A Guardian's Tale Part II
written and narrated by YonathanJ I have lived at the church for as long as
I remember. I used to think I was born of divine light,
and that I was as much a part of the church as its carved stones and arches. Existing only to revel in worship of His lights. I used to look up to the countless silhouettes,
in the stained glass of the windows, representing the martyrs of history, the Great Saints. How I would love to join them, in eternal
bliss. I was at peace here in the
church, and felt
it completely natural for me to be here, in such a place of faith and beauty. My earliest memory, I like to believe, is
one of divine music. Of Father Augustus and the monks, singing
gregorian chants, filling the whole world with ethereal melodies. Filling my budding mind with wonder, and the
seeds of Faith. Their voices, becoming so much more. And basking in the light, invisible amongst
the believers I cried silently, at just how big and beautiful everything was. Even back then
, I remembered. Things, bad things, from before I was born. Of rooms filled with shadows. Of the ever putrid air, and the hollow embrace
of a mother. Of wicked faces by the candlelight, of monsters
lurking in the dark. And in the darkest night I remember a great
fire, burning it all away, and I danced in its blessed light. Gone! Gone were these strangers. This man with the vicious eyes, this woman
with the short breath. But only her smile hinted at the promise of
something more than this emptine
ss, this quiet despair, this unassuming suffering. I pushed all these nightmares of infancy away,
there in the dank pit of my mind, hoping to forget all about its horror, in favor of this
life, this holy, blessed life, here in the church. *** I’ve always had nightmares. Of dark places and mad faces. Yet yesterday, I dreamed pleasantly for the
first time! Of lights, love and angels. I never knew how real dreams could feel. I’ve talked about it with Father Augustus. He told me that my faith is bei
ng rewarded,
that not often do the Lord of Truth’s messengers appear to his servants. He said, let us hope your dreams bring prophecies
of prosperity. He patted me on the head and went back to
the other monks, eating their gruel, there in the living space of the church. I don’t know why but I went back to my room
and cried. I fell to my knees, and as I always do I looked
up to the altar, there underneath the only window. Softly glowing in the soft sunlight, the altar
was my anchor, my link to al
l that was real and true. I prayed to the Lord of Truth, asking him
for more of these dreams he gifted me. More of the angels, and their loving words,
their unwavering support. I asked Him why Father Augustus didn’t think
it more significant that His angels visited me? After all only the saints ever have visions
of the Truth, yet Augustus dismissed me, as if what I was saying had no significance. I have read the bible black countless times,
and even the other scriptures of the saints at the libr
ary. I may be just a little girl but my faith and
devotion rivals that of any saints. Well, almost any saint. I would never think of myself as an equal
to Saint Aurelius. He was the first Saint I ever learnt about,
being the founder of our church, seven hundred years ago. Saint Aurelius is the divine figure, adorned
on the intricate stained glass of the sanctuary. When Younger I used to think that he was the
Lord of Truth, and so embarrassed I was when I found out it wasn’t the case. Back then,
the idea of Saint was unbelievable
to me. To be so devoted, so faithful that you can
enter the pantheon of the church, and be remembered forever? That death itself becomes irrelevant, from
one’s deeds? To join, up there in the shifting lights of
the stained glass, the beauty and eternity of the Lord of Truth? I dreamed once more, of Saint Joan, martyr
of Fortuna. *** It was very early in the morning, and before
I went to water the petunias, I walked over to Father Augustus' room. I opened the do
or and there he was, sitting
at his great wooden desk, a quill in his hand, busy transcribing manuscripts. ''Hello Joan, good morning.'' he said. I looked around and asked him, ''Father Augustus, why are you not a Saint,
like Saint Aurelius?'' And he laid down his quill, looking over to
me, with his usual seriousness. He took a few seconds to think, before answering, ''Well, you see Joan, to be a Saint is a great
honor, and only those with exceptional faith have the chance to be canonized, to be
come
Saint.'' I didn’t understand what he meant. ''Don’t you have faith, Father Augustus?'' He answered right away, ''We all do. Though no matter how strong our belief, it
is through our actions that faith materializes.'' I came closer to him, looking at what he was
doing. ''You mean, by praying at the altar, like
I always do?'' Augustus rolled up a few pieces of paper on
his desk, and blew on the fresh ink on the manuscript, his calligraphy, impeccable. ''Yes, but mostly in our choices, our liv
es. Take Saint Aurelius, what we remember of him
isn’t how much he prayed, but what he did for his faith.'' My eyes gleamed when I heard him talk about
Saint Aurelius. He knew how much I admired him, and liked
to use him as an example. ''Is it true he built our church?'' Father Augustus got up, walking over to the
window. ''Yes, and it’s said that his shining armor
is hidden somewhere in the church, though no one ever found it. As you know, Aurelius was a general that saved
Fortuna from great ev
ils. Only once peace was achieved, did he seal
his white armor and devoted his life to the Lord of Truth.'' I followed him, almost dancing, and asked
him, filled with hope, ''Tell me, Father Augustus, can I become a
Saint? Saint Joan, martyr of Fortuna!'' I was so happy to share my dream with him,
but Augustus didn’t seem to like what I said. ''Joan, please. Do not make such play of the Saints. Aurelius’ life was of exceptional faith,
but also of suffering. Much more suffering than any others.''
