The eye of the lion

Inside St. Géraud’s church, sitting on one of the old oak benches, bathed in the dim light of the candelabras, Marina was embracing Aeesha.

There were tears in her eyes as she whispered a prayer to the Virgin Mary. Tears of joy.

A few minutes before, Aeesha had gotten quiet. Very quiet and calm in the middle of their conversation, and she’d started to talk like she had on the other occasions, with that strangely serene, deep voice that she used when she was not herself.

She’d talked and comforted her, telling her in an almost maternal tone:

“Don’t be afraid. Calm your heart. In the midst of the storm you will have peace in your spirit, and joy... Then you will know that you will soon embrace your father and your son. Fire will scourge the world, but your path, your work, is hardly begun.”

Afterwards she had remained silent, asleep, replete by her side, with a serene expression.

Not far from them, standing in silence, a group of faithful were waiting in line to confess. The priest would deliver many absolutions that night.