The alder tree in the middle of the field is engulfed in flames, then turns to black dust.
The very next lightning strike is destined for Martin. A sharp pain shoots down his back and explodes in his head. Everything stops for a moment, and Martin wonders if he might die. But shortly afterwards, or hours later, he couldn’t say, he wakes up again. The thunderstorm has passed. He can still see the clouds in the sky, setting a course for elsewhere – they are finished for the day here.
Martin tries to get up. He has to weep a little, because he is still alive and relieved about it, but perhaps he had hoped to have put it behind him. Life. The rooster is waiting at his side.
Later, he reaches the neighbouring village and finds the priest’s house. There is not a single part of his body that is still dry. His teeth are chattering.
‘He is so scrawny,’ the priest’s wife says. ‘Once we’ve got him out of his clothes, there will be nothing left of him.’
She wraps him in a dusty blanket and sits him down in front of the stove, where other children are already sitting. The priest’s own. There were more of them once, but several died. They are having porridge. The woman prepares the bowls with gruel and places them on the stove. The children push one another and hastily spit into the bowl which they believe to contain the biggest portion, so that no one but them will want to eat it.
They gaze at Martin in astonishment. His teeth chatter and he tries to smile. He is not used to such cheerful children. Back home, children are always afraid. They cower and avoid the adults, who dole out slaps. And because this is familiar to Martin, as is the sharp pain when the leather belt splits the skin on his naked back, he has often thought that he is better off without a family. But a family like the priest’s – Martin would like that.
The children eat all of the gruel, but then there is also soup. The priest’s wife brings him a bowl. The soup is thin, the smell unfamiliar, but it warms him.
He enjoys the fire. The bird has withdrawn to a corner and hisses whenever the children come near.
Now Martin can tell them the reason for his visit. He describes the situation in the village and conveys Henning, Seidel and Sattler’s qualms.
‘What a bunch of idiots,’ the priest’s wife says.
The priest blinks. ‘What are your thoughts on the matter, my boy?’ he asks Martin.
Martin is not used to being asked for his opinion. He has to consider for a moment whether he has any thoughts of his own in answer to the question.
‘If God is like everyone says he is, then he won’t care whether we fetch the key or kick in the door.’
‘That is a good answer,’ says the priest.
‘If I go back and pass on this answer, Henning won’t be pleased.’
‘But God will be pleased.’
‘What does he know of me? There is no one who prays for me.’
‘God is everywhere, and He is infinite. And He has planted some of His infiniteness in us. Infinite stupidity, for example. Infinite war.’
Martin does not feel infinite.
‘We can barely contain His infiniteness. That is why it keeps escaping, and that is how God recognises us. Based on the tracks we leave. Do you understand?’
‘No,’ Martin said.
‘Well, you…’ The priest scratches his head and pulls out a few hairs. ‘There, for example,’ he says, and holds the hairs up. ‘Our head is full of these throughout our lives, and they keep growing back. Or here.’ He scratches his forearm with his fingernails until flakes of skin flutter to the ground. ‘Skin,’ he says in a conspiratorial voice. ‘We constantly shed skin. And we need to piss. And bleed. And it never stops until we are dead. With the Almighty. But before that, He follows our tracks and finds every sinner, regardless of how well he might hide.’
The priest comes very close and plucks an eyelash from Martin’s cheek with trembling fingers.
Martin looks at the eyelash. It looks just like every other eyelash, he thinks, and says so.
‘But the eyelash knows that it belongs to you. And it tells God that.’