When the timber snapped and the beams went flying, the whole lot fell to pieces. The blast from the shell that wiped out the Harper family hit straight into the middle of the village, and little Jack was right there in the epicentre. The old timers say they could barely pull the bodies out, yet Jack walked away unscathed only a bit blackened from the soot and a faint cross tattooed on his bare chest. They took the cross off, saying it was a sign of sin. Jack was about five then.
He was taken in by his distant aunt, Granny Agnes. Ten years later, long after the war, a terrible fire broke out in the village. A lightning strike hit the power line of the local substation, and houses on the right side of Main Street went up in flames. The fire devoured everything. People fled, but most of the livestock and outbuildings were lost.
The fire brigade got there eventually and put the blaze out, though half the street was still charred. As they were winding up the hoses and stowing them in the back of the trucks, they couldnt stop wondering how every house in a row was gutted except one low, squat cottage that seemed to have been skipped by the flames. Maybe its because its built low to the ground? they muttered.
The locals werent convinced. That cottage was Agness, and Jack was still living there. Rumour spread through the village that Jack was cursed.
Agnes was a devout old lady and she taught Jack to pray. Hidden behind curtains were icons tucked in a corner of the cottage, and the prayers were whispered, secret, and hardly any other folk knew about them. She baked buns for the church in the nearby hamlet and went there often, Jack tagging along. The church gave her a modest stipend for the work, and thats how they got by plus they kept a chicken.
Jack went to school, but he didnt last long; he just couldnt keep up. Hed sit at the back desk, eyes wide open, smiling as if he were watching a circus, but never did the assignments, never seemed to hear the teacher, and learned nothing. He had fair hair with a little curl right on top. Agnes would joke that God kept an eye on him through that curl.
One summer the whole village celebrated a river festival. A halffinished raft with five boys onboard broke free. Mothers ran along the bank screaming while the men tried to stop the raft and save the lads. Agnes was there too Jack was on that raft.
Your idiot let the raft go! one mother shouted at Agnes.
Shut up, Sarah, shut up, Agnes warned, Pray instead and be grateful Jacks there. God will look after him and yours.
The raft capsized. As Jack began to sink, he saw his mothers face smiling, hands reaching out, and he clung to them. The lads were all pulled out.
Agnes died young. Jack stayed in the village, first working as a shepherd and a nightwatchman. He spent his wages fast buying sweets and rolls at the shop and handing them out to anyone who asked. Hed visit the sick and the elderly, buying them anything they needed, often adding his own money. When people asked what hed eat, hed say, God will provide. I wont go hungry. And God seemed to provide. He was constantly invited in for tea, fed, and he never turned anyone away.
After a while the payroll started coming in bits; the village clerk would buy groceries and hand them over to him little by little. Jack mostly gave those away again.
He threw himself into any work. When he lay on his back in a field, eyes closed to the sun, hed see his mothers ghost again, saying, Youll never be killed or maimed, Jack. Youll be a joy to the people.
People in the village were a mixed lot, but they all knew Jacks generous, reliable heart. So the local contractor, Mr. Ivan Clarke, hired him on a construction site food in exchange for labour. He piled the heaviest jobs on Jack. Jack grew gaunt, his skin darkened, and he hunched over. Folks raised the alarm, but Clarke kept saying, Ill pay him later. He wants the work.
Then Jack vanished. No one could find him. Granny Nora dragged the village constable to Clarkes place, and they found Jack, exhausted and ill. An ambulance rushed him away. Clarke shouted he wasnt to blame, that hed almost nursed Jack back to health.
Jack had a burst appendix. Surgeons saved him in a miracle.
A few months later Clarke was fixing a jammed combine when he got tangled in the machinery. He survived but was left a lifelong invalid.
There was another episode. A drunken local, Colin, tried to help Jack by giving him extra booze, then teasing him. You cant do that to a sick man! everyone protested, but nothing changed. In the end Colin drowned in his own drunkenness.
Jack kept on as a nightwatchman. One spring, when the winter wheat had turned into a rolling green sea, a delegation from the district tried to pass through his fields. He blocked them, got angry, waved his stick, knocked on a tractor. A scandal erupted. The state farms director was furious.
This is it! Ill fire him, he roared. Hes a fool, a cursed fool. Ill put the watchmans post up for competition.
His deputy, Valentina Hartley, pleaded, Maybe we shouldnt, Mr. Brown? Hes cursed, you know. Since he started watching those fields weve beaten our yield targets for four years. The crops have never been better!
Fire him! the director bellowed. Thats a fairytale!
Jack was sacked. A week later a sudden frost killed the winter wheat. Jobless, Jacks neighbours told the village vicar about him. The vicar, Reverend William, was restoring a halfruined chapel in the next hamlet. He invited Jack for confession and penance, then made him his assistant in the church. He said everyone, Jack is as pure as a newborn.
At first Jack was assigned as a general helper on the building crew. When the chapel was almost finished, he took over cleaning. He scrubbed the walls, polished the stairs, shined the floor until it gleamed like a mirror. Reverend William couldnt stop grinning such a spotless shine hadnt been seen since the chapel was consecrated.
Jack prayed with such sincerity that parishioners watched him, eyes wide, whispering prayers as they stared at the icons. His hands moved like swift little birds, deft in the ritual, his curl bouncing with each bow.
Word spread fast through the surrounding villages. Folks said Jack was always protected by God, that anyone who harmed him was cursed, that he was almost a saint. People started coming to the chapel just to see Saint Jack, to touch his hand, to be blessed. Even wealthy ladies and philanthropists arrived.
Donors poured in, and the chapel was refurbished, heated, lit, a new lane was laid out, the grounds were landscaped, and a car park was built. The old building was unrecognisable.
A TV crew came to film a piece. The vicar thanked the camera, and the reporter asked him to get Jack a few words.
What saint are you talking about? the vicar laughed, Hes just a good man, doesnt talk much.
The reporter persisted, so they walked over to Jack, who was digging a flowerbed nearby.
Jack, say something for the microphone, the reporter urged.
Jack looked up, a puzzled smile on his sunbleached face, still with that curl catching the light. He pointed at the soil and shouted, Im planting lilies here; theyll grow and bring joy to everyone.
Then he went back to his work, his hair a little whiter, his beard lightly silvered, his skin weathered, his eyes bright with faith. As the microphone was lowered, the camera crew turned it off, and Jack kept digging, his mothers voice echoing in his head, Youll be a joy to the people, Jack.
And thats how he kept on, planting, helping, and being the quiet miracle the village never knew it needed.
