The water is blessed, said the priests; it is holy. Any evil it touches, it will burn away.
But what if it is diluted? asked the acolytes.
The first of the holy water splashed across the brow of the baby, wailing and shivering in her mother’s arms, and the droplets ran over newborn skin to fall upon the soil.
They drained into the earth, mingling with the dew; and the dew became holy too.
The grass that grew on the soil drank some of the water in, drawing it into cells that were instantly blessed, filled with purity. Later, the sheep grazed upon the grass. The blades were sweet and lush, fat with rain, and as the sheep ate, the blessing in the grass flourished within it, coursing through now-sacred blood.
The rest of the water sank lower through the soil, washed down with the rains. Groundwater flowed, consecrated, sweeping below the earth beneath the reach of roots or the eyes of humanity.
There was more water there, and the holiness grew.
It can’t be? the acolytes asked. How can it not be diluted?
It converts, said the priests. A drop of holy water in a flask from the lake turns the whole flask holy.
What if a drop reaches the lake? asked the acolytes.
Why would that happen? asked the priests.
The butcher slew the sheep, taking the meat for cawl. It bubbled in its pot over the fire, the water from the cells of the mutton leaching out into the rest of the stew until all the family groaned at the sweet scent.
It tastes better today, they said, as they ate heartily. We wonder why?
The groundwater reached the river, and the whole vein became holy.
The butcher’s son was caught by the vampire the following night, wandering home just a little too late, a little too drunk, a little too alone. I wonder if you could help me? the vampire asked, and the butcher’s son followed where he should not have gone.
The vampire sank hungry fangs into unwilling flesh, and the butcher’s son accepted the end.
But it did not come for him.
What can have happened? the vampires asked afterwards. What strange power is held by the butcher’s boy? What did he do?
It was a mystery, baffling and wrong. The vampire had been strong and savvy, a hunter of renown. Now, her veins burned, her body aflame from the inside out.
Sickness, maybe? they said uneasily; but there was no sickness that could take a vampire.
The river gave drinking water to all the people of the region, in towns and villages and farmsteads alike. The holiness grew, spreading from land to bodies, young and old, rich and poor, believer and unbeliever, coursing through veins and hearts.
Something is wrong, the vampires said.
It was clear now; every vampire in the land was sickening, burning from the inside out as they fed.
No sickness, said the elders, shivering and broken. A corruption. A taint, spreading unchecked like rot. We must leave this land, move elsewhere.
There is something in the water.
The river reached the ocean, and the holiness spread from shore to distant shore.
We are safe here, the vampires said, collapsing on foreign soil. We cannot touch the ocean; but why should we need to? The humans cannot drink it either. We are safe here.
The sun shone over the waves.
Water rose on the warmth, evaporating to the sky. It greeted the clouds, and the holiness blossomed through them.
When the rains fell, the vampires screamed; for they knew the end was coming. Every raindrop burned, every splash agony, and they wept and watched in horror as the rains filled the wells, filled the soils, filled the lakes and rivers and valleys and moors, the corruption seizing the new land in its iron grip.
This is the end, they whispered, crumbling to dust. This is the end.
The water is blessed, said the priests; it is holy. Any evil it touches, it will burn away.
But what if it is diluted? asked the acolytes.
