And caught in the middle was Jael—dark hair, brown eyes, and skin made dun from field work. Where the others’ garments were woven roses, her wool and linens were mud. Clothing is fickle, she reminded herself, but their laughter cut vein-deep. She could escape them no more than she could her broad shoulders and bulbous nose, nor her round cheeks and oxen thighs. A maiden flowered but without a woman’s form, though the teasing began long before. “Farm-Face,” they’d called her. “Sway-Back,” and “Ox-Arms.” Over time they grew crueler. “Aberrant,” and “Heifer-Bride.” As a little girl, those names had sent her crying to her father. As a woman of sixteen, she could hide the tears welling in her eyes—for a time.
She sighed, breathing deeply, keeping her feelings contained when finally relief arrived. The gentle creak of the deacon’s cell door crept over the crowd as Gavin rounded the transept crossing. He seemed half his forty-three years as he bounded up the platform stairs, climbing two at a time to the little lectern where his round and wrinkled face glowed in the gilded light. Jael had never seen him so excited, smiling wide under a beak of a nose with warmth enough to thaw the whole assembly and bring them clamoring to their feet.
“Welcome, my brothers and sisters. I beg you’ll forgive this old man his belatedness; the Lord kept me at his shrine for quite some time this morning. Longer than I expected, but perhaps it was part of his plan. After all, isn’t this the dawn of our Day of Absolution?” Gavin chuckled, provoking awkward grins from the members of his flock. “Brothers, sisters, if you can find it in your hearts to forgive my delay, I ask that you rise with me so that we may begin our Lord’s prayer.” The deacon dragged a heavy breath.
Lord God, we put our Faith in your word.
Guide us, that we may act in your favor.
Teach us to live contently with what we hold.
Teach us to be brave in the face of sin, and empower us to stand steadfast against it.
Teach us to love our neighbors, as you love all men in this world.
And as a father does his child, we ask you Lord to right us when we wrong.
That we may earn your forgiveness.
Now and forever,
May soon his kingdom come.
“May soon his kingdom come,” the assembly droned along, filling the chapel with the hum of their joined voices—vibrations coursing deeper than individual faith. Immersion in the Lord’s prayer washed away Leonhardt’s pain. Like a set of strong arms, it kept her safe from harm, from the sinful tongues of her misguided peers. Then tears flowed once more—joyful ones—as was not uncommon upon “coming closer to God,” so Gavin called it. “A sensitivity to the divine.” Jael thought her condition a blessing. Others thought it madness—they were fooled, Leonhardt knew, to mistake faith and hysterics. Even the deacon had affirmed her defense, but that left her curious: why did Gavin not share her experience?
He did, Jael realized for the first time as she saw the unmistakable gleam in the deacon’s gray-blue eyes. At once, she set to puzzling what could’ve moved the unshakable soul, what surprise might he have in store that could bring forth such emotion. She wrestled with the question while the rest of the assembly repeated the Messaii creed; but she couldn’t find her answer, not before the reaffirmation was complete and the time had arrived for the sermon to begin.
Jael dropped her pondering to the wayside. This was her favorite homily, a recounting of the cleansing of the pagan city Babylon as recorded by late Saint Lucius and rewritten by Herbstfield’s very own acolyte. When Leonhardt was still a little girl, she used to make her father tell the tale over and over, and even that older version—despite missing much of Gareth’s flare—never grew dull, no matter how many times she heard it. Even now, Jael found herself leaning in with eyes shut and her imagination open, painting images to each and every word.
Gavin began,
Seventeen years ago, when Saint Lucius still ruled from the Valley Rock, lo, what a great revelation was handed down by God. By prophetic mouth the Lord made known that in a city to the south a bridge between our kingdoms rose. It was the Lost Bridge of Babylon by which our ancestors fled the Holy Father’s wrath and since hath abandoned for the promised land. Only those consumed by arrogance and hate remained, we knew from the Babylonian accounts, but it was then shewn that a demon had been born into that woeful place and rallied the sinners into a foul, pagan faith. So Saint Lucius, God bless his name, called seven holy warriors to vanquish this plague. They were heroes of their time, exalted by works and deeds: Brothers Marcus and Antony, clerics of Quiet Harbor; Iago, the Cardinal; Warrior-Priest Desmond, bearing the arms of Watcher’s Eye upon his shield; Messah Takayama, convert of the east; Noble Sacrifice Ezekiel; and the lady knight Camilla. Together they sailed south across the Pearl Sea, leading a great host against Babylon’s cursed Impii.
For seven days they sailed without stop, through white-water and storm, devil waves tossing them, testing their faith, and scuttling their ships on the rocky fangs of that perilous shore. Yet even then God’s champions did not fret, nor did they balk upon arriving at the heathens’ den. Across the desert, they went to the vile hive where men lived like beasts, naked as sin with swollen lips, sunken eyes, and darkened skin. And when a parleyer was sent offering peace for the demon’s head, they struck him dead and bore their blasphemous arms: weapons of bronze, long known as the Devil’s gold, misshapen to mock the form of our holy cross.
Howling with all the fury of Hell’s damned souls, the savages charged God’s valiant host, but against iron and steel and faith
