Good morning. We’ve reached the middle of the week it seems. Is it me or did this week seem to be a bit of a struggle? Personally I feel somewhat victorious for making it to the midpoint. I suspect it means I’ll be in for a celebration by the time Friday arrives. But we still have half a week to chug through. So let’s get into it. Ready? excellent. Let’s go.
I really liked this one. I’m going to have to figure out the calamities around it but I think at the very least this could be a good short story at some point. I love when that happens.
Wednesday, March 30th: Each tool was meticulously cleansed before being placed in its designated spot.
Each tool was meticulously cleansed before being placed in its designated spot. Everything had an order and the order provided the rhythm by which he worked. First the debris from the ceremony, ash, wood sap, blood and other detritus was wiped off with a white cloth. The cloths were gather and would as the final end, be burned, the last remnants of the sacrifice being sent along to join with the whole so that nothing was lost.
Once cleared of material, each implement was dipped in the holy water that flowed through the spring. It was held aloft for a moment, excess water dripping down his arms and bathing him in the holy water, cleansing him of impurities, or so he had been told.
Then the tool would be plunged into consecrated oil. The oil would preserve the implements, preventing rust and keeping them fresh and sharp. Once immersed in oil they were laid out upon the sacred stone, the excess oil seeping into the stone while the sun dried the rest.
One by one he worked through the tools, until each was laid flat upon the sun. He then gathered the soiled cloths and fed them one by one into the fire bowl. Each cloth sent to the flames required a special set of ritual words. He offered them up. Sometimes there were only one or two cloths and the first few stanzas were sufficient. Today, things had gotten …messy. He often wondered what would happen if he made it through the entire litany of ritual stanzas before all of the cloths were burned. The priest he trained under dryly informed him that if he made it through all one hundred and forty eight stanzas and still had cloths to burn then he should perhaps seek a different path for his life.
While messy, today’s sacrifice required only eighteen cloths, far from the full complement of stanzas. Still it was enough that by the time the words to close the ritual burning of the cloths were said, he felt parched.
He was not yet able to stop. The final task was to pass each tool through the flames, naming the blades and thanking them for their service before placing them in their final home. With the kiss of flame, the dried oil flared leaving the blades blackened. One by one he went through them until they were all once again in their homes.
He nearly sagged with relief as he finally put out the ritual fire and turned to make his way back to his rooms and some much needed rest. He had been up since before dawn and now the day was waning. He tried not to frown in irritation as he made his way down the priest’s corridor. The walls were low making it more of a processional and he knew there were those who would watch and those who would take his facial expressions as omens, portents of ill fortune.
He kept his face blank but knew that his weariness showed. While today’s sacrifice had been messy, lately there had been more sacrifices offered. Usually the blood offerings were few and more elemental ones were given, small plants ritually sacrificed for a good harvest, bowls of water slashed to encourage the annual floods. But this year there had been calamity after calamity and many believed only blood would wash the sins of the people clean.
Ten til Midnight 