Obscurity, The Eighteenth Chapter
In which a missionary turns up dead and drifting in a canoe.
e last read The Seventeenth Chapter, in which we learned the history of three nuns named Marie.
There’s a certain kind of tree, though we can’t remember its name, that weeps of its branches as though burdened by them. They pour into the river as willows, thinking only of their own despair. How gravity tugs at them so, begging them to return to the water’s depths, and how unable those branches are to resist their thirst.
One morning, with all the promise of a quickly warming day, a mysterious omen appeared within those reeds. A canoe without passenger or crew drew up to the promenade seemingly of its own volition. Those walking the promenade that morning watched with anticipation as it drifted down the river toward its lonesome destination, settling at times against one branch, and then leaning for a while on another.
A lingering humidity fell exasperated upon the early afternoon and the plants crinkled at the edges, brown and parched from their basking in the summer sun. The water rippled gently in the wake of that unmanned vessel and the palms lulled against it as it lazed through those still waters.
It was a slow and tedious journey, and many who watched its path grew bored in their waiting for it, continuing toward their mid-morning destinations without satisfying their curiosities. Those who stayed, however, were rewarded for their perseverance. For when the canoe finally neared the port and drew close enough that their reaching hands could touch it, they discovered the canoe not so empty as it seemed.
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