Unbowed : Not bent or arched not bowed down

Papyrine : Imitation parchment made by soaking unsized paper in dilute sulphuric acid

Approving : Expressing approbation commending as an approving smile

—–

It was the perfect plan. Gaston had spent months scouring the archives, memorising the shapes of letters. The curly flourish of a capital ‘R’. The crucifix of a small ‘t’. The endless ouroboros of the letter ‘o’. Of course, he had been helped along the way, spending countless hours alone with nothing but scrolls, the thick stub of a candle and the Pastor, who despite his saintly façade stood to gain as much from Gaston’s plan as the man himself. After all, it never hurt to have the Lord’s backing.

The Pastor, an elderly man whose back was remarkably unbowed despite his age, was a common fixture in the village. Trusted and feared in equal measure by his flock, he was always willing to interpret God’s word in a particular way if the gold coin bent between his teeth. Bent coins always gave way to a cackle and the same old tired joke that it was a ‘special communion wafer’ rather than bribe.

Was it really a bribe though if the word was never mentioned, or was it merely engendering oneself to God’s approving gaze? And therein lay the rub: you had to take the Pastor’s word for what constituted good and evil. If a gold coin slipped between sweaty fingers was acknowledged as good, then so be it.

Gaston worked in the village tannery. He awoke at dawn, made his way to the butcher’s abattoir and collected the previous day’s hides, many still covered in the yesterday’s gore like a bad dream. Over time his nose had become numb to the smell of rotting flesh and he had learnt to tolerate the buzzing of flies, flitting around the freshly deceased like children clamouring for honeyed gingerbread.

By the time the village slowly began to grind to life, Gaston had already trimmed, salted and washed dozens of pelts, then dumped them in the pit to wait until the hair rotted off. He hated the pit. It was filled with a lime and water solution that smelt so sickly sweet it made him gag. Death shouldn’t smell of flowers.

He wasn’t trusted to tan the leather yet, that came upon completing his apprenticeship. But still, the smoke of the furnaces and the faeces that stained the leather often made his eyes water and his throat burn. It was more a punishment than a job. But the rumor kept him going. He had to cling to it.

The Pastor had pitied Gaston, said he had known the boy’s mother before she died giving birth to her only son. The wily old man had even mentioned that Gaston’s mother had moved in prestigious circles, very prestigious indeed, especially before Gaston had been born.

A stolen gold coin later and here they were. Gaston, memorising his letters and then re-writing his own birth certificate. Gaston watching the Pastor gingerly submerge paper into the green tinted acid, the resulting papyrine indistinguishable from real parchment. Gaston hoping to start a new life. The gappy grin of the Pastor flickering like an empty skull above the flicker of a candle.