((Written in a close, neat hand on both sides of a piece of paper.))

Dear Reverend Mother:

I write this in the sincere hope that my letter reaches the mainland, but the post from Midian is rather unreliable. I would attempt a call instead, but the phone lines in the church are down, for reasons I'll explain in a moment. I could have asked the father for permission to use his personal line, but he has been terribly distracted of late, for reasons you'll soon understand, and I could not find it in my heart to trouble the poor man further.

There is so much to tell you, but in this letter I will keep myself to the news of greatest importance.

I am writing this letter from Zoe's Cafe, a small eatery on Midian's main street, little more than a block from the church. I feel safer there, especially during the daytime, than I do anywhere else in the city--and yes, I know you read this with surprise, but you will understand when I tell you what happened in the church on Palm Sunday. The church no longer feels like a sanctuary, and even the stalwart presence of the father comforts me only a little. I am, in truth, more terrified than I have ever been. A week ago last Sunday, a young cat of the church--one of the nekos, you'll remember--was murdered horribly, and in her will she asked Fr. Eamon to give her a Christian funeral. She was well on her way to the catechumenate, and Fr. Eamon agreed. Many in our parish mourned the young woman deeply.

The father received word from the deceased's daughter that one of the woman's suspected murderers was planning an appearance at the funeral. The city's police were notified by the family of the deceased; many of her fellow cats made plans to stand watch as well. I could not attend due to parish duties in another part of the city, but from all accounts, the service started well, and the father and the attending mourners were able to make it through most of the requiem mass itself. Unfortunately, it was not long before the aforementioned suspect made an appearance, accompanied by other allies, and the funeral service spun rapidly into madness.

Oh, Reverend Mother. You cannot imagine. The woman's body was desecrated with violence. Her daughter was terribly injured, along with many others who fought hard to stop the intruders. Gas of some nature was released, and the father tried to save some of those in attendance, but a subsequent explosion and some sort of tranquilizers used by the monsters invading the church put the father out of the action. And... oh heavens, it is too terrible. The father and at least one other parishioner--there may have been more, but the father has not yet discovered the details--were kidnapped by the intruders and carried off into the night. And tortured. Yes. I do not know the fate of the young woman kidnapped with the father--Fr. Eamon would not speak of it, except to say that she survived--but the father himself has been grievously hurt. His face is battered--bruised and badly cut, his nose broken. His arm was broken as well. And when he asked for my help in changing his bandages, I found multiple lacerations to his back and a deep stab wound to his shoulder.

You may well ask who treated him initially. There are angels in Midian still--he was rescued by Guin, another catwalker, and two unnamed friends of the latter, and treated with expert medical attention as far as I can see. I was impressed with the care taken in his bandages and the setting of his arm, and you know how exacting a nurse I can be. Still, when I took my nurses' training, I did not expect to be tending to a priest. Perhaps God knew when he led me to that vocation how much it would be needed here in Midian, where the monsters are.

Everything has changed, Reverend Mother. The church has been badly damaged. I spent today cleaning the char marks from the stonework--which despite the explosion, still stands, as sturdy as ever, thank heavens--and cleaning up the shattered remains of the pews, the lectern, the broken glass from the windows (oh, that lovely stained glass!), the remnants of the burnt aisle runner... and the huge old Bible the father used at Mass. I found it, torn into pieces and stained with blood, buried beneath the ruins of the lectern. Until that moment, I had not cried, but I confess I did so then, kneeling in the midst of the chapel's destruction, the Bible's tattered pages pressed to my chest.

Praise God, the front of the church before the altar, the beautiful organ, the confessional and the holy water font--all of these are intact, so I thank God for the small favors we have. And we have not been idle with our sorrow--the church is slowly being cleaned, and the father is already making plans for repairing and replacing what we have lost. I attempted to contact one of the city's "suppliers" this afternoon, in fact, but no one was in--I shall try again tomorrow. So yes, we are working to fix what was broken, to replace what was stolen from us, but I fear there are some things that can never be truly healed. I pray and know that we must be strong, that we will come through this trial tempered by fire and greater for it in the end--as the father says, triumph is born of adversity. But I am so terribly afraid, Reverend Mother. The shadows seem longer inside the church, and despite my hard work at cleaning, I still see the ghosts of bloodstains on the floor, and the spaces were the pews once stood, where the beautiful Bible rested... they seem to mock me with their emptiness.

And the father... he has cloaked himself in darkness. He speaks little now--and he spoke little enough to begin with--but I find him now standing in silence in the middle of the night-dark church, his arm in a sling, his eyes seeming to burn in his battered face. Depression I could understand--this is a terrible thing that has happened to him--but it is not sadness I feel. It is anger I sense in his unreadable expressions, in the clench of his one good hand, and I cannot help wondering what will become of us all.

