spurned and isolated everywhere I go because of my appearance. It is, indeed, difficult to see any justice in it, or to have faith that justice will eventually come, whether by the hand of God or through the mechanism of karma.”
I was moved by a sudden impulse. “Perhaps I can do a small thing to at least weigh the balance a little more in your favour. I need a sexton—someone to maintain the church, which is old and in disrepair, and the cemetery, which is overgrown. I would benefit from a housekeeper, too, just to keep the place tidy and free of dust, for I’m useless at such things. Would you be willing to fulfil such a role? There’s an outbuilding that could be converted into modest living quarters if you’re disposed to tackle it, and the Church would provide a small stipend for your services.”
She said nothing, then leaned forward, and a quiet sob escaped her. It was an entirely unexpected response, and I felt horribly awkward that I’d been the cause of it, but I fully realised in that instant how dreadful the past two years had been for her, and was struck by a powerful sense of kinship. In truth, she and I couldn’t be more different, for she seemed a thoroughly authentic character—if you understand my meaning—for whom the world denied a place, while I, by contrast, felt rather a fake, though my position was secure. Nevertheless, a bond had formed.
“You have my sincere gratitude,” she whispered.
In this manner, my long association with the remarkably practical, resourceful, and inventive Clarissa Stark began. Many weeks passed before I could even begin to accurately gauge the extent of her abilities, but I can tell you now that she excels in engineering and chemistry, knows a great deal about medicine, is an artisan of unparalleled talent in metals and wood, and performs miracles as a cook, gardener, housekeeper, and bookkeeper. Much to my delight, I also discovered that she is well read in Latin, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Dutch. For a man who studies in many languages, what could be more welcome than a companion with whom to discuss the merits of José de Cadalso y Vázquez, or the Comtesse de La Fayette, or João de Barros, or, of course, our own William Shakespeare?
Occasionally, we even debated the Good Book.
In intellect, we tended to come at things from opposing directions. I was always looking for evidence of God’s plan in man’s many innovations and accomplishments, whereas Miss Stark sought only to thoroughly understand and improve upon them, without reference to any possible divine influence. Her technical knowledge appeared inexhaustible. By contrast, I soon began to comprehend that my grasp of “things eternal” lacked equivalent depth, making of whatever wisdom I possessed a fairly useless commodity. Miss Stark one day advised that I could best address this problem by travelling.
“It is not healthy that your engagement with the world is conducted through books alone. If you believe in the divine, then you must seek to witness it in action.”
I considered this an unrealistic proposition. “Do you not think it more efficient to learn from what other men have written? Surely it would take me a lifetime to gain through direct means even a scrap of the knowledge that I can read on a single page.”
“But it is experience that promotes insight and personal growth, Reverend. You must grasp life by the scruff of the neck and struggle with the challenges it presents, otherwise how can you progress as a human being? And if you do not progress as a human being, how can you contribute to the furtherance of our species, whether our advancement follows a divine design or not?”
I shrugged this off, little suspecting that my naivety was about to propel the two of us along a path that would involve the dramatic furtherance not of mankind, but of a completely different order of being.
Our opinions were also divided on the subject of evil. Miss Stark insisted that Rupert Hufferton was wicked by nature, but when she revealed to me that his mother had died during his birth, I was quick to observe that, just as I’d been mistaken in suggesting the poor were a “class” rather than the product of unfortunate circumstances, so she might be wrong in her assessment of her former tormentor.
“Evil must be caused,” I insisted. “Is it not obvious that Sir Philip was prejudiced against his son as a consequence of