Call of Samson

Hollow veil, cave full of dark horrors and wonders, a torch lit with cobalt and ashes. 

Bloody handprints on the fractured walls of the cave. The mirror of Raylene at the far back, near the startling sparkling staircase.

Akaton with the hall of bells, set up strategically along the cave floor, leading from the mouth of the cave to the waterfall and the mirror. Stoic men walking in between the lines of the bells on their pilgrimage.

Santiago. Brutus. Maximus. Gallino. Pollo and Castierra.

Interruption. Action. “Hair on fire,” as the matriarchs used to say.

What is done cannot be undone. What is seen cannot be unseen. Memories only fade away slowly, or are obliterated by the onset of mental decline in aging.

All of them were there when the shout shot through like an arrow and broke the mirror into shards, the bells had their way with it too. No one was safe in that instant and nearly all of them were tired of running and hiding.

“Finally,” Opprobrium said, taking off his robe and looking down at all the bloody marks.