The girl sat hunched up in her rough wool cloak trying to eke some warmth out of the pitiful fire in front of her. As she tried to gather the folds of the garment up as high around her neck as possible to keep out the chill, night breezes, she could still smell the scent of the oil from the sheep’s fleece and the smoke and grime that had been ground into the material over the years of constant wearing.  All around her were the sounds of the fortress trying to make it through another cold and weary night; the stamping and the rattling of the men-at-arms manning the walls, the coughs and splutters of those trying to sleep around the tiny fires dotted across the courtyard, the moans and tossings of the wounded and sometimes the thin wail of an infant.

The girl was not bent on sleep though; she had a decision to make.  The most difficult decision she had ever had to make in her short life.  She picked up a twig with cold, numb fingers and started drawing patterns in the ash around the edge of the fire, as if somehow they would reveal to her the way that she should go, make her choice for her?

She looked up and saw the person she had been waiting for, threading his way through the recumbent bodies on the flagstones. The elderly parfait smiled reassuringly down at her, before he painfully lowered himself to sit beside her at the tiny fire.

‘Does it hurt to die by fire’ she asked without preamble.

‘Why, child, are you considering joining us in three days time?’ he asked her gently ‘Do you wish me to prepare you to receive the Consolamentum?’

She looked at him with troubled eyes.  ‘You did not answer my question; does it hurt to die by fire?’

The old man looked at her and seemed to consider his answer.

‘It would be very wrong of me to lie to you and say that there would be no pain, but many of our brethren have gone to the flames with fortitude, have suffered their torments with patience and even joy, as they know they are escaping from this world of evil and corruption’.

‘But is the pain bearable?  Tell me how they can bear the pain?’  The girl was almost pleading with him now, straining her body towards him, willing him to give her the lie.

‘You bear the pain, child, because you have no choice. You must endure it, go through it.  It would be for such a short span of time in the eternity of your existence’.

‘But what if the pain never ends?  The priest in our village called us heretics, and said that the earthly burning was merely a prelude to an everlasting torment in hell; that because our bodies were reduced to ashes, we could never be raised up again to eternal life?’

Her face was pale and smudged in the scant light thrown by the fires and the few torches that hung on the courtyard walls.  The old man’s heart contracted in his chest at her questions.  He had already been on this earth for many years and for the last twenty of them had lived as a parfait.  It had been an austere, ascetic life; owning no possessions, eating no meat, having no sexual contact and being forever hunted.  From village to town, hiding in caves in the mountains during the long, snowbound winters, living on roots and the charity of the credentes.  Living with the knowledge that his presence in a community could bring the weight and terror of the inquisitors down on it? His very body had been weathered and gnarled by this existence, even as his mind had been honed by the religious debates and teachings he had given the people, the wiles he had had to practice to stay alive and keep on with his work.

And so he was not afraid to die a painful death.  He was prepared.  He had accepted all those years ago that at some stage the likely outcome of his life as parfait would be the cruel flames provided by the Holy Church of Rome.  His belief that the death of his mortal body was merely the stepping stone to a joyful eternal life with the Creator spirit away from the evil materialism of the world was engrained to the very core of his being.

But how could he answer this girl? How could he answer this girl, who was still little more than a child and who had not had years and years of hard living her beliefs? This girl who was asking a question about a painful, fiery death before she had even had the chance to live and feel joy with her body?

‘Child, you know that the flames of hell are merely a story concocted by the Church to keep the faithful in line, a method of controlling them.  If you accepted the Consolamentum and lived the way of the parfait for the next three days until the fire is lit for us, you would experience  the physical agony for a short time and then be released from this corrupted material world so that your spirit could fly free to join the Creator forever.  Your existence is eternal; it does not depend on the say-so of some priest or bishop.  Even if you choose not to become a Parfait, you will leave this earthly life through death and be reborn again and again until your soul is ready to choose the path of an austere and pure life that will ultimately release you from the cycle’.

The girl shivered and looked up as small, feathery flakes of snow once more began to fall lightly around them, and then turned her gaze downwards once more.

‘You would also not have to go through this on your own’ he continued.  ‘There are a good two hundred parfaits in the fortress and many of the garrison and other folk are also accepting the sacrament.  You would be surrounded by our love and fellowship throughout your ordeal.’

The girl didn’t raise her head to answer him, seemingly addressing the cold flag stones.

‘Is it so wrong to keep on wanting to live in this world?  I have a young and healthy body. I want to feel the sun on my face, to run and to dance.  I want to know the love of a man and have the chance to bear children.  Tell me would you be able to do this if you were my age and had not had all of those years of living? Not had all the chance to feel those feelings, and experience all that being alive has to offer?’

The old man sighed and tried to settle himself more comfortably on the ice-cold flagstones.

