Mixed with this peculiar stench is the aroma of * and myrrh. 【Book by】

The daughters and granddaughters of the saint Jared brought out the largest incense burner from the reliquary, pure gold, made in the shape of an ancient monastery in eastern Sinai, with flowers, animals, saints and angels carved on the walls, and the roof of the monastery could be opened, just as the lame devil once opened the roofs of all the houses in Madrid to show Don Clevis all the sins of the world, and the saint's maids lifted the lid of the roof wearing three gold chains, and without hesitation, poured in a lot of expensive spices of gold, even soLying on the bed, the saint Jared is still cursing and urging, he has been disgusted with the smell since many years ago, because in his mind it symbolizes aging and even death, he refuses to use the toilet, following the example of the emperors and empresses of the East, using the toilet bowl with agarwood and sandalwood chips.

Hidden in the walls and ceilings, the equipment hums and breathes, never stopping to blow fresh rose air into the windowless room through the cleverly decorated cracks.

But even so, the stench emanating from the saint Jared was so distinct that it could be called as sharp as a needle or a dagger,* the mellowness,* the pungency of myrrh and the sweetness of the rose were only a film in front of it that burst at the touch of a button, a decayed, hopeless breath that can only be found in the dying, and you can never forget it if you smell it once.

The saint Jared gasped heavily, his body naked, his limbs as white as alabaster, soft as lard, except for the wound left on him by the little black-haired devil, there was not a trace of any scar.

The wound had healed, and the skin there had been as smooth as a baby under a year old, but a year later, it had suddenly reappeared, deeply. Black, blood and fat churned in the holes of muscle and bone, gurgling white foam, and the hot stench emanated from them.

"Cure it." Jared sizzled. Fearful of his healthy and magical son, he suspects that Stefan has done something to treat him, but now is not the time to settle the score.

Stefan touched his wound quietly, and the miracle did not happen, the wound remained, as if it had expanded a little, and the blackened and discolored skin spread to his shoulders and abdomen.

"No," said Stefan, "it's not going to get better," he said gently, "you're going to die, Sage Jared—I said you would live a hundred years." Ah, sorry, that's me lying to you. ”

Saint Jared thought he let out a thunderous roar, but in fact even Stefan, who was closest to him, heard only a piggy-like snort.

The heat poisoned his blood and deprived him of his strength. It was still eroding his sanity. In the last hours of his life, no less than ten elders and subordinates loyal to him came to his bedside, leaned over to his lips to listen to the teachings and guidance, but received only a few chaotic words describing the dying old man's hatred of the living and his fear of death, his cowardice and blasphemy in broad daylight, and his curse to God. Praise to the devil, he called out the names of the dead, gave orders, and was obsessed with every ornament in his room or in the reliquary, and he asked people to put the piece of skin that was said to come from Saint Jakarta under his pillow, and tried to eat a piece of sawdust, which came from the heel of St. Gallu's shoe.

What some people thought he would say. He didn't say a word.

"Elder Josiah," one of the elders asked, "do you have a way to heal Saint Jared?" ”

Josiah had already seen Jared, the man who was worshipped as an earthly god by the Strong Jacobs, like a moldy orange, and the mold was still expanding outward and inward. This is not something that modern medicine can explain—he has summoned the devil, Josiah said in his heart, and unlike the Strang Jacobs who have been bathed in the glory of the saint Jared or the majesty of the saint since birth, his allegiance belongs to his Lord, not to this human being, who will also get sick and die, but he hides it so well that no one notices.

"Has Elder Stefan's abilities disappeared?" Someone asked, "Or was he just a liar from the beginning to cause this disaster?" ”

He was one of Stefan's many brothers, but he was a mediocre and uninformed man - he was able to live in this mansion because of his love for. Strong Jacob's worship was fanatical and simple enough.

Stefan's brother swallowed, he was nervous, surrounded by elders, who could make any Strang Jacob go straight from heaven to hell with a single word and a gesture, where he would suffer for fifty years.

But he had to say, "Let Elder Hayman come back," he looked around, "end his exile—He can save all beings, save our Father on earth." ”

Stephen didn't speak, his eyes fell on an older woman, she pushed the person in front of her and stepped out, she raised her arm to show a knife she was holding, Stefan's brother winced, but it wasn't him who was hurt, it was the woman who was hurt - she plunged the sharp knife into her throat and pulled it out, blood and precious air spurting into the air. Stepan grabbed her at once, and reached a hand to the wound on his neck, and the gushing blood instantly engulfed his entire arm, but when his fingers touched the hot and wet skin, the bleeding stopped at once, and the blood vessels, muscles, and skin squirmed and healed, just as they had seen a year ago, and the woman struggled to pull up a clean piece of clothing to wipe the blood away, allowing the Strong Jacobs to observe her wound, which was as clean as new.

