REQUIEM MASS
J. E. Gurley
Genre:
Fantasy
Format: PDF
Words:
4,000
Price:
$0.99
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SHORT EXCERPT |
The procession slowly snaked its way up the colossal, spiral stone staircase, the Celebrants walking six abreast. Ornate braziers spouting pure, blue flames lined the staircase. As the Celebrants mounted each worn, white granite step, the acolytes in matching white robes gathered at the foot of the stairs called out, "Hail Goddess Ariana," and from the balcony, the musicians sounded their ten-meter long horns and beat a massive drum. The reverberations from the drum and the low frequency horns shook the tiled floors on which the worshipers were standing.
An old man standing at the near edge of the crowd chuckled lightly to himself as his sandaled feet vibrated. "Very good," he whispered. Worshipers on each side cast him warning glances.
Hirsute, just a novice pre-acolyte in the Church of the Goddess, watched the proceedings from the courtyard with the rest of the worshipers. He noticed the old man's lack of reverence.
High Priestess Alais held her hands high in the air until the procession reached the mezzanine and stopped before her and the silk screen that billowed behind her. One last blast from the horns and the hall went silent.
"Hear me, oh Goddess Ariana!" she cried. "Hear our petitions!"
With a wave of her hands, the curtains withdrew to the side, revealing a large crystal sphere in which a woman floated supine, arms out wide as if nailed to an invisible cross. She was old, withered, her true age beyond ascertaining. Her white hair floated around her like a cloud. Tubes and wires ran from glowing nodes along the perimeter of the sphere to the back of the woman's head and torso. Men in rainbow flowing robes watched the nodes with reverent eyes -- watchfulness their prayer, obeisance their dedication.
The old man took a step forward; then stopped. Hirsute noticed the old man's right hand, browned and calloused, closed into a tight fist that trembled by his side. His left gripped a wooden staff. He held it so tightly it, too, quivered. The old man seemed disturbed by the ceremony.
Inside the crystal sphere, the Goddess Ariana neither spoke nor moved. She in no way acknowledged the crowd of ardent worshipers or her loyal attendants. Her mere presence sufficed for the crowd's pleasure.
The High Priestess fell to her knees in front of the sphere, her long, black hair fanning out from in front of her body like an ebony cloak.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR |
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J. E. Gurley is a fifty-one year old retired Atlanta chef now living in the wilds of Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains with his beautiful wife, Kim and two cats, Elsie and Smokey. He writes full time and plays blues guitar in the band Gin House Rockers part-time. He couldn't be happier.
Author's site:
http://www.jamesgurley.com |
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