The Redemption of Cavaillon

The following is a channeled story that follows on from The Tragedy of Cavaillon, exploring an alternate timeline in which those involved discovered equipoise.

Cavaillon, Provence, 1347

The market square bustled with the hum of trade and the scent of fresh bread. Among the sun-warmed stone buildings, Élie ben Moshe’s tailor shop and Guillaume le Boulanger’s bakery faced one another, like two worlds divided by more than cobblestones. And between them moved Clémence, the baker's wife, her grace cloaking an aching sorrow.

Élie had loved her in silence since childhood. Their friendship was quiet and careful, threaded through with unspoken affection. She knew. And in her way, she loved him, too. But such love was impossible. She was Christian. He was Jewish. In a land trembling under the weight of suspicion and whispered curses, even close friendship risked too much.

Élie never married. He lived with Meir ben Yaakov, his assistant—a sharp and restless man. They were lovers, though only the candles heard their truth. Together they studied Kabbalah in secret, reaching into the old names, trying to understand the machinery of spirit.

While Élie turned toward healing, Meir grew hungry for dominion. Power. Protection. Magic that could bend the world.

It was in this state of quiet longing that Arnaud de Carpentras arrived in Cavaillon. A butcher by trade, he carried with him the scent of blood and a charm that veiled his deeper hunger. Tall and dark-eyed, Arnaud was a man of many masks. He befriended Meir, taking him under his wing. He claimed to have traveled from the Languedoc, where he had studied forgotten rites once practiced by the Cathars and Templars before their fall. He spoke in riddles and promises, cloaking himself in mystery; and Meir, feeling unseen and uncertain in his own path, found the man's words intoxicating.

Arnaud sensed Meir's ambition immediately. He fed it gently, suggesting that Élie's gentler approach was noble but naive, insufficient in a world ruled by fear. "There is more," Arnaud whispered one evening behind the butcher's shop. "Power that does not ask permission. Magic that answers only to will. I can teach you. But you must not speak of this to your friend. He would not understand."

Something ancient stirred in Meir that night—a thirst he had not dared name aloud. He promised himself it would only be curiosity. Only study. But seeds were being sown, and Arnaud, patient and smiling, watered them with every word.

And then, on Christmas Eve, came word from Marseille: plague.

A sickness that set lungs aflame and blackened the body. The rumors arrived like crows. Cities collapsing. Children dying in hours. And the town of Cavaillon held its breath.

Élie and Meir began work on a spell to shield the village—a protective charm to be anchored in a quartz crystal, powered by Élie's blood, and buried beneath the market square.

But when the moment came, Meir faltered. The white magic recoiled from him.

He stepped back. His face paled. The ritual groaned to a halt.

And then—

The Stillpoint

Meir turned and ran. The door banged open behind him.

Élie stood frozen. Hand half-raised. Spell incomplete.

Terror welled in his throat. He saw it all beginning to unravel. He looked at the crystal in his hand and thought about the half-finished spell. Should he go after Meir? Should he complete the spell? He didn't know what to do. Leaving the working now could disrupt the spell and delay its completion, potentially exposing the town to the plague. Yet leaving Meir to run off in his anguish without helping him felt deeply wrong. With everything he had, he wished he could both help his friend and finish the ritual.

And then—a sudden stillness. The air thickened. The candle flames stilled. A bell rang, its sound reverberating through the air and the soul. Élie turned slowly, disoriented, as light filled the room.

From that light, a man stepped forward. He was ageless, robed in radiant hues that shimmered like dawn woven into silk. His face bore kindness forged through eons of witnessing sorrow and triumph alike, and his presence stirred a stillness that went deeper than silence. He looked upon Elie without judgment, his eyes holding galaxies of grief and glory, and something more profound: peace.

When he spoke, it seemed as though his voice was coming from every direction.

"Élie ben Moshe. My name is Samah. I am here to help you choose. You cast a spell of great beauty, yet to avoid having it become a source of darkness, you must now stand in your sovereignty. You wished to help your friend and save your town. I am here to show you how."

Élie fell to his knees. “It’s too late,” he whispered. “He’s gone. The spell—the plague—I’ve doomed us all. I've failed.”

Samah knelt beside him, resting a hand on his heart.

“Élie ben Moshe,” he said softly. “You are not being tested. You are being invited.”

“Invited?”

“To remember how to stand in the center of everything. Equipoise does not begin in stillness. It begins in exaltation. Let me show you what once was.”

He touched Élie’s forehead gently. A vision opened before him.

Élie saw Meir fleeing into the night, his footsteps carrying him to Arnaud's door. He saw the butcher welcoming him with a smile and a promise. He saw the young boy Hugo taken, small and trembling. The cellar. The blade. The scream.

Then came the town—torches, curses, rage. Élie pulled from his workshop before completing the spell. Clémence dragged into the square beside him, both accused. Stones. Blood. The crystal pressed between their hands, unfinished magic flaring into catastrophe.

Darkness. The spell twisted.

