OOM: Jeremiah 17:10

[road_to_calvary]

The sky is darkening, which calls a halt to the end of the work day. Valjean wipes off his hands, and pulls an old jacket on. The wind is rising again, pushing a chill through the air. He thinks, as he suspects the others do, of a bath, and food, and a restful evening either by the fire in the bar or upstairs. Perhaps he will read.

He begins to walk back with the others, all as covered in grime as he himself. It has been a good day, he thinks. It is good to use his muscles again, and feel the ache in them. Work means no need to think, and the company of other men – while not something he has been accustomed to for years – is a welcome respite from his solitary existence. Even if one of the men is Javert, who has, it is true, ignored him for three days, and only spoken when directly addressed. But it is good to have him in sight. He does not have to wonder where he is, or if he is well. Perhaps by the time they are finished with the kilns, he will begin speaking. It is possible.

He is almost at the bar when he realises Javert has not come with them this far. He looks around, and sees him emerge from the forge, carrying several things in his hands. And instead of returning this way, the man walks towards the forest.

Valjean murmurs his excuses, and follows without thought. The breeze brings drops of rain, scattered, but landing with a fat sound on his sleeves, promising a downpour. He walks faster; not because he thinks he will lose the trail – he knows where he is going – but because the trees will provide some cover.

By the time he reaches the foot of the mountain, the first heavy shower has been and gone, and a drizzle has set in. He wipes rain from his face, and his hand comes away filthy with ash and soot from the kilns; he can taste it running into his mouth, and it leaves grey streaks on the exposed skin at the V of his work shirt. No matter. The trees open into the clearing. Javert has set a lamp on the ground at the edge of a trench, next to two long iron rods of some kind he cannot discern from his place at the treeline. He watches the man jump down into the hole, and wipe his face too, which is just as dirty as his own. He rolls his shoulders with a weary air, then takes up a spade and sets to work. He is not digging. He seems to be chipping away at something. Valjean frowns, and is moved by curiousity. A few quiet steps closer – not hiding his approach, though Javert does not seem to be aware of him – and he can see over the edge.

Ah. The man has hit a boulder in the earth. It is almost completely exposed; even as he watches, Javert scoops away the last large chunk of sodden earth from its side, leaving it on show – it is the size of a fairly large pumpkin, grey and smooth, sitting innocuously in the path of progress. Valjean looks over the work achieved so far: this is the last foundation trench, and it is nearly complete. The dug lines already join together neatly; it is just this one thing squatting in the way that disallows the start of actual building.

It is too smooth to build into the foundations themselves; too round and dense to be chipped into. It will have to be moved. The iron rods make sense now – levers, clearly – but Valjean still shakes his head. No man can move this alone. It is too deep, too entrenched. Even if Javert gets the levers underneath, he will need another to help lift and ease the thing over the side.

He removes his jacket as he thinks this - and seeing as it is Javert, and there is no need to hide - rolls his sleeves up too.  He walks without a word, and drops into the hole on the other side of the boulder. Javert’s head jerks up, and after the initial shock, he immediately scowls.

‘What are you doing?’

Valjean feels no need to answer this; it should be obvious, and besides, he is looking at the obstacle between them. There is not much room either side to fit hands and arms, but if they crouch and pull straight up, they might manage it. He touches it, as if its weight will make itself known through his fingers alone. It does not.

‘Take your hands off it. And go away. I do not need your help.’

It is raining still; the steady weeping sticks his shirt to his arms, and makes his waistcoat heavy. Javert looks soaked; he must have caught the worst of the shower. And, Valjean realises as he looks up, he seems exhausted. Has he been doing this every night? Perhaps that is why he does not speak in the day. Perhaps he has no energy left.

‘It is too heavy for one man,’ he says, in a reasonable tone. ‘You will hurt yourself, and I will not have that. Allow me to assist.’

‘No. I will not.’

They look at each other over the rock. Javert is as mulish as ever. Valjean takes him in, the familiar feeling of helpless despondency rising through his body. ‘Please,’ he says, though it will not work. ‘It is in your way. Together, we can lift it.’

All he has to do is say yes. Perhaps not even that. Valjean will not allow a piece of stone to get in the way of what Javert is doing, and he is well aware that there is a chance – ridiculous though it is – that if he cannot shift this thing, he may just start again on the other side of the clearing. It would be a waste of all he has done so far.

But there: if he comes back and moves it without permission, Javert might do that anyway. ‘Please,’ he says again, and puts his hands on the boulder. ‘Javert, let me.’

‘I will not.’

‘If not me, then someone else? I am sure Teja would offer, if you asked. When the kilns are finished, he could-‘

‘I will not wait that long. I can do it.’

