“Ahem.”

Kepa looked up, his eyes taking a moment to focus before he saw a bent over old man looking down at them. The man’s wrinkled face was framed by whispy white hair, at least on the sides. He was completely bald. His large nose, pocked with scars, betrayed his Basque blood. He glared down at them sternly, but Kepa thought he saw a glint of compassion twinkle in the old man’s eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the old man as Kepa sat up, rubbing his eyes. The movement stirred Maite who also looked up.

“Barkatu,” began Kepa. “We were escaping the cold and the gun fire. We had no where to go.”

“So you thought to desicrate my holy garments to make a bed for yourselves?”

Kepa wondered if he had mistaken that hint of compassion for true anger. He hadn’t thought about what the garments might mean for the priest. It had been a long time since he had entertained any religious thoughts himself. He bowed his head, whispering the word this time. “Barkatu.”

The old man extended a hand all gnarled and twisted from years of manual labor. His knuckles were almost the size of walnuts and his fingers bent at angles that were not quite normal. Kepa took the old man’s hand, and was surprised by the strength he felt as the man pulled him up, perhaps a bit gruffly. He was much more gentle with Maite, though no less insistent that she immediately rise.

The old man looked back at the door. “And my window?” he asked.

Again, Kepa hung his head in shame. “We needed shelter. Barkatu,” was all he could muster.

The old man sighed. “I imagine you are hungry. Follow me.”

The old man led them out of the sacristy and toward a small room that abutted the church, seemingly an afterthought to the magestic edifice that was the church itself. 

“I don’t have much, especially since the French have been here, but what is mine is yours,” said the old man as he waved them to sit at his small table. He pulled some bags from a cupboard and poured something into the pot that was already on his small stove. Moments later, he placed two steaming bowls on the table. Kepa didn’t recognize what it was – some kind of boiled grains – but he eagerly took a bite. It was more bitter than he expected, but he wasn’t about to complain. 

The old man sat down opposite them and watched them for a moment before speaking. “What are your names?”

Kepa looked over at Maite, who shrugged. She didn’t see any reason not to be honest with the old man.

Returning his gaze to the old man, Kepa said “I’m Kepa, and this is Maite.”

The old man smiled. “Maite. I always loved that name. That’s what we called my sister when we were young children.”

“And you are…?” began Maite.

“Jose Angel is my given name, but I am known by Josean.” 

“Eskerrik asko,” said Kepa, nodding toward the food in front of him. 

“Ez, ez,” replied Josean. “These are desparate times, breeding desparate people. I do what little I can to help.” He paused a moment. “I just wish you had found something else besides my blessed garments for your bed.”

This time, it was Maite who answered. “Barkatu, Aita Josean.”

The old man smiled. “Let’s forget about that. It looks like you had a rough night, judging by your clothes. Let’s see what we can do about that.”

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