A path of flowers

UNDER THE GERANIUM SKY

In a world veiled by shadows and deceit, I stand, a solitary figure grappling with the enigmas that shroud our existence.

The Ministry of Poverty's envoys, shorn at the nape and garbed in the Saint's emblem, traverse our lands with their metallic steeds, their presence heralded by the chime of golden bells. They come not as humble petitioners but as harbingers of fear, demanding alms under the guise of piety. Yet, I know—though to voice such thoughts would invite peril—that true offerings spring from the well of generosity, not coercion.

The selfless ones wield their wooden batons with a dark secret at their core, unleashing fire and fury upon those who dare to resist. Once, I witnessed their wrath upon my own mother, the market air thick with the scent of charred defiance.

But vengeance is a luxury that eludes me, for the stark reality of our plight consumes my every thought. Our lone donkey, emaciated and weary, struggles to turn the millstone, its plaintive brays echoing the hollowness of our stable. I cling to a sliver of hope for a meager yield of flour, though the land has betrayed us this season. The rains that once nourished our fields have abandoned us, leaving behind a parched and barren earth.

Our prayers rise daily, hands outstretched to the Saint, yet they fall upon deaf ears. The apostles of Solara remain indifferent to our suffering, their coffers filled while our bellies hollow. Desperation has driven some to self-immolation, a futile plea for divine mercy, while others endure the lash, believing their agony might appease a distant savior.

The fabrications they weave are an affront to the very tenets they profess to uphold. I may not grasp the intricacies of the natural world or the celestial phenomena that captivate our gaze, but I am certain of one truth: no benevolent deity would demand the anguish of their flock. The doctrine of suffering, of sacrifice to curry favor with the heavens, stands in stark contradiction to the virtues of the Saint: chastity, virtue, decency, moderation, prudence, poverty, and honesty.

—Shenkai, for the love of the heavens, tell me you've gleaned something from the mill,— my father's voice, rough as sandpaper, cuts through my reverie.

—A mere tenth of a measure of flour,— I respond, my gaze resting upon the paltry fruits of our final harvest.

The world, it seems, is a crucible of harsh truths and harsher realities.

—That's worthless,— my father mutters with disdain. —You should've heeded the apostle's call and joined the procession, like the others your age, to appease the Saint.—

—I will never partake in such rituals,— I assert, my voice a hushed rebellion against his fervor.

My father's temper flares at any perceived slight against the Saint, his face a canvas of rage. —Your lack of faith is the ruin of us all!— he bellows. —We owe our lives to the Saint, who saved us from the Chosen's darkness.—

—Saved? Or enslaved?— I counter, my conviction unwavering. —Given the choice between two evils, I'd choose neither.— I gesture to the barren mill, a silent testament to the Saint's absent benevolence.

His hand strikes with practiced precision, leaving a trail of blood upon my cheek. —Blaspheme again, and you'll find yourself without a roof,— he warns, his knuckles reddened from the blow. —Make haste, and if you fetch less than three maravedis for that flour, don't bother returning.—

He departs, leaving me alone with the decrepit mill and the donkey, its once lustrous coat now a patchwork of gray. Its spirit seems as broken as its body, resigned to an uncertain fate.

In that moment, our desires align—a longing for freedom, for escape from this twilight existence. Fueled by anger and the sting of my father's hand, I resolve to change our destiny.