‘No.’ He cannot. Valjean bites down on his frustration, but it will not be denied. ‘If you try, you will break yourself.’

He makes to crouch, sliding his hands down the smooth outside of this object, looking for the best place to grip. It is possible he can do this on his own. They both know it. Javert, for all his working years, for all the muscle being built back by working in the forge, is not blessed with the strength of Valjean. He is too thin, still, from his ordeal on coming here; he does not care for himself, and while the only flesh on him is muscle, he is simply not made for this.

But Valjean is not prepared for the reaction to his attempt; Javert grabs his wrists, and pushes his hands away, and says ‘no,’ with all the jealous possessiveness of a child denying the removal of a favoured toy.

Valjean blinks at him. He looks down, to where Javert’s hands cover the scars on his skin; Javert looks too, after a moment, and then jerks himself away as if burned. Valjean eyes him, rubbing absently at the feel of another’s touch. There, of all places. ‘Why?’ is all he asks.

‘Because I do not want help. Because you will sully it.’

It is said with venom. Valjean pulls back, a stab of hurt in the centre of his chest, curling through his nerves like the coils of a snake. When he speaks, his voice is smaller than usual.

‘I will sully a church?’

It is one thing to be a stain on society, with his crimes, and his scars, and his refusal to be caught. But a stain on something meant to praise God? He will not deny the pain he feels. He had not thought Javert thought that of him.

Perhaps he does not. The expression on his face is one of confusion and – he may be mistaken, because of the soot, and rain, and the darkness around them – but there may be contrition there, also.

‘I did not mean that,’ he mutters, and will not meet Valjean’s gaze.

He stays silent. He does not know what more he can do. Javert will not talk to him, or allow himself to be helped. He refuses all attempt at understanding what it is they share, this bond of painful history. Valjean does not understand it either, but he cannot, because it requires them both. Perhaps it is denied him because his reasons are so selfish. They must make progress, or he cannot leave. And he wants to leave. He needs Cosette. He does not need Javert’s understanding, or approval, or friendship. Perhaps this is why this is not working.

‘What did you mean?’ he asks, hearing the note of hurt in his own tone. ‘That a convict will ruin a church, simply by touching a stone?’

He was good enough to hold a town hall balcony on his back, so it did not collapse and crush people. The bricks of government, literally, on his shoulders. But he does not think Javert was there that day. Or that it would matter if he was.

‘No. I said I did not mean that.’

‘Then what?’

‘I must do it myself. If I do not, it will not be worth anything.’

This makes no sense. ‘It is a building for God, is it not? God is for everyone.’

‘It is atonement for my sins alone.’

‘Why?’

This appears to throw him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Why must it be for your sins alone? Cannot others help, and atone also?’

‘They can build their own churches.’

He laughs then, just a little. He cannot help it. The image is amusing. ‘We would have no grounds to walk on, if everyone did that.’

‘Then we are lucky everyone else is godless.’

The smile slips from Valjean’s face, and he shakes his head. ‘No, Javert. You are mistaken. I would guess very few people are that.’

Javert looks away. Valjean watches him again, the frustration abated. He cannot imagine what it is like in this man’s head. He pities him, a little. To see only the darkness in people must be a heavy burden indeed. ‘Grant me this,’ he says, suddenly. ‘Please. Let me atone. And in doing so, the way will be clear for your offering. Do you not think that would please God? Your grace on this matter, and we are both made lighter by one sin each.’

He does not really think it works in such a way – though it might, of course – but negotiating Javert is harder than understanding God. With the Almighty, it is supposed that a good heart and good works is all He asks. With Javert…who knows? He waits now. The silence spreads. He can barely see his face in the dark; he is a black shape even in the glow of the lamp, a shadow as indistinct as he ever was.

And then, a flash of white. Javert has moved before he registers that it was his teeth catching the light, a smile, and now an iron rod is being pulled over.

‘You have the serpent’s tongue of a born thief, Valjean.’

He resists the urge to laugh this time. But allows a smile of his own, and his shoulders relax a touch. ‘Yes,’ he says, and holds out his hand. ‘Undoubtedly so.’

Javert’s hesitation is obvious. He looks down at the rock, weighing the weight in his mind. Valjean does not move an inch.

And, eventually, iron against his skin. He closes his fingers around the familiar roughness, and hefts it in his hand. He nods. Javert inclines his head, a movement that is neither friendly, nor conciliatory. But it is something, and it is more than they had before.

‘Thank you,’ he says, and Javert snorts quietly.

‘One boulder does not require thanks.’

‘Still.’

Javert pulls another rod over for himself, and digs the end of it into the mud under the stone. ‘Enough,’ he says, in a tone oddly calm. 

He is right. It is enough. Valjean nods, and sets to work.