Saint Dacian’s Abbey’s bell rung at dawn, its sound carried over the valley shrouded in fog. The pilgrims were already on the cobbled path, holding their rosaries and confession letters. Each one of them was there for the same thing—the relic.
In the abbey, Sister Miriam shifted her veil. She was nineteen, and the youngest nun to attend Saint Dacian’s reliquary. She was nervous that morning as she prepared to meet the pilgrims.
“Peace, Miriam,” said Father Anselm in his distinctive deep voice, as he appeared behind her. “Do not let their faces frighten you. The ashes soothe those who are truly repentant.”
“Certainly, Father,” she answered softly.
Her anxiety only increased as the pilgrims entered and knelt one after another, pressing their palms against the reliquary’s glass. The ashes seemed to churn like smoke trapped in a jar.
The first pilgrim, a thin man, touched the vessel and then wept. “I feel it—my sins forgiven, my burden eased.” He then kissed the floor as a sign of gratitude.
The next was a woman holding her ill child. She whispered desperate prayers, then her gaze softened. She believed her sins were now forgiven, her child would heal.
The abbey was suddenly filled with a thick dark smoke as a merchant, jeweled-ringed, placed his hand on the relic.
Just as soon, the man collapsed, lifeless, foam at his lips.
Gasps filled the chapel.
“God have mercy!” the priest exclaimed.
Miriam backed away, voice barely above a whisper: “He’s dead.”
Father Anselm turned sharply toward her. “What have you done? Did you disturb the reliquary?”
“N-nothing, Father! I didn’t do anything.”
Still, the pilgrims whispered like wildfire, they blamed the young nun for mishandling the relic, and making the saint angry.
Hours later, Miriam said a little prayer as she knelt before the reliquary, her heart racing so loudly it almost drowned out her voice.
“Holy Saint Dacian, if I have offended you, please forgive me and guide me.”
The ashes stirred—not because of the wind, but something else. A frigid whisper curled into her ear in a soft voice:
“Not holy… never holy…”
Miriam stumbled back in shock. “Who’s there?”
The reliquary shook as if something inside was trying to claw its way out of the glass.
The door opened. Sister Agnes walked in. She was old but still sharp-eyed. “Miriam. Still up? You don’t look well.”
Miriam paused for a moment before whispering, “I… I think the relic is misplaced. The saint… what if he isn’t—”
“Hush!” Sister Agnes glared and looked toward the door. “Don’t speak such heresy. You are going to damn yourself.”
“People are dying,” Miriam said. “If the relic is truly holy, why would it kill the faithful?”
Agnes’s mouth tightened to a thin line. “Because sin hides in the heart. He only kills those who are unrepentant.
Miriam trembled in fear. However, when three more pilgrims were struck dead the next day, her doubts could no longer be silenced.
That evening, she went up to Father Anselm.
“Father, please, let us dig deeper into the saint’s history. There is a feeling of unease... something is off.”
The look in the priest’s eyes grew colder. “Saint Dacian is the pride of this very abbey. You will not utter blasphemy against him.”
“But Father....”
“Enough!” His fist slammed the table. “If you Keep it up, I will have you confined.”
With her lips sealed and head bowed, Miriam remained silent. But inside, her spirit lit up in rebellion.
With a candle to guide her, Miriam sneaked around in the archives in the middle of the night. Old scrolls rested on dusty shelves. She pushed through so many fragile pages, pushing until her eyes burned, looking for something, an explanation. She was hoping to find the hagiography and holy texts about the saint. Instead she stumbled upon court records.
It was about Dacian. Centuries ago, he was a knight, a so-called zealot, who on multiple occasions burnt “heretics” alive. This man had also butchered whole villages, labeling everyone as “sinners.” When the church finally decided to put him on trial for his outrageous acts of cruelty, he demanded martyrdom. Instead, the people decided to stone him and burn his body. But the ashes were secretly “collected” by some fanatics.
Miriam gasped in disbelief. “He was not a saint … he was a butcher.”
She understood everything now. The ashes of Dacian still judged the "sinners."
The floorboards creaked. Father Anselm loomed in the doorway, eyes glinting in the candlelight. “So. You would dig up filth against our patron.”
“Father, it’s the truth!” Miriam held out the scroll. “He was no saint. That’s why the relic kills. We must tell people about this.”
Anselm’s face darkened. “Do you think faith survives on truth? No. It survives on fear and obedience. The relic keeps the flock in line.”
Miriam’s voice broke. “You knew.”
“I’ve known all my life.” He stepped forward. “Now put away your childish rebellion, or you will join the dead.”
But the reliquary, sitting upon the altar waiting for veneration, began to shake. The ashes churned violently, and a thin wisp of black smoke escaped. The whisper spoke in the room:
"Judgment...... begins with the shepherd."
Anselm opened his mouth in horror. "No...."
He clutched at his chest as he fell to the ground and began to convulse. Miriam screamed as he went stiff for a moment, his eyes rolled back, and then he lay still.
Silence enveloped the room. Only the ashes continued to swirl in satisfaction.
Miriam knelt and cried. "Oh Lord, what do I do?"
She heard a soft whisper inside her. " Free the ashes.... and the abbey will be free.
Hands shaking, Miriam lifted the reliquary as the glass burnt into her palms, it was heavier than she imagined. She staggered out of the room and into the courtyard, where the light of dawn barely illuminated the stoic stones of the abbey.
There was commotion among the sisters, they were alarmed. The pilgrims stared as Miriam lifted the vessel above her head.
“This is no saint!” she screamed, her tone fierce. “These are the ashes of a murderer, a man who hid behind the mask of holiness. The deaths are judgment!”
Gasps echoed.
She hurled the reliquary to the floor, and it shattered with a big crack. Black ash spilled across the stones, thrashing like smoke before it faded into nothingness. Suddenly, a wind, slowly came, like an unseen hand, and swept the courtyard clean.
The abbey was silent.
“Sister Agnes whispered, shaken, “God…God preserve us.....”
Miriam faced the people. “You do not need a relic for your forgiveness. Jesus Christ already paid the price. True mercy lies in genuine repentance and true faith lies in love, not fear.”
For a long moment, not a word was spoken. Then, a pilgrim, one of the mothers who feared for her child—came to the front and bowed her head. “Sister…thank you.”
One-by-one, all of the others followed, not in fear or terror, but with humility and reverence.
Miriam was still trembling, she felt strange, but at peace. The relic was gone, faith, without lies, would thrive again.
Above the abbey, the morning sun glimmered as the morning bell rang softly.
Image is AI generated.
🌸My Motto is: Work at making myself proud of myself.🌸
Thank you very much for taking time to read me. Have a wonderful day!