''But isn’t suffering bad? I know mother thought so…'' ''Well, Joan, what defines one’s faith,
is the reason one is willing to suffer.'' *** I ran down the stairs and made my way outside,
to the great garden of the church. There the sun was blessing the flowers and
bushes, the soft wind was blowing ever so slightly, and nothing was to be heard, except
my own very loud thoughts. I watered the petunias, and sang as I did
so, of my favorite chant, on the nurture of nature. The smell here in the ga
rden was out of this
world. My own little corner of paradise, where no
one else ever came. There were birds, and squirrels, and a great
deal of bugs, and I always filled up a bowl of fresh water, for any thirsty friends. Sometimes a dragonfly would visit, as I pulled
some weeds, and other times an elusive hummingbird, licking dry the countless flowers I worked
so hard to grow. Never was I ever so happy and at peace, than
when I was in my garden. To love and be loved, and to worship and be
blesse
d by the Lord of Truth. Such a simple life, such a fulfilling life. The church’s bells rang and I hurried to
my room. I washed my hands and brushed my long black
hair, sitting on my bed. And as I brushed and brushed I thought back
on Father Augustus’ words. Was it a bad thing that I wish to become Saint? Maybe a foolish dream. I thought back on Saint Aurelius’ white
armor, hidden somewhere here in the church. How I would love to see it! Such a relic, a holy artifact, to think it
is sealed here.
Maybe I could find it, and bring it to Father
Augustus, asking nothing more than to be sanctified, for my deeds. I laughed and fell to my knees, prostrated
in front of the altar. I prayed for His angels to guide me, to the
holy armor, and I prayed for His light to never waver. I prayed, as I always do, to never have to
suffer again. *** Today was Sunday. I’ve always hated Sunday. I had decided, many years ago, to spend every
Sunday morning alone, at mother’s tomb. I would pluck a bouquet of blac
k petunias,
and make my way to the cemetery. I always did so very early, to avoid any strangers. I never found out why, but strangers didn’t
like me. And so, just before the sun rises I would
put on my white robe, and my white hat, and place my secret jewelry in my hair. I always felt so sad and so pretty, just before
going. That day a great deal of clouds were flooding
the sky, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. I was hurrying, as it was rather cold and
windy. I had to hold my hat in place, my
other hand
holding the bouquet. My long hair was flowing in the wind, and
I looked behind, wondering if I should just go back to the church, and stop honoring the
dead so much. I kept going. After all this was my only opportunity to
be outside the church, as I never had any reasons to wonder in town, especially given
the side eyes anyone gives me when they see me. Maybe they can’t understand why an angel
would rather walk in the street than fly high in the Lord’s light? Or perhaps they knew som
ething I didn’t,
that my place wasn’t with them but at church, hidden from anyone’s sight. Yet I was beautiful, and quiet, and didn’t
disturb anyone. On my right, a cobblestone wall, eaten by
time. The road was made of gravel, with persistent
weeds thriving despite the harsh conditions. I wanted to pluck them out, so out of place
they were. This isn’t the proper place to prosper,
I thought. The cemetery wasn’t far away, just a few
minutes walk. But I was always wary of anyone crossing my
path, t
hough it didn’t happen so often, this early. And there was something noble, respectable,
about my weekly mission. I am honoring the dead, what are you doing? Going on about your earthly vices? Well then. Just before entering the cemetery, I heard
a rustling behind me, and I froze. I didn’t want to deal with anyone so I turned
around, with an angry look on my face, yet it wasn’t anyone. Well not exactly. It was a cat, a black, rather large cat, meowing
at me in a strange way. I stopped, and looke
d at the animal that kept
meowing, as if asking me to follow it. I kneeled and extended my hand, but the cat
didn’t care. The cat ran away, stopping every few meters,
looking over to me, if I was following. And so I did. Through some dark streets and under tall oaks
I followed the black cat, hurrying as it did, my own short breath distracting me. I kept looking up at the church’s spire,
so as not to get lost, for I never wandered away from my usual path. But this time was different. I came to an
open field, and lost the cat
that went in a tiny opening, in a wall. I waited there for a few seconds. Not sure why. I was feeling the sun rising on the horizon,
through the thick layer of clouds time was flying by. The black cat finally emerged, holding in