The town collapsed. Breath fled lungs. Children wept, and then were still.

And then nothing. No life. Only dark energy, flaring out in every direction and robbing the world of its connection to magic.

Élie gasped, tears streaming down his face.

“That does not have to be,” Samah said. “Meir does not flee because he is fallen. He flees because no one has ever exalted him as he is.”

Samah rose, his hand lifting Élie to his feet.

Élie blinked, confused.

Samah continued:

“Exalt everything. Every grief. Every longing. Every mistake. Every miracle. Love it more, not less. Exalt even this—Meir running, your trembling hands. Love it until it belongs.

“Be equipoise. Not by stilling your heart, but by praising all things. Equipoise does not come from what you know. It comes from what you honor. Now go, and bring what you have learned to your world.”

The glow faded. Time resumed.

The Turning

Élie stuck the crystal in his pocket and broke into a run, quickly catching up with the shorter Meir.

He did not plead. He did not shout.

He simply stood, every cell in his body saying: Yes.

“You do not have to run, Meir,” he said. “I love you. I accept you. I appreciate you. As you are.”

Meir stopped.

He turned, tears running freely. “I thought… you’d hate me.”

“Never.”

They came together in truth, and healed in love.

Back in the workshop, Élie and Meir stood in a silence deeper than words. The crystal sat between them on the worktable, pulsing softly with the rhythm of possibility.

Élie reached for Meir’s hand, and Meir did not flinch. They each took a blade, offered their palms, and pressed them together over the quartz.

Blood mingled. Light awakened.

There was a gentle rising, like dawn breaking across the soul of the village. The spell did not burst forth. It breathed out in relief.

Rays of warmth coiled through the walls, seeped into hearths, caressed the hands of old women and the feet of children. Trees bent slightly in the windless air, as though bowing. Water shimmered in basins. Bread rose higher in ovens.

The magic was not only protection. It was memory. It was spaciousness. It was hope. It wove through Cavaillon like a lullaby once forgotten, now remembered.

And as the final thread anchored, Élie found himself speaking, his voice suddenly much deeper and richer than his own, as if he were speaking with the voice of God himself: "Love may hold them all in exalted reverence."

The plague turned aside. The village held its breath—and then exhaled, safe. At first, no one dared believe it. But as days passed and no sickness came, awe replaced fear. Old rivalries softened. Neighbors brought bread to one another without knowing why. The air held something different—lighter, fuller. And though few could name it, all felt it: they had been held by something greater than themselves. They had felt the grace of God touch their lives.

Arnaud

Only one soul fell ill.

Arnaud de Carpentras, the butcher, who had whispered of dark rites and preyed on Meir’s fear.

He had already begun a ritual in secret the night the plague approached, using stolen rites from the fallen Templars. He had begun the preparatory work on his own that evening and was about to locate a child to sacrifice when the spell cast by Élie and Meir activated. Their spell spread through the town but was unable to touch Arnaud inside the dark construct he had created.

The spell could not embrace what refused love.

As his fever rose, he called for Meir, cursing and pleading.

Meir came. He sat beside the dying man safe in his magic, feeling compassion for Arnaud’s suffering, and said only this:

“You taught me to seek power. He taught me to seek truth. I do not hate you, Arnaud. But I will not follow you.”

And he stayed, until the breath left Arnaud’s body.

Cavaillon Remembered

The plague never touched the town, despite ravaging everything nearby. Rumor quickly circulated that Élie had been the one to save everyone. When confronted, he decided to tell the truth rather than hide himself away, showing them the crystal, which he hadn’t yet buried in the town square. Instead of shunning him, the villagers rejoiced. The entire town softened towards Élie and the other Jews in Cavaillon, discovering that their neighbors could be their friends, despite their differences. To everyone’s surprise, children were soon spending their days with Élie, learning his white magic, all with the consent of their parents. No one could deny the gift that Élie had given everyone, and they all suddenly wished to know how to do the same things. Only the children had the courage to ask.

A month after the working, Élie felt it was time to bury the crystal, which still glowed with the light of its magic. The town gathered around with a reverent hush as Élie set to work, prying up a cobblestone from the center of the market square.

Clémence quietly stepped away from the crowd and joined him in his work. Kneeling beside him with a look of the deepest affection and appreciation, she said, “You saved us.”

And then, with a long gaze: “I know. I've always known. I feel it too.”

Élie nodded, matter-of-factly, with a gentle smile. “I knew that.”

There was no regret. Only reverence. Two lives, seen clearly. Two friends, joined by love. Nothing hidden. Everything honored.

The two worked together in silence as they buried the crystal in the ground, anchoring its energies for all time.

* * *

Years passed. Cavaillon flourished.

The blessing-field held. Children played where once grief might have bloomed. Magic remained as a rhythm of daily existence. The sacred never fled the body.

One day, a child stopped Élie in the street. “Did you cast the spell that saved the town?”

Élie knelt and nodded with a smile.

“It was more than a spell,” he said. “It was a promise.”