Pray for us, Reverend Mother.

Yours in Christ,
Sr. Lisbeth Dollinger

"It is Lucifer,
The son of mystery;
And since God suffers him to be,
He, too, is God's minister,
And labors for some good
By us not understood."
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The last few days have been very busy in the parish. Fr. Eamon has given me permission to form the parish choir, although I think this has less to do with my powers of persuasion than his sincere desire to have someone else leading the liturgical music at Mass so he can stop singing chant every Sunday, not to mention his continued concern for my safety, bless the man. He's right, however. If there is someone dangerous lurking about the church, as he seems to believe, the chance of such a person doing me or my charges any harm is considerably lessened as long as we meet in groups. We have a soprano and an alto already, as well as one young lady (my rescuer from the incident with the--ahem--psychotic nun-things) who I've not yet placed by voice, but already we're well on our way. With God's grace, I hope to have them ready to sing at Mass this Sunday, and by next Sunday at the very latest. ((OOC: If you're interested, look up Groups: Midian Parish Choir))

There have been strange leavings in the church as of late. The first time this happened, the objects were long gone by the time I returned to the chapel, but apparently some enthusiastic but misguided soul had placed a framed picture of a Hindu goddess, Kali-Ma, upon our altar, with a dead rat (God in heaven!) and a letter expressing the wish that our gods "share the temple." Fr. Zelenski removed the items and the altar was thoroughly cleaned and reconsecrated, but a few days ago, our mysterious visitor returned. This time, in addition to the usual note and the picture of Kali-Ma, incense was placed... and the chalice on the altar was filled with blood. There are no words to describe my shock and horror when I realized what was inside it. I quickly poured it out in the cloister sink and cleaned the entire thing thoroughly, then I moved the incense away from the altar and hid the picture away in Fr. Eamon's desk. I then wrote my own note on the back of the letter and left it on the altar, explaining why this was not a Good Thing, to leave such offerings there, and inviting this confused but well-meaning stranger to seek me out so that we might talk about it.

Fr. Eamon seemed both exasperated and amused when I told him what I'd done, but he agreed at last that the intent of our visitor seems to be an offering of goodwill, and while we're both growing terribly weary of cleaning and reconsecrating the Lord's altar and tools, he agreed to keep his temper until I'd had a chance to speak with our guest. God willing, this may be an opportunity to guide another soul to the fold.

A far more unpleasant thing happened today, however, and it is this that saddens me most. I returned to the chapel this evening after supper, and found little Luci Jameson fast asleep in one the pews. She looked exhausted, bless the child, and there was an oddly strong stench of chemicals around her--chemicals I discovered later consisted mostly of acetone and cleaning solution. I fetched a blanket from the cloister and covered her up, thinking nothing of it, but in meeting with Fr. Eamon shortly after, I found out what had happened. Luci had entered the church this afternoon with the intention of sweeping behind the altar, as I'd asked, but she was therefore the first to find that someone had spray-painted GOD IS NOT HERE ANYMORE in huge red letters on the beautiful old mural behind the altar. After telling Fr. Eamon what had happened, she insisted on cleaning the mural herself, and apparently spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening doing just that. Fr. Eamon, furious and heartsick over the vandalism to that old, lovely painting--not to mention the insult to the parish--tried repeatedly to help her, but Luci adamantly refused. She seemed to take the vandalism personally, and I suppose she did. The church is as much her home now as it is mine.

The paint is gone now, thanks to Luci, but the injury remains. Parts of the mural have been terribly damaged, the paint faded in places--it breaks my heart to see it. But Fr. Eamon is undeterred; he is already investigating the possibility of finding an artist in Midian that the church can commission to repair the damage. And if the person who did this thinks to weaken our resolve or cripple this parish with such a heartless, childish trick, they are sorely mistaken. (Although we may need to guard the church more carefully from now on. *sigh*)

In far happier news, however, Fr. Eamon has been appointed head priest of St. Michael's and Midian Parish! Fr. Donovan has returned to the mainland for another diocese, and we wish him all the best and God's continued blessings in His service. Fr. Eamon has stepped up to take his place on a permanent basis, with Fr. Zelenski being assigned new duties as well, both as Fr. Eamon's assistant and advisor and Grand Master of the Templar Swords--an organization within the parish that I confess I know little about, but I pray God will bless their good works.

I have yet to hear back from my Reverend Mother about Wolbert's troubling report, and there has been no opportunity to catch Fr. Eamon alone to pester him for answers. But it will happen. Never fear!