her mouth a tiny kitten. But the kitten was terribly wounded, its skull
was half opened, and I couldn’t bear to look at it. The cat put her dear kitten on the ground
in front of me, meowing, powerless. I kneeled down once more, and I felt te
ars
raining down my cheeks. The kitten was barely moving. I was still so breathless from running after
the cat. I took the kitten in my hands and as I did
so the mother ran back in the hole on the wall. I waited and waited, but the cat didn’t
come back. I held the dying kitten in my hands and couldn’t
help crying. Why would such an innocent, lovely creature
be born, only to die so soon? What to do now? I couldn’t save it, in fact no one could,
so fatal its wound. I made my way back under the tal
l oaks, and
followed the brighter streets, yet by now the road was filled with strangers! The clouds had scattered, and the sun was
witness to all. There I was, tears still falling down my eyes,
as I held this dying kitten and the black petunias, my white hat under my arm. I didn’t really know what to do. I walked to the cemetery, avoiding the eyes
of any people. I could see the judgment in their eyes, especially
once they looked at what I was holding so dearly in my hand. A tall woman, her brig
ht blonde hair, squinting
at me as I walked past her. And a short man, there sitting on the edge
of the street, staring me down. I ignored him, but he asked me, loud enough
for all to hear, ‘Girl, what are you doing here? What are you holding?’ I hurried my steps, as the entrance of the
cemetery was right there, but the short man was drawing the attention of many passersby. I didn’t want to reply. I just wanted him to leave me alone. Though I couldn’t defend myself, for I was
holding in my hand,
for all to see, this dying kitten, and what strange behavior from the
girl in white from the church. His voice was joined by the insults of others,
and as I made it to Mother’s tomb at last the air was filled with the horrifying words
of hate of the townspeople, shaming me. I kept my head down and laid the black petunias
directly on the ground, facing her tombstone. I sat down, and drowned the noise of the strangers
with a sonnet, on death and loss. I figured I would nurse the dying kitty until
it would die at last. That was the only thing I could do, the least
I could do. Part 2, Joan and the white armor After that day, I never went back to mother’s
tomb. And death, in all its horror, became somewhat
mundane. What difference does it make, for a being
to be alive or dead? The memory lives on, and that’s all that
matters really. I thought of the countless petunias I had
killed, without a second thought, to honor her. All of them, wilted, gone, forgotten. And the days, the years, all sp
ent in eternal
repetition, of prayers and nightmares, only broken up lately by these peculiar dreams
of golden lights and angels, whispering in the dead of night, guiding me down in the
catacombs of the church, down below, where dusty statues and dark cobwebs idle in the
undisturbed shadow. How foolish would I be, to venture there,
alone, in search of some fabled armor of centuries-old Saint. I thought, no, fantasized, about sneaking
about in the darkest night, and in the silence of the heavy ra
in I would light up a candle
and open the passage in the sanctuary, and covering my mouth I would breath in the putrid
air, the old air, the holy air. Down there I would search and search, and
find at last the most precious, the most blessed artifact, the white armor of Saint Aurelius. I was squirming with excitement in my bed,
smiling to myself, giggling softly, praying for the Lord of Truth to guide me, to guide
me to what I truly wished. I thought perhaps rain would come in a few
days, a few
weeks at most. All to cover my sneaking, for I wished to
surprise everyone with my plan. I wished to surprise Father Augustus, by entering
his quarters, as I do every morning, not as Joan but as Saint Joan, wearing the armor! And smiling so broadly I fell asleep. What awoke me wasn’t old nightmares or even
blinding, holy lights, but the soft, omnipresent sound of rain! I sat up on my bed and my mind was in effervescence. I knew, that night, that I had to go. And so I stood up, breathing in and o
ut, trying
to calm myself, to no avail. I put on my white dress, that I only ever
wore on Sundays, and kneeled down at the altar, to pray quickly. Though nothing came to mind. I was hyper-awake, listening to the almost
silence of the church, and couldn’t ask or confess anything. I picked up a candle, a few inches long, and
decided tonight, I would go. I opened my door, and doing so a strange feeling
came upon me, a sort of forbidden hand, trying to hold me back. Almost like acting on an idea, so
