This month’s flash fiction is inspired by a small idea I had for a paranormal historical story. It’s a bit longer than normal, but I felt like I had to finish it in this way. Lux Mundi is Latin for light of the world.
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Soft, melodious harmonies washed over her. An orange glow flooded the stained glass in the tall windows, sending shafts of coloured light across the altar.
The hairs on Lora’s arms rose, and she shivered. Summer had arrived, but the heat never permeated the thick limestone walls of the church.
She bowed her head and closed her eyes, offering a quick prayer of forgiveness for her selfishness. The needs of the flesh were unimportant. Mother Superior always said she must clear her mind of earthly wants. Soon, she would no longer be a novice; she would be a bride of Christ.
While the Latin verses echoed through the choir in symphonic perfection, her mind wandered back to her mother and father. Had it already been ten years since they had brought her to the monastic order?
How things had changed since then. No longer an ignorant girl, she could read and write. She was fluent in Latin. All the scribes praised her steady hand and vied for her assistance.
Would her parents be proud of her achievements? She would never know, for she could not see them again. Her life was here, on this holy island dedicated to the service of God.
The last note of the psalm lingered in the air. In unison, the monks on the right and the nuns on the left kneeled, ready to receive a blessing before they began their duties for the day.
She rubbed at the fingers of her right hand. Black stains marred the skin at the tips of her forefinger and middle finger. Today she would work on the illuminated manuscripts. Her heart soared. This was her purpose—to spread the word of God.
Father Oswald stood before the altar with his back to the congregation. He lifted the golden cross high above his head. A shaft of morning light hit the precious relic set in the centre, where the stem and arms intersected. The ornate, burnished gold gleamed, even in the dim interior of the church.
As always, she could not take her eyes off the holy stone of Saint Augustus. The Lux Mundi relic was the monastery’s most prized possession and a gift from its founder when he brought the word of the Lord to these shores.
A young monk walked before the altar, waving the censer on a long chain. Plumes of pungent smoke wafted around Father Oswald before he turned with the cross held aloft.
She remained transfixed by the round, smooth white stone. Her stomach tightened. Every day, the Abbot passed the Lux Mundi over them. Yet rather than bring calm, it made her skin tighten.
Father Oswald recited in Latin, “I am the light of the world. He who follows me will not walk in darkness, he will have the light of life.”
She clasped her fingers together and tried to tamp down the tingling that always struck her chest when the Lux Mundi approached. The warmth increased with every step as Father Oswald came closer.
She held her breath and closed her eyes. Willing her knees to remain rooted to the cold clay tiles of the floor. Her arms ached to reach out and touch the stone but, once again, she found the strength to ignore her body’s demands. If she did such a thing, they would expel her from the order.
Her shoulders softened and relief washed over her when Father Oswald replaced the cross in the centre of the altar. She had resisted the temptation for another day.
Glass smashed, sending shards flying. A flaming arrow sliced through the air.
Cries of alarm rang through the church as more arrows pierced the stained-glass windows and burrowed into the wood-panelled walls. Flames licked at the edges of the tapestries that hung above and the congregation scattered.
In the chaos, the crowd dragged her along.
A voice in her head called, “Lora!”
The unsettling tingle in her chest swelled, and she craned her head to glimpse the Lux Mundi. Was it speaking to her?
She blinked against the sting of the thick, acrid smoke. The monks and nuns scrambled away from the flames.
A side door that led to the cloisters flew wide. The friar in the opening cried, “Invaders from across the sea!”
A screech of alarm flew through the gathering.
A young monk headed for the door. “We must escape! We are not warriors.”
An elderly monk wailed. “The heathens will kill us all!”
Father Oswald’s voice could barely be heard over the din of crackling flames. He stood before them and raised his arms. “We must be calm. The Lord will keep us—” An arrow struck between his ribs. A deep red stain spread across his vestments before he crumpled to the floor.
The nuns and monks rushed for the open door. In the surge, she lost her balanced and fell forward. Pain seared through her bones when her knees hit the floor. No one cared as they clambered over her. Her chest burned when a foot slammed into her ribs. She covered her head with her hands and curled into a ball.
When the din faded, she unfurled. Father Oswald lay prostrate on the clay tiles, his breathing laboured. Despite her aching limbs, she crawled towards him. If they were to die this day, at least they would enter heaven together.
She took his hand, and he turned his head, tightening his fingers around hers. He coughed, bringing up blood and spittle before he whispered, “Take… the Lux Mundi.”
“But Father—”
“Guard it with your life.” A racking cough seized him, and blood trickled from his mouth. His grip loosened, and she whispered a prayer for his departed soul.
From the altar, the Lux Mundi called out to her, “Come. Release me.” The warmth in her chest spread throughout her body. The relic drew her to it, as though the stone had grown vine-like limbs and wrapped them around her, tugging her forwards.
In a daze, she made her way through the flames, uncaring as they licked at the stiff fabric of her skirt. She should be cowering against the heat, but everything faded except the white, round stone.
She reached the altar and her hands wrapped around the gold stem.
A voice whispered, “Set me free.”
Without hesitation, she obeyed. Lifting the heavy cross above her head, she slammed it against the floor; the metal warped and twisted, and the stone slid across the tiles.
Dropping the mangled cross, she reached for the stone and placed it against her chest. A sense of completeness washed over her. This was her purpose now, to protect the stone. Nothing else mattered.
Beneath the arch of the open doorway, an enormous brute stood clad in chain mail. The dome of his helmet glinted in the flames. The barbarian raised his bow and arrow.
She straightened, cradling the stone to her chest. She was the protector of the light, and the Lord would keep her safe.
Pain sliced through her. Her chin dropped and her breath caught in her throat. An arrow pierced her hand through the stone and into her chest.
A white glow spread from the cracked relic. Why was she not falling to the floor? The arrow crumbled to ash, and the white glow grew, spreading from the stone and sealing her within a realm of light.
The sphere retracted into the hole in her chest and searing pain burned through her veins. Her body absorbed the light before darkness prevailed.
