“Father.” He looked up at the old priest sitting by his bed.
“Yes, my son,” Father McKinnon said, startled by the suddenness of conversation.
“The others here, the other priests, they all think I’m mad.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
“I will not lie to you,” McKinnon said, sadly. “There are those here who consider your tale that of someone who has taken leave of his senses.”
The man smiled. “Something amuses you?” McKinnon asked him.
“Oh, yes, Father,” he said, smiling wider. “You and your brothers believe in your God who you have read about in the Bible, but have never seen first hand, and are considered holy.”
McKinnon wasn’t sure he liked the man’s tone. “But when I tell you of the gods I have seen with my own eyes, I am considered insane.”
He turned his head, looking behind McKinnon. “But perhaps she can convince you I’m right.”
McKinnon was found the next day, huddled in the corner of the room, alone, muttering over and over, “Our mother, who art in darkness, unhallowed by thy name…”
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Our Mother
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Our Mother
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Our Mother
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Our Mother
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Our Mother
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