Passage

Passage

Early June 1539

Near the edge of the village I pause in exhausted reflection, knowing my journey is
Approaching its end and lifting a prayer that the pilgrimage has not been made in vain.
My feet, although covered in a thin mask of leather, are raw with biting blisters and
Fatigue; and the audible protest from this empty stomach echoes in my weary wake.
The idea of dignity defeating my desperation at this point is moot, and I survey the dusty
Vista in hopes of finding a morsel that has been dropped or discarded along the street.
Nothing save refuse and pebbles line the path as I force the muscles in my calves to
Gain each subsequent step; I feel the disdain of a merciless gaze upon me from behind.
I dare not turn, but continue on towards what appears to be a chapel in the center of
The town, lest my myopia or weakness has created a cruel mirage some fifty yards ahead.
Bells peal lightly into the evening announcing vespers, and I take an unassuming position
At the rear of the crowd hoping for a moment's respite and a blessing for my parched lips.
My entrance is denied by the dark haired man draped in ceremonial robes and an undeniable
Lack of piety as he makes his assessment of the haggard stranger at the bottom of the steps.
My attention to his apologue is short lived, and my faltering vision affixes itself on the breviary
Clutched tightly in his hand; I fade into the void of my own enervation despite my will to live.
The bells are infused with a slightly sweeter color now, and accompanied by a delicate intonation
From a quartet of flutes that can be labeled no less than divine; alas, my mouth is no longer dry.

Copyright Tina Jordan © 2017

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