“Now you insult me. Dradin, I cannot lend you money. We have no money. All the money we collect goes to our creditors or into the houses and shelters of the poor. We have no money, nor do we covet it.”

“Cadimon,” Dradin said. “Cadimon, I’m desperate. I need money.”

“If you are desperate, take my advice—leave Ambergris. And before the Festival. It’s not safe for priests to be on the streets after dark on Festival night. There have been so many years of calm. Ha! I tell you, it can’t last.”

“It wouldn’t have to be much money. Just enough to—”

Cadimon gestured toward the entrance. “Beg from your father, not from me. Leave. Leave now.”

Dradin, taut muscles and clenched fists, would have obeyed Cadimon out of respect for the memory of authority, but now a vision rose into his mind like the moon rising over the valley the night before. A vision of the jungle, the dark green leaves with their veins like spines, like long, delicate bones. The jungle and the woman and all of the dead …

“I will not.”

Cadimon frowned. “I’m sorry to hear you say that. I ask you again, leave.”

Lush green, smothering, the taste of dirt in his mouth; the smell of burning, smoke curling up into a question mark.

“Cadimon, I was your student. You owe me the—”

“Living Saint!” Cadimon shouted. “Wake up, Living Saint.”

The Living Saint uncurled himself from his repose atop the catafalque.

“Living Saint,” Cadimon said, “dispense with him. No need to be gentle.” And, turning to Dradin: “Goodbye, Dradin. I am very sorry.”

The Living Saint, spouting insults, jumped from the catafalque and—his penis purpling and flaccid as a sea anemone, brandished menacingly—ran toward Dradin, who promptly took to his heels, stumbling through the ranks of the gathered acolytes and hearing directly behind him as he navigated the bluegrass trail not only the Living Saint’s screams of “Piss off! Piss off, you great big baboon!” but also Cadimon’s distant shouts of: “I’ll pray for you, Dradin. I’ll pray for you.” And, then, too close, much too close, the unmistakable hot and steamy sound of a man relieving himself, followed by the hands of the Living Saint clamped down on his shoulder blades, and a much swifter exit than he had hoped for upon his arrival, scuffing his fundament, his pride, his dignity.

“And stay out!”

When Dradin stopped running he found himself on the fringe of the Religious Quarter, next to an emaciated macadamia salesman who cracked jokes like nuts. Out of breath, Dradin put his hands on his hips. His lungs strained for air. Blood rushed furiously through his chest. He could almost persuade himself that these symptoms were only the aftershock of exertion, not the aftershock of anger and desperation. Actions unbecoming a missionary. Actions unbecoming a gentleman. What might love next drive him to?