Bless Me, Father

Delilah’s Touch

The smell of yeast and sugar lingered around the Baker's house like a memory trying too hard. But once Delilah stepped inside, all she could smell was sickness.

Marta, the girl's mother, stood by the hearth, eyes red and tired, her hands clutched too tightly around a damp rag. Her husband Thomas hovered near the window, silent, stiff, not even pretending to help.

They didn't greet her. They didn't need to.

She could feel them.

The sin bled off their skin like heat.

Marta's was fresher... envy.

I could scent it off her.

The kind a woman starts to carry after months of hearing other babies cry while hers don't. Of watching younger women laugh with round bellies, while she pinches every penny into doctor visits and prayers.

Even the townsfolk whispered, that the bakery's bread had gone stale.

The little bakery had gone downhill since Helen's illness, but not even their child being sick could save them from the long tongues of the town.

Thomas's sin was heavier, older.

It was greed, wrapped in pride.

She could smell it beneath his stench. He'd taken more than his share in life. She wasn't sure from whom, but she could taste the bitterness of it, metallic and sharp like copper rubbed together, raw.

But Delilah didn't say anything, she never did.

She loved getting a taste of other people's sins. How they lied or schemed, but at the end of the night, they dared get on their knees and pray to their God?

Ha...

Delilah only smirked.

"How long has she been like this?" Delilah asked.

"Ever since we left for our family vacation," Marta said quickly, her eyes darting between her daughter's room and Delilah.

Thomas spoke up, shifting uncomfortably.

"Once we left Little Harmonie is when the rash started," Thomas laughed hoarsely.

"After a few weeks, we realized she wasn't getting any better. We thought she needed Little Harmonie again."

Delilah raised her eyebrow.

"You thought bringing her back would heal her again?"

Marta and Thomas looked at each other.

"We don't know, it was weird that once we left for our vacation, she got sick," Marta said.

Hmm...so the Baker's are suspicious. It's something to consider.

Delilah cleared her throat.

"How did Father Vornero take your leave for vacation?"

The Bakers opened their mouths but closed them together... Thomas touched Marta lightly.

"He was very upset with us" Thomas grimaced, before looking away.

Delilah realized they probably didn't want to say more, thinking someone would find out they are giving her information.

"I should check on Helen now."

"Please help, my poor baby has a fever that hasn't left in weeks. Dr. Whitlock is blaming it on outside germs." Marta said.

"Some women at the square whispered I'd lost my mind and came...to you," she gripped her skirt, looking around nervously.

She dared not stare at Delilah.

But Delilah smiled softly under her veil.

This made Marta and Thomas uncomfortable.

Pathetic.

The town is wrong but right. Marta didn't come seeking me first with anything, so there isn't any way this ties to me.

But, Helen is now sick and she seeks me now.

Life is funny like that...isn't it?

"Don't worry Marta. I'm here to make Helen better not worse."

Thomas grabbed Marta, holding her by the shoulders.

The silence stretched out before Thomas broke it.

Finally having the courage to ask.

"Your family...we heard they were a very wealthy, respected family...the ones who built this little town."

Delilah shrugged nonchalantly.

"Yes they were. Very wealthy." Delilah said mischievously.

She could feel a flicker of greed sparkling in Thomas's veins.

You were always bound to want more.

"But I can't feed into your curiosity, I barely knew them."

She walked away, not letting Thomas ask her any more questions.

Suddenly, he wants to ask questions about my family?

Just because Marta and Thomas moved to the town a couple years ago doesn't mean they had to treat me like the others.

They should've been different, but they weren't.

Delilah's face changed in fury; she didn't show it though.

Marta glanced at the woman walking down the hallway, then she leaned in and whispered to her husband. "Don't pry, she's all that's left. We don't know what happened."

Thomas whispered, though not softly enough.

"It's just weird, that's all... If I was her I would have left this cursed town"

Thomas was right. Delilah should've left.

