The following parable was inspired by a conversation that I had with a
priest some years back. It has taken me years to complete, but I pray
that you enjoy this story, and take it to heart.

May your suffering lead you to strength at last.









The priest and his daughter lived alone in a comfortable, one-room house
on Fish Street. Though painfully quiet at night, during the day the
sounds of the bustling street outside made the house feel like home
again. On those long nights whilst the priest would sit at his desk,
deep in thought, his daughter would entertain herself beside the fire,
playing make believe. Since becoming a widower, her stifled giggling and
bright eyes were his beacon, guiding him through those lonely nights and
giving him hope for better times to come.

One day, his normally healthy girl stumbled up to him wan and pale.
Seeing his concern, the girl asked, "Father, what is wrong?" A mixture
of fear and confusion gripping at his heart, the father replied, "My
dear, just look at you. You're not well, you must lie down and rest."
Her brow knit with youthful indignation as she slumped against the wall
and shot back, "I am -not- ill! I am perfectly fine!" Fear and anger
mixing in his tone, the father ordered his child to bed and called for a
doctor.

Within a matter of minutes, a local doctor arrived at the house. After
looking over the girl, the doctor paused for a moment and glanced up at
the father, suspiciously. Taking him aside, the doctor said, "I don't
understand. Why did you call me here?" Surprised, the father replied,
"Just look at her! She's getting weaker with each passing day!" The
doctor lowered his voice to a terse whisper and cursed, "There is
nothing wrong with her! Now you've interrupted her rest and wasted my
time." With that, the doctor gathered up his things and stormed out. The
father stepped back to his child's bedside and was dumbstruck by the
weakness he saw. Her bright eyes had become glossy, listlessly casting
about to random corners of the room. Worst of all, the father thought to
himself, was the fatalism that permeated her every move, from the way we
she began to weakly resist the food he would offer her, to the blank
stares she would drift into for sometimes hours on end. At night, he
stayed up with her, keeping a vigil at her bedside, uttering prayer
after prayer in hopes of her renewal.

The girl remained in bed for the next several days when the father
decided to call for a bishop. Ruminating upon the doctor's harse words,
he wondered how this spiritual healer would respond. When the holy man
arrived at his door, the father gathered up his courage and let him in.
The bishop stepped inside and his eyes were immediately drawn to the
bedridden child. With measured steps, the bishop approached the girl,
and with a smile asked, "My child, how are you feeling? The girl turned
her eyes up to him and replied flatly, "I'm a little tired, m'Lord, but
I feel fine." The bishop placed his hand upon the girl's fevered brow
and nodded, smiling.

Stepping away from her bedside, this faint smile twisted into a scowl as
a small vein rose up and began throbbing at his temple. Taking her
father by his arm, the bishop hissed, "What was the point in this? You
daughter is perfectly well, her symptoms are not uncommon." A wave of
despair passed over the father's features as he returned, "But you've
seen her face, you've touched her skin! Please, sir, you must believe
me! Surely you see how ill she's become!" With a shake of his head, the
bishop countered sharply, "Nay, it is thee who is ill! You lack any
faith in your child's recovery." Muttering angrily to himself, the
priest snatched up his things and stepped out into the warm night air.

The hours turned into days, and still his child showed no signs of
improvement. Desperate for aid, he decided to take her to Ashtan the
following morning, where he hoped he might finally find a cure for her
wasting disease. Stepping to her bedside, he hardly noticed the thick,
rotting smell of stale sweat that had soaked through her bedclothes and
into the mattress. "Get up!" he ordered, looking fown at her pathetic
form, "We're going after help." With enormous effort, her feeble arms
shaking violently, his daughter managed to lift herself up off the
mattress. Once he had dressed her for the road and arranged their gear,
the father put his arm around her waist and held her upright. In this
fashion, the pair stepped out onto Fish Street and started walking.

It wasn't long before the girl began to stumble, tripping over even the
smallest obstacles. Her father stooped to support her, trying to keep
her standing, keep her moving. Friends and strangers stopped them in the
street as they made their way towards the gates. "You fool!" they cursed
at him, "You'll ruin her recovery! Have you gone mad?" With grim
determination, he acknowledged this possibility to himself but thought,
this last chance at redemption was better than standing by hopelessly,
watching his child fade and die.

