Chapter Seven: The Gathering Storm
Light shone in through the window, bright, brilliant, holy. The bed was neatly made, sheets tightly, neatly folded. The sink was pristine and white, a neatly folded towel deftly balanced on it's edge. A small, helpless bird, one of it's wings broken, tweeted and rustled in a straw-filled box on the window ledge.
Father O'Flaherty stood in silent prayer. The wind picked up, and a Shadow passed over the brilliant sun.
Clunk.
The crucifix had fallen from the wall. He walked over, pained with every step, for his knees were aching. He reached out, and raised it reverently to his lips. He kissed the feet of the Savior, and placed the icon back on it's hook.
The bird had died. It's life snuffed out.
Like a tiny candle in a dark cave. The darkness was gathering.
Life is a war, a spiritual war. And I am now called to fight the enemy face-to-face
He never forgives an injury. He has me on his list, and the entire town, too.
He grabbed his hat and coat. He knew what he had to do.