odd and
isolated that none other than myself would see logic in it. I chased away my doubts, and made my way down
the stone stairs. I kept looking up at Father Augustus’ door,
picturing his serious face looking at me, yet his door remained closed. It was surreal, to think no one knew what
I was doing, what I had made myself do, this holy quest. I laughed silently and walked over to the
kitchen, all the way on the side of the sanctuary. If I was lucky, I could light a candle in
the embers of the
hearth. The kitchen door was ajar. I pushed it open and held it right in place,
for it squeaked audibly. I felt blood rushing to my face, and I pictured
Augustus and the monks waltzing downstairs, to scold me, yet no one came. In fact the rain seemed to fall down heavier
on the church. Perfect. I took a few steps in the kitchen, and in
the twilight I could barely make out the faint, red glowing there underneath the cauldron. I hurried over, used the candle to expose
the very precious coals and
blew on it, so gently, as to re-ignite them. Hunched over all I could see was the iridescent
coals, breathing in my air, taking on incredible glows of red and orange, I was mystified. For a moment I thought that perhaps all I
was and ever have been was these pieces of all-important coals, breathing in and out,
a hope, a dream. And I held the candle close, the wick even
closer, and it catched on fire. The candle’s flame was almost blinding to
me, and I could at last see my surroundings. The kitch
en was another world at night. In the day, one or more monks would cook the
gruel and prepare the stew and it was always a lively place. But tonight, it was but a stepping stone for
my true endeavor. My breathing was making the candle flicker,
and I held my free hand around the flame, to protect it, for I didn’t think I could
light it up again. I had one chance at this. I walked out of the kitchen, and sliding through
the ajar door I heard a sort of scurrying, from where I came from. I froze, tu
rned around and locked eyes with
a pair of glowing eyes in the dark. There! In the corner of the kitchen, completely still,
a sort of creature, staring me down, the candle reflected in the black of its eyes. I was seen, and so it was. I hated it. I saw a bit of myself in the rat, hidden in
the dark, mesmerized by the only light, a weak candle. I wished to strangle the rat, better even,
to burn its eyes in the candle, so much I hated it, so much I hated how much I saw myself
in it. I was so confu
sed. I raised the candle and at that the rat ran
away, back to its secret, hidden hole. I turned around and tried to calm myself. I thought back on that one dusty journal I
had found at the library, recounting of gospels whispered by the monks through the centuries
of the church. In it I found mundane gossip, uninteresting
events long forgotten, but more importantly I found out where the entrance of the catacombs
was. It was in the very first pages, and I remember
it because I was so curious as
to what that old, dusty journal could hide in its words. Turns out, not a lot, except the first steps
to Saint Aurelius’ armor. Still holding the lit candle, I made my way
through the wooden benches. I was walking across the sanctuary, looking
up at the so different stained glass, not basking in the divine light but glooming in
the heavy rain. I felt their gazes on me, as I sneaked around. So little I was, alone there in the church,
doing who knows what, instead of sleeping. A divine quest, I th
ought, standing in front
of the very last statue to the left of the stone stairs. That statue was none other than virgin Alyssia,
a lesser saint of the church. It was also its oldest, and the once polished
surface was now flawed by the centuries. She was dressed in a white vail, her dress
almost impudent, and her eyes were empty, without any pupils. I kneeled down in front of her, not to pray
as perhaps other girls would’ve done in the past, but to feel the stone floor right
around its base. So
much dust. I ran my finger along the stone ridge, on
all four, holding the candle closely. The tip of my finger was black in a few seconds. I ran it on one side, and the next, and I
went behind the statue, to a close, tight space, and there finally I felt a sort of
metallic object, cold to the touch. I pushed my fingers underneath and a sort
of mechanism opened the backside of the base. It was a very tight, spiraling staircase,
and I was barely able to see where it would lead. I never knew my ch
urch would have such secrets. When I read it in the journal I didn’t believe
it. For what was the point of such passage? I thought perhaps centuries ago priestesses
would venture down the catacombs and fill the holy water, pay homage to the dead or
