The Martyr

       The ground lay sodden beneath the sparse sprigs that sprawled along the cobbles.  A frigid raindrop gripped the fuzzy covering along the stem of the scrawny Chamomile plant.  Suspended there, it balanced precariously, never actually touching the smooth surface beneath the tendrils of fuzz.  Gravity suddenly tired of the game and reached up to slice at the droplet, splitting it into three parts.  One raced backward, down the swaying stem.  The second slid sideways, off the feathery edge of a small, narrow leaflet, while the last one rolled gracefully down the life vein of the leaf to the tip and, in one last show of defiance, held on a moment before it fell hesitantly, silently, the short distance to the black, sodden soil.

       Fifty or so black boots stood heavily in the mire of the street beyond the Chamomile, damp hems of pants and skirts almost touching their tops, while the mud enveloped their soles.  The dancing of a flame reflected in the black leather, a soft crackling waxed and waned, and the sweet, sickening scent of burning flesh wrapped itself around the gathering, a hideous, hooded cloak.  A small boot stepped back; the heel crushed the leaves into the earth and released a brief, musty fragrance of dried apple.

       The serpent danced a mock dirge around the flame, swinging a mallet, wearing the grotesque beaked mask of Charun.  Reveling in the pain and stench, he reached out clawed fingers to gently caress the face within the flames, endearing mockery in the eyes behind the mask, his goal to intimidate, to violate…Deny the Christ!  His decrepit voice echoed hollowly in the flames, repeating relentlessly, reverberating.      

O, Rose of Sharon

       Thou art sweet

       Thou Savior of my soul

       Thou hast saved

       And Thou alone

       Thy death has made me whole…

       The sweetness of a young girl’s voice rose out of the tongues, joined the discordant, flat dirge, and then silenced it.  The serpent cried out.  He gripped his ears. Vile fluids flowed out beneath his hands.  The mate to the small black boot stepped back, crushing the rest of the Chamomile plant into gritty mud.  A young priest fell to his knees.  The vision of Charun tore through his mind.  His cry rang out.  Father!  Forgive me!  The serpent fled while the young girl’s soul rose on a chariot of fire, the sparks falling back to earth to ignite the village below.

We are pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.

--2 Corinthians 4:8

God’s children are like stars that shine brightest in the darkest skies; like the chamomile, which, the more it is trodden down, the faster it spreads and grows.

--John Overton Choules, August 12, 1843

Preface to the 1844 reprint of Neal’s “History of the Puritans”, 1731