As they made their way up the Raphaelian Highway, their uneven footsteps
caused small clouds of dust to swirl upwards into the air, where the
gentle breeze would mold them into intricate, flowing patterns before
they would settle back into the dirt once more. His breath coming in
sharp, ragged draws, he strugged to guide his child in a forward
direction until, with a groan, she slumped to the ground, her eyes
lolling back in her skull. Panicked by fear, he stooped down and lifted
his daughter up and slung her across his shoulders. His eyes locked
ahead, he started staggering forward, putting one exhausted foot in
front of the other as the weight of his daughter and all their equipment
pressed him tight to the ground.

As he pushed down the lonely road, he turned his ear to the sounds of
her raspy breathing. His mind sought comfort in distant memories of his
wife, standing beside one another as they lowered their girl into her
bassinette. Stumbling onward, his thoughts would drift between these
pleasant memories and the uncertain future. His parched lips cracked
into a smile as he pictured the woman she was to become: strong,
beautiful, and resolute, just like her mother.
He shook with fright when his daughter violently convulsed, falling from
his shoulders to the ground below, her stomach heaving in a vain attempt
to expel food that was never there. With horror he watched as she turned
her jaundiced eyes upon him, her blood-flecked lips drawing back into a
sanguine mockery of her innocent smile. "Don't be afraid," she mumbled,
"I'm feeling better..."

Tears filling his eyes, he seized hold of his child and put her across
his shoulders once more. Frantically racing against time, he left most
of their supplies laying in the road, hoping to cover more ground. He
soldiered on, her uneven breathing echoing in his ears as his weary
muscles strained against the torture he was putting them through.

Making their way north, the distant sound of children and the splash of
water became audible. The father thought to himself, "I must be nearing
Delos," as the sounds of the rushing river grew louder. Within a matter
of moments, he was standing on the bridge, gazing out mournfully at the
beauty surrounding them. Children were frolicking in the shallows,
striking their hands against the surface of the water, causing it to
leap forward at their friends on shore.

Sunbeams glinted across the ripples on the water and reflected off the
smooth stones lining the bottom, the hypnotic interplay of light drawing
the man into rapt attention. The moments passed until he came to his
senses with a jump and began moving westward towards Ashtan once more.

As he trudged onward under the beating sun, the sounds of the river
slowly receded, replaced by the plodding thumps of his own footsteps.
Stopping for a moment to adjust his clothing, the man was struck by the
oppressive silence hanging in the air around him. His hoarse voice came
in a whisper as he turned his head back to where his daughter was
splayed across his shoulders. "My child, did you enjoy the water?" Not
expecting a full answer, he waited patiently for a groan, anything. As
he began walking again, the silence was broken only by his labored
breathing and heavy footfalls. First ten seconds passed, then twenty and
he trembled, his heart racing in his chest. After thirty seconds with no
response, the man began shaking, his knees buckling as he fell forward,
his daughter tumbling onto the ground.

He could tell from the way she fell. She landed at an awkward angle, her
small hands making no effort to break her fall. Like a sack of potatoes,
the child tumbled forward until her face smashed into the earth, small
stones tearing at her skin. With a numbness creeping across his body,
the man reached out to gingerly turn her onto her back. The man gasped
horror as she rolled, her head tilting back and her mouth gaping open.
Her eyes gazed out from her skull with a lifeless expression, her brow
torn raw by the force of her fall.

The heated voice of the bishop rang through his mind as he stood on the
road. "Lack of Faith!?" he screamed out at everyone and no one. The
light of his life had flickered and died on his shoulders, and no amount
of "faith" would bring her back. The man could feel a primal rage
beginning to grow as the noonday heat beat down upon him. He thought of
the doctor, of the townspeople, of everyone who accepted her slow decay
as normalcy. He reflected on their simple expressions and simpler
platitudes and thought to himself, these bleating fools are more like
sheep than men. How could they be so blind?

As his soul raged with fury, the heat of the sun seared his mind,
causing an intense, even affectionate, expression to cross his face.
Bending down, he took hold of his child's lifeless arm and pulled her to
her feet before throwing her corpse across his shoudlers. His eyes
roving madly across the landscape, the man cried bitterly to himself as
tenderly caressed her cool cheek. A thought broke in upon his madness as
he started walking again, "Since she stopped struggling, she's become so
much easier to carry."

Thus he continued down the road, making his

Penned by my hand on the 5th of Lupar, in the year 377 AF.