‘You keep asking me unanswerable questions, Child.  I cannot counsel you to make one decision or the other.  You need to look into your own heart and ask yourself these questions. And when you hear an answer; heed it.  This is not about what other people think or expect from you.  It is about the needs of your soul at this point in your journey.’

The girl raised her eyes and looked directly at the Parfait.

‘I have been raised in these beliefs since my infancy; I feel that I should be able to commit to the flames with certainty and joy.  But I don’t.  I want to live this life; I want to live this life!’

The tears slowly started to slide down the girl’s thin cheeks and the old man reached out his hand and gently rocked her shoulder.  They stayed this way by the fire until the wintery dawn started breaking over the rim of the mountains, each lost in their own stream of thoughts and questions.

The next three days passed very slowly, but somehow much too quickly for the girl.  The parfaits and garrison feverishly engaged in the preparations for the surrender of the fortress and the lighting of the great fire.  Many whispered conversations took place around the hearths and on the walls of the citadel that were similar to the one that took place between the girl and the old parfait.  How do I choose, what is the best choice to make, and most cruelly of all, why should I have to choose?

Loved ones cried out their pain against the coming separation, tried to argue, cajole one decision into another. Many tried on their faith for size; some finding it a comfortable fit that led them to their decision naturally and joyously, others finding it too tight a squeeze or too loose around the edges to make it work.

That last night was the slowest and coldest of them all.  The parfaits were busy with administering the Consolamentum to those who had come to their final decision late, talking and praying with the rest of the garrison.  The rest of them shivered and spent the hours in prayer and contemplation of the horrors that the morning would bring.  Families huddled together to try and find warmth and consolation.

Still the girl wrestled with her decision; tossing the two options up in the air like juggling balls, hoping that one would break through.  Wishing that a clear sign would be given, illuminating the way for her?

Finally, as the darkness began to give way to the new day on the eastern horizon, the trumpets of the garrison roused the weary inhabitants for the last time and sent them to their final preparations; putting on their best robes, one last cuddle of an infant, a final kiss for a friend, a last touch on the head of blessing from a parfait.

The girl left the main body of the fortress and climbed up onto the highest battlement, now more or less deserted.   Even though it was early spring, the sun was still slow to rise above the horizon and the wind was cold and biting as it blew off the snow on the mountains. She looked down, past the rocks and scree laden slopes, down to the meadows at the base of the hill where she could see figures moving like tiny ants scurrying around.  She could pick out the gaudily coloured tents and standards of the knights, the horse lines and cooking fires of the camp.  But the thing she did not want to look at was the huge pit that had been dug out of the frozen soil of the meadow and in the last few days filled with logs, underbrush and barrels filled with tar.  Rough wooden ladders had been lashed into place to allow entry into this crater of horrors and torches were already lit and thrust into the ground around the edge.

The girl pulled her cloak tightly around her as she heard the unmistakeable rumble of the portcullis being raised for the first time in many months. She glanced into the courtyard and saw that the parfaits and the faithful had started forming themselves into a procession, and that the old man she had talked with was with them, near the head of the line. He raised his head, as if he had sensed her watching him, and his gaze formed a question for her.

The decision, the moment where the path irrevocably split in two, was finally here.  She continued to look down at him for a long second and then threw her cloak over her head to cover it and shook her head fiercely.

The elderly parfait tenderly smiled up at her; a smile such as she would never receive again her whole life long.  She wondered that on this terrible morning he looked younger and livelier than he had on any of the weary days that had just passed. It was if he was invited to a great feast or was about to receive a great reward; he suddenly looked eager, happy and excited at what was awaiting him.

The girl passed her mind over their conversation, and finally saw that to this man today was the beginning of a new life, not the sad passing of an old one.  A day when he could cast his weary old body aside, let go of the arguing and exhortations of the past and let his spirit soar free.  But it was not for the girl; she was still locked too tightly into the rhythms of her physical body; to the craving for physical sensations and the yearning for love of a human, rather than spiritual kind.

She turned her gaze back towards the distant meadow, where they had used the opening of the gate as a sign to toss the torches into the pit, so that little tendrils of flame and smoke were beginning to appear.  She could see the first of the parfait stepping out onto the narrow path that wound down to the meadow.  The leaders began to sing, it was picked up by all who filed out of the fortress and very soon the whole procession was winding down the mountain singing loudly and joyfully.  The flames and the smoke were starting to billow and spread; black clouds writhing around the meadow and creeping up the mountain.  The head of the procession was soon lost in the smoke and the fury, but the singing still carried on back up the mountain, clear and triumphant.  The girl stood there for a long, long time; stood there till the singing finally stopped and all that remained was the rumble of the fire and the smoke, and the sound of the burnt logs falling in on themselves.