But she didn't... she stayed, and she owed that to Barbara.

She stopped and looked into the room where Helen rested, lying on a narrow bed near the window, her face half-turned to the light, arms twitching now and then like they were chasing something in a dream.

Her skin was a mess, red, raw patches stretching up her neck, flaking at the edges like bark peeling off a tree.

Delilah's hand rested lightly against the frame, and her eyes flickered back to the image of the priest. His stillness. The way he looked at her, then didn't.

The void she'd touched in him.

No desire. No shame. No echo.

It wasn't right.

Every man has a crack. A craving. A hidden itch. But the priest... felt like stone.

Like he was built clean.

Not even God makes people that clean.

Delilah closed her eyes and shook off the thought.

She looked back at Helen's parents.

"I need warm water," she added simply.

"And a bowl. Wooden, if you have it."

They moved fast to fetch what she needed, grateful for something to do.

Delilah finally stepped inside and knelt beside Helen without ceremony, setting down her satchel. Marta brought the water, Thomas the bowl. Delilah touched Helen's forehead, sensing the burning fever and... something that didn't belong to this world.

She furrowed her brow at Helen.

Immediately, she crushed herbs with practiced hands: chamomile, burdock root, a dash of something darker. It stuck to her like glue.

She stirred it slow, like the movement itself carried weight.

Helen stirred weakly. Marta rushed to her side.

"Hush," Delilah whispered, her voice soft as linen. "Don't move, sweet thing."

Marta gave Delilah a fresh rag.

Delilah dipped the rag in the wooden bowl before covering the girl with the substance.

Delilah whispered in a tongue no one taught her, something raw, old and shaped more by breath than words.

"Velkaroth nam'drel, essira thuul.

By fang and flame, by blood made sweet...

Bind the wound, asra'nok, ves'tir..."

Her hand, warm and deliberate, smoothed over the girl's skin in small circles. Her touch wasn't clinical. It was gentle, almost tender, the way a mother touches a child when nobody is watching.

Marta stared at Delilah, afraid but sorrowful.

Helen flinched once... then stilled. A breath fluttered from her lips, light and content. Her whole body softened.

Thomas stood straighter. Marta's hand fluttered to her chest. For the first time in weeks, Helen wasn't whimpering.

Delilah opened her eyes. Her mouth was dry, but her breath was steady.

She took the bone-colored thread out of her satchel and passed it once over the girl's chest, not touching. The air crackled softly.

Helen's parents looked around the room, as if something had briefly touched them.

A little piece of pain left the girl's body and disappeared into Delilah's hand.

She grimaced, letting it go.

"Salmora," she muttered.

Helen blinked up at her, dazed.

Delilah brushed a lock of hair from the girl's sticky brow.

Marta and Thomas hovered over the girl...

Delilah could see them smiling and gripping Helen's small hands.

But Helen stared at Delilah...

"Sleep now. Tomorrow, it won't hurt as much."

The girl gave Delilah a small smile...

Or maybe Delilah was hallucinating and Helen didn't smile at all.

Her tired, dark eyes scanned her parents on both sides.

They were happy to finally see their little girl in less pain.

Delilah stood, her legs aching. That kind of work took more from her than she liked to admit.

She walked back toward the door.

Thomas got up. "Wait..."

He dug through his pockets, trying to give Delilah whatever he could find.

Delilah scoffed. "I don't want your money."

Marta looked from Helen to Thomas, then a quick glance at Delilah... something halfway between fear and awe.

Thomas looked around, embarrassed.

"Sorry, I don't know—"

Delilah cut him off. "Keep applying the cream to her for the rest of the week, then stop."

Delilah turned around before they could ask her anything, but the mother spoke.

"Will it come back?" Marta said.

But Delilah didn't turn around. "That depends..."

Thomas and Marta looked at each other. "On what?" Thomas asked.

But Delilah continued on, descending the stairs like she'd never been there at all, leaving the question hanging in the air like a bad smell.