holy roller, honeybee

The Cross with Seven Eyes

I can’t believe I’ve finally made it.

The view from the sanctuary of the ruined church is simply breath-taking. Through the ruined walls I can see verdant woods stretching to the horizon, slowly fading in the twilight. After days of driving through cities and towns, constantly surrounded by the roar of the motorway, the utter silence is unnerving. The only sound is my heart thundering in my ears.

However, I didn’t come here to sightsee. Clouds have covered the sun. The whistle of wind through missing stones raises goosebumps on my arms. The eyes of stained-glass saints drill into my back.

“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, the sound instantly caught by the breeze and thrown far away. “They’ll regret what they said to you…”

The journey here was long and treacherous. Years long. I wasn’t alone when I began, but now I stand, solitary, just inches away from my goal.

The altar before me is solid stone, cold to the touch and weathered by years of wind and rain. When I run my fingers along its surface, a patch the length of my forearm is smooth as silk.

The church, once the centre of a thriving community, is now an utter ruin of crumbling stone and rotting wooden beams. No living soul has crossed its threshold in decades.

All the texts I read claimed that I would find what I was searching for beneath the altar. With a deep breath, I crouch down and look beneath the stone. There! A silver cross carved with seven eyes. A shiver crawls up my spine. I can’t believe it’s still here. It should have been looted years ago.

This is it. “Just think of the articles they’ll write about you…” I whisper to myself. I reach out towards the central eye, set with a glimmering ruby. In the dim light, it looks like the eye of an insect.