"Here is the devil-and-all to pay."
~Cervantes, Don Quixote (Book IV, pt. I, ch. X)

Oh diary. Sometimes I think my heart speaks truer in these pages than it does on my knees in prayer, as if here, in this secret place, I would write my letters to God. So much has happened since last I wrote, I'm not even sure where to begin, but I must write something, if only to pour my troubled thoughts on paper so they might make some sort of sense. For all the sin and vice one finds in this city, the horror and heartache and hurt, it is nothing compared to the terrible crimes being done within sight of our church, by those who would claim to honor Christ through the blasphemy of their actions.

And I am afraid. We are so few in this parish, and the night outside so very deep.

Not long before Christmas, I was in the church, getting the chapel ready for the midnight Christmas Mass, when Father Eamon entered from the street. It is not so unusual for him--he often walks the city after dark, and has no fear of what he might find--but the look on his face was haunted, even for him. I had promised myself that the next time I saw him, I would not shrink from his blacker moods, and I went to him with the intent of asking him what was wrong and if there was anything I could do. To my surprise, he asked to speak with me first, and drew me into the quiet of the standing-room beside the doors.

He had come from a meeting with Father Zelenski. Father Z, as many of the parishioners call him, is the monk I mentioned in an earlier entry. I have not had the opportunity to speak with him further, but Father Eamon has, as well as one of the young street children, Luci, who has taken to frequenting the church. Their joint opinion seems to be that he is a good priest--albeit stiffer, perhaps, than Father Eamon, who for all his brooding and darker moods is nevertheless a relaxed sort of priest with a reasonable sense of humor. Father Z met with Eamon while he was taking care of an injured girl (named Noel) who had sought sanctuary within the church, and after Father Eamon saw to her needs and put her to bed in the community center, he accompanied Father Z for a walk down by the waterfront.

And there, Father Z told Father Eamon the history of Midian parish.

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.
~ 1 Peter 5:8

I open this book and feel its pages, lift its weight to my face and inhale deeply of its scent, and pretend I can still smell the soft wood and clean air of the Mother House. This little book, its pages empty of all but the words I now write, was a gift to me from Sister Therese before I left her house. It was a joke between us, my need to write--the Reverend Mother had once recommended it to me during the days of my noviceship, "to still your restless thoughts and questions"--although it was kindly meant, even couched in amusement, I took her admonition to heart. I strive always for a quiet soul, and committing my thoughts to paper truly helps.

And here, in my unquiet cell within the walls of this cathedral, I find I need its solace more than ever.

I arrived in Midian City two weeks ago tonight, but I have been so busy, there has been no time to write. I am trying to rectify that now. Excited and frightened, my orders in hand, I took the mission boat from the mainland harbor and made the journey to this forgotten island--by my own request, as I constantly find I must remind myself. The clean smell of the bay gave way all too quickly to the reek of polluted waters, the stench of rotten fish and sealife mixing with a deeper, ranker odor--a pungent stew of chemicals and other things I did not care to consider. They had warned me, the missionaries, of what I would find in Midian, but all the warnings in the world are nothing to experiencing its horror for oneself. I felt nauseous as we reached the docks, after a journey far longer and more unpleasant than anything I could have expected (and despite the fact that the captain and crew, aware of the religious sister in their midst, did all in their power to keep me safe from the more unsavory elements on board. God's blessings upon them; I shall not forget their kindness in my heart or in my prayers.)

As arranged, one of the parish priests was waiting at the Midian dock to collect me. I was relieved to be placed in his care, although Father Eamon is a brooding man, I must confess, given to long silences and dark looks, as if he gazes too deeply inside himself and despises what he sees. But he is a gentle man, and most assuredly a Godly one. Carrying my things for me--he would not allow for argument--he escorted me through the dockside streets and along the outskirts of the city, which he assures me are safe enough if I am careful to never travel them alone. We reached the cathedral fairly quickly--it is no more than a city block or two from the docks--and I had my first sight of the church which is now to be my home.

After meeting briefly with my new Reverend Mother and receiving confirmation of my duties, I was given leave to spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the church and grounds. It is a lovely place, this cathedral, although even here in this house of God, a chill seems to reside, something the beautiful icons and candlelight cannot quite dispel. But I prayed my rosary in the chapel, prayed before the altar, then took communion with Father Eamon before retiring to my cell.

My cell is surprisingly warm, compared to the rest of the cathedral grounds--a brightly lit and comfortable room that I share with three other sisters. There is little privacy, but it is of small matter, and in truth I find comfort in the presence of my sister nuns. They are a strange lot, as odd in their way as the priest, but they are kind enough and have made me feel welcome here.

Still, it is here, in the dark of the night, that my thoughts turn inward and I wonder again at the wisdom that brought me here. It is hard to sleep--I hear gunshots outside the walls of our cloister, snatches of conversation that trouble me with their enigma and implied violence. And somewhere above me, a crow rails at the night, his rusty cries chasing me through my dreams.