Stephen, who responded to the provocation and questioning with action, helped her to her feet: "Thank you, sister. He smiled at her, and she had given him a cookie when he was kicked out.

"Since your power is still there," said Stephen's brother tremblingly, "why don't you go and heal Saint Jared?" If you don't want to, let the person who wants to come back! ”

"Even if Heyman comes back here," said Stefan calmly, "he will not be able to change anything that is to come—it is time for Saint Jared to let go of earthly worries, sin and skin, the door of glory has been opened to him, and the wonderful drum and flute has been played—my brothers and uncles, please prepare the holy oil, and I will listen to the final confession of Saint Jared." ”

He almost bluntly said that he wanted the saint Jared to die, and his brother looked left and right in panic. But I can only find a waveless and insensitive face.

"Let him rest." Elder Josiah said, "This child is just a little tired. ”

The followers of were semi-forcibly detained, and there was a large jar of holy oil in Saint Jared's room, so there was no need to look for it. Stephen returned to the extravagant bedside, and he looked down at the living Jared, his head tilted slightly, his gray eyes reflecting the fat and rotten body, motionless, like a patient vulture, waiting for the few remaining lives to be lost.

"Repent," said Stefan, "repent, father." ”

***

In the 7th century, a group of devout monks searched for the miracles performed by the saint Porlya on the sea. Sailors were hired, ships were rented, and they drifted on the sea for three years, and one night their ship was caught in a storm. Seeing that they were about to sink to the bottom of the sea, the monks raised their arms and prayed loudly to their Lord and the saint, and a miracle occurred, an island rose from the bottom of the sea, holding them and their ship high.

Although most people believe in another theory – that is, they hit the rocks.

Anyway. They were saved, and the island was named after the saint Polyu by the monks, who built a monastery on the island.

. Strong Jacob was sent here by his brother Harry, or now Elder Stefan.

It was a barren island, grey-black rocks covered with moss and low bushes, and no ship would bring supplies. The island's monks grow grains and vegetables in the crevices of the barren rocks, go out to sea to catch fish, dig shellfish, collect seaweed and seaweed, and raise three goats. Drink their milk.

They live in houses they have built, built from the island itself, which are patches of black stone like oyster shells, with only simple polishing. The monks built them into small huts in the shape of steamed buns, each about fifteen feet high and twenty to twenty-four feet in diameter, with two small holes in the sides for lighting, and the floor was covered with wool felt, which served as both a sheet and a sheet.

Day and night, they were visited by old friends, some furry, with a long tail, with a hard shell, with hundreds of legs, and some slippery, cold, and soft.

There were no lights, no electric or oil lamps, no towels and basins for washing faces, just a wooden bowl for sharing fish and algae cooked in a large iron pot, and by the way, goat's milk.

Their church, which stands on the highest point of the island, is made of the same black stone, and of course do not expect fine stained-glass windows and a high dome, which, like the monks' dwellings, is as simple as if it were for cave people, except for a cross carved into the stone wall indicating that it is also one of the abodes of the Lord of Heaven on earth.

There were no books, no censers, no choirs, not even altars.

"It is enough to have our Lord." The old monk in charge of leading said with a smile.

All of this was a kind of torture for Heyman, who had been pampered in White Salt City for nearly twenty years, but what he couldn't bear the most was that these monks didn't know anything about the Overseeing Sect.

Of course they don't worship Heyman, they don't believe in him, Heyman's abilities are ineffective against them, he's no longer a holy, noble, powerful and majestic Chosen One, he's just a clumsy and poor little lamb, he broke his leg on a steep cliff on the first day, and was bitten by fleas and lice that night. When Strong Jacob was expelled, he had only his clothes and shoes on him.

Heyman had feared that he would become a cripple, and what had happened to him? They used straps and boards made of hay and fish bones to correct the broken bones, and they also anointed him, and the slimy, stinking stuff really didn't make his legs rot completely. He endured insect bites in fear, spent three months in a damp little stone house, drank smelly goat's milk, ate fishy fish and seaweed, and occasionally had a potato—and thank God his leg was really healed.

He was not idle while recuperating from his wounds, and the old monk assigned him to clean the fish, weave baskets and shoes, and inscribe all kinds of sacred symbols and phrases on the stone tablets.

"Is this going to be sold?" asked.

The old monk did not speak, but pointed to his little stone house.

(To be continued)

((One second to remember)