any other reasons. Pushing open the stone door I retched, so
foul was the air. I barely reacted in time, to save my candle’s
flame. And after hesitating for a few seconds, I
winced and awkwardly bent myself, to step and go down the tiny stairs. In suc
h a claustrophobic space I could only
hear my own breathing. Once again, that feeling gripped me. I shouldn’t be here! I was being very careful, making sure each
foot was solidly on the stone step before going deeper. My heart was racing, and I almost felt like
all that was simply a dream, and that I would awake in my bed, to start yet another day. But it wasn’t so, and I at last reached
the bottom of the stairs. The ground was bare, cold and slightly wet. The air was much cooler down here, and
the
smell wasn’t so bad anymore. I looked up to the spiraling staircase, and
couldn’t even see the entrance. I took a few seconds to sit on the stairs,
looking around. The candle still had a way to go, but I didn’t
want to waste time here. After all, no one knew I was here, and no
one would find out, at least not in a few centuries. I laughed at that and got up, holding the
candle closer to the stone walls. Some of them had inscriptions, in latin, without
any space between the words, making it a
bit difficult to decipher. The ceiling was so low, I even had to crouch
to get around. Of course there was not the slightest trace
of light down here, except for my candle, illuminating this forgotten place. I kept going the linear path until I reached
a fork, three paths. I didn’t expect this place to be such a
maze, and debated whether I should turn around and forget all about this silly quest of finding
Saint Aurelius’ holy armor. Of course I kept going. I went straight ahead, since I though
t that
the sealed grave of Aurelius would certainly be in the center of the catacombs. I was right, and after stumbling in the dark
for what felt like forever I made it to a more open area, with a humble altar, revealed
by the candle’s light. It was a cross, carved of white stone, and
the only surface not covered in dust. I ran the flame along the tomb underneath,
and the latin spelled the honorable deeds of the church’s founder. I read some words about the Devil’s temptation,
about the fire end
ing it all, before I made it to the other side of the tomb, to a stone
slab, inscribed with the deep, solemn Latin words : sanctus albus armis. I couldn’t believe it. There, right in front of me, the divine armor
of Saint Aurelius. But it was sealed, underneath a heavy slab
of stone. I tried to push it with one hand, but it didn't
budge one bit. I could hear my breathing grow quicker, as
I tilted my candle, dropping a few drops of molten wax on the stone surface of the tomb. I placed the candle
there, and with both hands
I pushed on the slab, my feet digging in the ground. Nothing. I looked down at my hands, covered in dirt,
and my dress, intertwined in cobweb, and underneath I felt bugs spiders crawling on my feet, and
I froze. I couldn’t breathe anymore. I turned by head, and behind me, the same
eyes I saw in the kitchen, gazing at me, unflinching. I felt goosebumps all over, and fell to my
knees. I kept expecting to awake in my bed, in sweat,
yet there was no escape. What was I doin
g there? I was holding my hand, clutching it, my nails
biting in my skin, the pain almost too far away, and at last I exhaled, inhaled and blinked
a few times, and in pure rage I put my two hands on the stone slab, and pushed, pushed
until it gave in, and slid over ever so slightly. I moaned in frustration and with all my force
I pushed it over, the slab falling on the ground, so loudly the sound echoed in the
tight space for seconds. I heard the rats scurrying and squeaking behind
me, but damn
the rats! I looked at the armor, and its white, incredible
ornaments left me thoughtless. The armor was so much more.. real than I thought? I leaned in closer, and grabbed my candle,
which then slipped through my fingers onto the ground below. I froze, in the complete, suffocating darkness,
and kneeled down to the barely visible wick, this tiny, red memory of a flame. I couldn’t believe it. I blew on it, ever so slightly, and to my
horror, the void. Absolute darkness. After a few seconds I start
ed breathing again. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think. It was unbelievable. I almost felt as if I wasn’t really there. I wasn’t really Joan, I was just an immaterial
consciousness, there in the depths of the church’s catacombs. I felt panic taking hold of my heart once
more, but this time I had what I wanted, I had the armor! I reached down to it, and to my relief it
was still there, real and tangible. I lifted it with both hands, and I couldn’t
