THE SAINTESS AND THE AFFLICTION| ONC 2023

Sfordsfield Gothic

Communione duxerit

Wemimo crouched not too gently over the slab, inspecting the Latin text.

She frowned.

She was bilingual; fluent in Yoruba and English. She must have come across these words before, for her to know that these words meant ‘unholy communion’.

Why would these words be carved on the floor of a Church?

She dusted the linen brushing her aching knees. She stood, looking around at the empty hall of unfilled pews.

When a saintess visited a town all the residents of the town waited in the Chapel to welcome her and fill her with the necessary information needed for her specific tasks.

It was dark outside.

The harmattan was relentless. The cold jousted her bones. Her water soluble jacket, cushioned by rabbit fur at the collars was dusty and un-presentable, yet there was no one around. It might have been for the best too.

She glanced at the words on her palm. She had got the location right.

Sfordsfield Gothic

It was a strange name with no meaning to her. She’d rather live in it like that. Ever since her ordination into the sisterhood of the righteous she had tried as much as possible to be emotionally removed. It was better that way, because getting into the mysteries and the strangeness of the world didn’t bring any good. It was even more dangerous for the pure.

Defilement was easy.

Everything was about consent and without strong will and the fellowship of the true friend one could easily fall prey.

It was the time of the tribulation. It was the time where the unseen successfully broke forth into the visible, as the veil of secret mysteries tore. It made things bearable and then intolerable.

Here words came to life and so many things wanted to come alive, especially the demons.

The saints hardly spoke and people had come to learn to think nice thoughts, but there were afflictions.

Afflictions were the chosen cursed, created for a greater purpose by Lord Fahrenheit. The afflictions were the chosen ones of the dragon.

Wemimo’s boots clogged at each step, when she made her way between the pews of the colossal Chapel.

This Sfordsfield Gothic was indeed a great town.

It could be a city.

The Eucharist was defiled. She could see that as she paced back to the inner core, where the officiating minister held fellowship.

The bread was mouldy – a clear sign of something huge wrong.

This is why they had written a letter to the temple.

She could see that the people in this town had weak faith.

A metal clanged, resonating against the walls of the cathedral, accompanied by a stifled gasp.

Wemimo’s hand found the side of her jacket where her weapon was lodged. ‘Come out!’ she commanded. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

There was no response. She felt the air around her, feeling the traces of activity. An affliction had come here, but it was no longer there.

It must have been a frightened person from the city. ‘I am not your enemy. I am the Saintess – from Merit town.’

‘Did you say you are the Saintess?’ A boy asked, coming out of the farthest pew that was closest to a wall.