THE SAINTESS AND THE AFFLICTION| ONC 2023

All that is Holy

Wemimo had so much to say, but the blood loss rendered her mute.

She reached her hand for the angel, who knelt beside her, rocking her in a comforting hum.

Wemimo shut her eyes feeling an itching sensation on her neck as the blood clotted and the capillaries closed shut.

The bone marrow within her quickened and slowly she was full and bloated with blood as if she had just fed and was renewed, however her belly tightened for food.

“I answered to the call of your prayer.” The angel said.

“The prayer of the deliverer?” she questioned. She sat up gently, with the help of the angel. “I have prayed that prayer many times.”

“The prayer of the deliverer is originally a prayer for the field in times of need. You needed the Lord’s help and he sent me here. You will see more of me, when I am needed.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am archangel Michael.” He answered.

It was hard to decide that he was a particular gender.

The most striking thing about him was nearly everything: his aura of might and compassion, reflecting upon his mighty wings and his armour as well as the sword cinched to his elegant belt, enveloping his linen robe.

He guided her to the door and they stepped out of the cathedral.

“You are still naïve and green as a clover.” He noted.

“I really did assume that he was the prophet I was sent to bring.” She sighed.

“What makes you think that is your assignment and that is your primary assignment?” Archangel Michael asked her.

“I know my primary assignment. This is my primary assignment.” Wemimo replied.

“You should listen more to the voice of the spirit.” Michael cautioned.

“What do I need to do now? Something is not right about this place.”

“You are right. Something is wrong with this place. Sfordsfield Gothic is beyond this town. It is this region. Let the Holy Spirit guide you through this task. You are not alone.” He pointed out and with one wind blowing heave he shot into the skies faster than a bolt of lightning.

“Wait!” she called too late, because once again she stood alone.

What did he mean that she was not alone with an eerie quiet town?

The night was fast approaching and the skies above would descend to earth and portals and barriers would weaken.

She didn’t know what to expect.

First of all, she needed to locate a safe and holy land for the sake of safety against the afflictions and countless unknown dangers of the night. However, the holy ground of the cathedral was already defiled.

It dawned on her that she was a saintess with the license to perform the ceremony of purification.

Wemimo rummaged through her pack for the purification kit.

It was a small satchel containing the five holy objects: the holy book, the holy fire was provided by the holders of the beacon, the holy water was from the far away pool of pilgrimage, collected at the first stir of the angel, the sacred oil was unknown to Wemimo, but they produced pleasant fragrance, which set her at ease as soon as the scent touched her nostrils and finally, the holy mists.

Wemimo was not familiar with the origins of the mists, but in her studies she knew it was the friend of the deliverer in battle against the innumerable company of foes.

She prepared the incense and circled quietly around the building of the cathedral in silent prayer.

She cleared her mind of fear and thought of something sinister leaping from nowhere at her and slitting her throat.

Her hand traced her neck; it was as if the incident never happened. It was with great relief that she sighed as soon as she was done with the vigil of spreading incense.

She marched with the incense into the building taking at time, especially at the pews as if it would be possible to miss another Jeremiah. However, Jeremiah was no more, burnt by the great light of the archangel Michael.

When she finally reached the altar, she knelt down and arranged the five holy objects and prayed from the Holy Book. She recited several scriptures.

The reading was more of meditation.

She sat before the holy objects as she was at the end of the sacramental, reciting the sealing prayers of truth and holiness to once again bless the communion and restore the sanctity of the unholy ground, tainted:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

The same was in the beginning with God.

All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made.

In him was life; and the life was the light of men.

And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.

The same came for witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe.

He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witness of that Light.

That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.

He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not.

He came unto his own received him not.

But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name:

Which were born not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.

The Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth.

As soon as she recited this a great wind blew the pages of the Holy Book and the lids of the remaining object burst off, releasing the fire, water, oil and smoke, merging and unblended, dispersing and filling up the space like a flood, drowning everything in it.

It startled Wemimo.

Instead, she sat still, drenched and waiting to hear the sound of distant tunes of acceptance coming with the smoke and fragrance.

It came.

She shook in relief and let herself collapse.

She burst into tears from the stress of everything, releasing all the frustration and worry from within her.

After what seemed like an eternity she cleared the remnants, waiting for the first ray of a new day to bring a new ordinance to her prayer.

She went out to Blood Scarlett, her mare to put her in the stables at the side of the building.

In the stables, she brushed Blood Scarlett’s coat: “I was scared senseless too, when I had to come. I’m usually frightened of everything.” She giggled.

“I’m still standing.” She rested her head against the mare’s neck, caressing Blood Scarlett’s fur and feeling comfort.

“I wish to bring you into the cathedral, but the doors aren’t wide enough and the tall arc is too narrow for your large head.”

She kept talking to Blood Scarlett until her coat glistened and her hooves were cleaned and made ready for the next day, and then Wemimo gave her some hay, returning within to keep watch at the altar.

She kept her back to the altar and her arrow at hand, not knowing what to expect, but the night was quiet and Wemimo didn’t know when she dozed off.