believe how heavy it was. In the dark it was diffi
cult to picture, but
from what I could feel it was the cuirass. The sealed slab was empty of anything else. I didn’t want to put it on, I felt like
it was sacrilege. But I had no other way to bring it back up. I was so alone, so unsure of what to do that
I fell down to my knees, in the dirt, and, wearing this heavy armor I prayed, once more,
to the Lord of Truth. To guide me, out of this place, this holy,
dark place, back to where I belong, back to Father Augustus. I felt tears and tears fall do
wn my cheeks,
and nothing else. No angels, or seraphims, or even a lone star
to guide me. Only the void. And so I stood up, shaking under the weight
of the armor, and feeling the stone walls I began to make my way back. I kept my eyes closed, and in my left hand,
I held high my unlit candle. I kept my right hand along the wall, tracing
back my steps. Though I could hear, as clearly as my own
breathing, the rats following me, from back there. And so I kept praying and praying, the same
few senten
ces to the Lord of Truth, O please guide me back to the Light, to the Truth,
O please, guide me back to the Light, to the Truth- And the wall vanished, and I screamed and
fell over, I pictured myself falling down a chasm, an abyss, joining down the void,
disappearing from the world forever, forgotten, until I landed loudly on the ground. I coughed and tried to get back up, but the
armor was so heavy and cumbersome. I thought, perhaps I should just remove it
and come back for it later, but I coul
dn’t. My legs were shaking as I stood back up again,
and in my left hand my candle was broken in two. I threw it on the ground. I was groaning in pain, in frustration. I extended my right hand to the wall, and
found it, further than I thought. I imagined where I was, sweat dripping from
my forehead, down in my eyes, ironically blinding me. I was at the fork, and I had to continue straight
ahead to get back to the staircase, to the church. But I fell down, and I couldn’t tell which
of the four pa
ths was the right one. I touched the walls and positioned myself
in the very middle. In front of me, a path, with three others. Only one leading to the surface. I stood there, wiped the sweat off my forehead,
and extended my arms. I couldn’t feel anything for a few moments,
and once more I kept the fires of panic at bay, by breathing in and out, and praying. Until I felt it, a slight, almost imperceptible
breeze, the air moving to the exit! And I felt my way along the wall, walking
along the pat
h, and there at last, at the very end of the corridor, a faint light in
the total darkness. I hurried up and ran along, crying tears of
relief, and fell more than once, getting back up every time, ever closer to the escape. There I crawled to the tight stairs, and squinting
I placed one foot and the next, carefully making my way up. I was so tired of the dark. I was so tired of the rats, scurrying behind
me, their eyes. I made it up the stairs at last, and I was
breathing so heavily. I pushed my
self out, and to my horror I felt
the tiny hands of the rats on my legs, they too wanted to escape! I panicked and kicked back, made it out and
pushed back in place the stone entrance, to the squeaking of panic of the rats. I sat down there, in the dusty corner behind
the virgin Alessya, catching my breath. I stood back up but my legs were so painful. I stepped in the twilight, the rain still
pushing down on the church, and the air was so good up here. I looked down at the armor upon my body's
f
rame, feeling incredible - so happy and alive at this very moment. I looked down to my dirty, bleeding hands
and knees, to my ruined white dress, and I couldn’t think of anything. I walked up the stone stairs, and so grateful
I was of the light of the church, so safe and heartwarming it was. I entered my room, and with my arms shaking
I removed the holy armor, placed it on the desk, and fell to my knees, in front of my
altar. Just like I did a few moments ago, yet it
felt like forever! I had tre
spassed the church, found a secret
passage, found the holy armor, lost vision and hope and made it back, all by myself. There, a few meters from me, the armor of
Saint Aurelius. I felt a fountain of pride, a spectacle of
faith swelling in me, and all my fatigue vanished. I ran back downstairs, opened the very big
wooden doors of the church, and looking outside in the vastness of the village, I felt it. Truth. I walked down the stairs once more, this time
not to some forgotten catacombs but to th
e outside, to the heavy rain, the hidden moon
and to my unbridled, overwhelming gratefulness of being alive, of being here, of being Joan.
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