The Harness And The Exodus Of Convicted Souls

It was by night that the priest was yet to be presented to an ethereal manifestation. Deep in his intimacy with his young maiden to whom he was betrothed to, a pounding knock at his front door disturbed them. 

The last three days had been dragging. They eroded his enthusiasm to hold any immediate sessions. And he was too withered from the emotional trauma the funeral of Mr and Mrs Luther had caused. Getting out of bed and putting on a robe, he scuffed downstairs straight to the front door uninterested by this sudden intrusion. His wife was gripped with ferocity of being unexpectedly snatched from the near reach of orgasm. She pulled the bed covers over her and slept with a billowing rage. The priest did not seem to be apologetic towards his wife's antics. He vowed that he would put the 'Lord's' work to the forefront. That was a much more revered deed than lavishing in merriment of physical satisfaction. 

The alarm in the pounding made the priest reconsider. His strength was being sapped by the mere thought of conducting one of his overseer duties. Slowly, he opened the door. On his threshold stood old Jimmy, one of the countryside's queer folk. His downcast and crestfallen manner illuminated by the lamp at the door post convinced Father Wimbledon that this was far much more than just a cordial visit. 

This rare visit from someone who was rumored to be afflicted by agoraphobia and autism was something the priest did not wish to be associated with at this time of the night. 

Old Jim, emaciated and hidden with clothing that would definitely take him to the sky if strong winds were to occur, stepped back and glanced down. 

“I apologize for showing up unannounced. I could not hold back what tortured my mind and heart. What these eyes have witnessed is far too great to confide in anyone. Therefore your lordship, I have indulged in seeking audience with you so that I can confide with the Most High what mine eyes have witnessed. For if I am to confide in a mere man as I, I fear what his fragile heart might do when it shatters into smithereens. The damage it might cause will be indelible to eradicate.” In contrast to his eloquent utterance, old Jimmy was quavering. The priest thought it was the soft chill in the air that prompted him to do that until he realized that the poor joe was severely stricken with terror. 

Deciding to give him a chance to pour out his heart, the priest gladly invited him inside; an offer which old Jimmy declined. 

“Your lordship, an abomination has struck our lands. If you would be willing to come and witness for yourself, I would be pleased.” 

Father Wimbledon raised his thick white eye brows. The will to say anything dissipated. He wanted to roar with laughter. He had a transient claim that old Jimmy's insanity had surged towards its peak. But remembering his role in this rustic town, the priest refrained from illogical stigma.

The urgency of alarm in old Jimmy reflected the mischief that had sent him to the priest's sanctuary so late in the night. Before the priest could say anything, old Jimmy was already limping towards his carriage on the front yard of the church.

Under the mundane moonlight, old Jimmy looked like something children wouldn't like dreaming about. 

“Mr McDonald!” The priest called out before Jimmy climbed the front of his carriage. 

Old Jimmy stood with an upright bearing, not bothering to face the priest. 

“Allow me to change my covering.” 

Old Jimmy's head nodded slightly, a gesture which the priest took as approval. A queer fellow indeed, the priest thought as he went to do what he had requested. He came back almost immediately.

Old Jimmy had steered the horses so that they faced the direction he had come from. The priest climbed on board and the carriage rattled downhill and past through scattered houses that stood on hilly ground. They crossed the wooden bridge that separated the wild lands from the residential area. 

In his entire life of delivering possessed souls from demons and healing all kinds of otherworldly ailments, Father Wimbledon had never encountered anything as extraordinary as the sight in the Hunters lands lake. 

They disembarked from the carriage and pushed their way through the underbrush until they came to the clearing where they stood and perceived the peculiar quality the lake had adopted. An enormous pit was forty yards away from the bank. A pale yellow was about its interior walls that were supposedly granite. The pit stretched about ten metres in diameter and the marine was inert and mirror like; its substance never falling into this incandescent orifice. Their noses picked out a scent of sulfur in the cool air. 

“Good Lord. What is that?” Father Wimbledon exclaimed as they exchanged glances. Old Jimmy had been too relaxed for a man exposed to such acrid scenery. 

“This is indeed an adversary that has come to halt the livelihood of our people. I fear to admit that the abomination that dwells within might be stronger beyond our strength.” The priest now feeling his hair stir gripped his bible on tremulous hands.

Old Jimmy stared at him through a side glance, “ It is fickle for the servant of one who shall come again to lose faith in times of calamity.” 

Father Wimbledon almost lashed at him. What if the revelation was already here? What if this was the bottomless pit that had come to suck sinners of the Hunters lands? 

“Mr McDonald” He said as if in a trance. 

Old Jimmy whose utter shock had dwindled looked at the trembling priest casually, “your lordship.”

“May I request a favour.” 

“Certainly your lordship.” 

“May you go and summon all the elders so that they can come and witness this enmity that has established its domain on our economic backbone. If we could be steadfast and unite in prayer, we could seek the Lord's guidance and achieve a way forward.” 

Jimmy bowed and walked back to the carriage. 

The sound of hooves galloping away reminded the priest of the dread that awaited him. Shambling closer to the bank, he went down on one knee and traced his finger along the smooth surface of the lake. It felt like glass yet viscous. He rose up and examined the pit with growing alarm. Something came forth out of the pit. An embodiment of effeminate grace with saffron eyes. It was impossible to tell what it was considering the distance between them. Slowly, it floated towards him and it was at this instance that the priest believed his eyes must've succumbed to trickery. His body became insubstantial. The bible slipped from his perspiring palms. 

The calamity that had issued out of the strange pit came face to face with him, taller, filling up a black robe delicately decorated with small diamonds. Intrigued by the aura of this otherworldly mischief, the priest's senses were suddenly bereft at the silver grey scales on its face. 

“Servant of the Lord, I believe you and I should talk.” The serpent woman, landing softly in front of the priest, said with an offhand authority. 

Father Wimbledon presided over the last rites of the funeral for Mr and Mrs Luther. A small crowd had gathered under an oak tree to give them a fitting send off since they had been loyal to the country folk throughout their short eld. The priest was a tall man, slim, balding and hunched. And he favoured holding his bible with his hands laced around his back. 

Up the bare hills in the late morning, the heat was unrelenting and only the supporting mourners seemed to be bothered by it. The bereaved family, two teenage girls and a dowager, all clad in black dresses and leather boots stood huddled together, hovering over the gravel pits. Father Wimbledon finished his benediction and ended the service. The small crowd began to disperse towards the lined carriages downhill. The void of agony suddenly enveloped the melancholy family. 

Father Wimbledon's heart constricted at their misery, particularly at the dowager's sight. He wondered how they were going to survive. H