Fr. Barnard cursed the broken window. The cold had left him shivering in his bed. He shook off the blankets and stormed across the room as the rays of an early sunrise poked through the glass.
With a sweep of one arm, he cleared his desk, sending books, papers, his Sunday sermon and the ink and quill flying. The bottle of ink hit the floor hard but didn’t break. The ink flew out and seeped into the wood, but the father didn’t notice.
With his strong, bare hands he tore the window from its frame and slammed it hard onto the desk. The glass shattered.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, the father leaned back on heels and stared at the window. “There,” he muttered to himself. “Now the handyman will have to fix you!”
Upset at his own rage, he quickly dressed. His hands trembled as he buttoned his cassock. He slipped into his shoes and hurried to the church. He had to pray. He had to drive away this rage from deep within him.
As he approached, he caught sight of someone running away. it was a glimpse, but barely. He turned to look but she was already gone. Yes, a she. Of that he was sure. He stepped into the quiet of the church and approached the altar where the bones had been. He needed to reconsecrate it, he thought. But he was distracted by another small bag. Suspecting more bones, he seized it quickly and was startled to hear the clink of coins. He opened it and looked inside and his eyes widened.
“Perhaps the little witch is making amends,” he thought. “Perhaps.” He had to find a place to hide the cursed money until he could cleanse it somehow.
His eyes began to blur as he grew dizzy and leaned against the altar for strength.