The Rite

The Rite

They come from the mountains in droves as they do from the shore, each entertaining the
Thought of novelty and perhaps distraction from what has become their over-ordinary lives.
Hearsay has scattered on the four winds to every ripple in the valley and likely beyond of
The unheralded arrival of what is surely the ghost of Lady Savina, returned to reclaim her land.
Upon my entrance to the village, I am swept into a whirlwind of fevered preparations for
What is to be a momentous gathering, according to the chattering maids on either side of me.
It is the luck of the stars that the servants face the predicament of lacking help and bother me
Not with interrogation; the protest of my long-empty stomach distracts me from their banter.
Trying to employ discretion, I recover a crust of bread from the edge of a trestle as we pass
Through the main hall and manage to swallow the whole of it before being pushed into a dimly
Lit chamber and relieved of my threadbare gown and the remnants of my tarnished slippers.
It becomes apparent as I am led to the tub of hot water, that my current state of disrepair
Is insufficient for the presence of supposed royalty; the trio of maids giggle at my reaction
To the succulent scent of blossoms assaulting my senses through the rising tendrils of steam.
I cannot recall the last time I bathed in warm, spiced water, and never before have I had the
Tangled web of knots so gently removed from the uneven lengths of my lightly gingered tresses.
Chaos soon overthrows my thinking as I am thrust into garments that barely allow my breathing,
And the weight of gold-enrobed baubles press down on my travel wearied hands and neck.
The number of eyes upon me as I am paraded into the church is unfathomable, yet stare after
Stare quickly lowers in a perceived show of reverence as I search each one in vain for a sign of reassurance.
The peal of bells and somber chant arrange themselves in a pattern that commences to accentuate
The cadence of my pounding heart, and the gravity of the situation begins to wax evident in my core.

Ⓒ 2017 Tina Jordan All Rights Reserved

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