S2/E5 | The Church

In the meantime, enjoy the gift. You have no past, so you've committed no sin, broken, no heart feel, no regret. It's a blessing of sort. It doesn't seem that way, I suppose it seldom does. Here we are. It's locked. Yes, there aren't any lights on inside. YEA curious. He must be away for a bit. He's not known for taking time off. Don't worry, I've got another idea to at least help with the headache. Where are we going to see the priest? The priest? Yes, don't worry, we're not

going to try to convert you. He's something of an an apothecary, an acolyte of the old medicine capital, oh capital M and just around this corner, m that is our house of worship. It's so ornate. Yes, Rupert Inverness brought with him on the trip across the sea stonemasons and sculptors, many of the faith, some les. So those who survived the construction were exalted in life. Those who didn't have the honor of resting within the walls. But the priest will fill you in more on the details.

I am sure he has a way with words. Come. This door was crafted from the wood of the ship that brought us here. Because of the harsh climate, many had their doubts about how long we could survive in this land. Invernus wanted to remove any chance of escape, so he had the ship dismantled as our very first priest prayed over it. These doors are the hope of our people. It's dark in here. MM HMMM. That is in honor of the deeper parts of the ocean, from

whence all life springs. Pastor, the fish, you feel, mm hmm, just last night, dancing on the beach dressed in green, the ecstasy of faith in your shimmering eyes. And here you are, and with a friend, yes, pastor, a friend with an injury. Goodness, that's a nasty cash. You must be in terrible pain a bit. No worries, I have just a thing here in my cow. Drink this. What is it? The tincture of special arms for the head? The pastor has never steered me wrong. Do you always

carry this with you? Let's just say I had a premonition. There you go on, drink up. It's aftermost as in flavor. I'm sorry to admit. I've attempted to mask the bitterness with all sorts of sweet herbs, but it always seems to make it taste worse, as if it needs to be bitter to work properly. Do you feel it working already? Yes, and your head so an. That's how you know it's working. Now, mother, where did you to meet? I found her this morning on the shore. Than you are the other I saw

in my vision. Here you are at last. I've been casting the bones and waiting so very long for this moment. Welcome, welcome to the flock, my weary traveler. You are an omen from the seed itself. It let step into my sanctuary. I know that through your eyes it must seem a bit spartan, but, unlike so many modern houses of worship. Everything, and you see here is sacred, those storm glass lanterns

there above the beautiful altar craftsmanship found nowhere else. Our folk have always blown their own glass, have always forged their own iron. Surely as we dry the water for salt this pulpit. My own grandmother carved it from driftwood left from our fickle tide. She taught me her skills as best she could, taught me to discern meaning from all that leaves behind the tide, my only earthly love. She is as inevitable and unchanging as the waxing moon.

She rises and falls her own ancient schedules, and there is nothing to do but give thanks here on these are modest pews, card from the wood of my own family tree. It is all I can do to beg forgiveness when she takes from US instead such a heavy burden. I burned it gladly. Ever since my mother's mother's robes rested upon my eager shoulders, there was such a great skill, my mother's and before her, my grandmother, my great grandfather, knowing the tide, knowing went to give, what to accept?

The gift, the burden, the need of it, has always been in hard blood. The net stafle of fish, of crab and squid, not simply because they are cast out into the sea, but because of the offerings I leave to dry here, because of the good work I am pledged to give every cycle, every new moon, I write our stories here on the stones, just as generating shoes of pastors have before. We have smoothed these walls with whale fat and warm blood. We're clean with salt from

the sea. My family tree has take the boots here beneath the foundation of this church. We have always been here, in the space between the people and the daily I learned them task to keep the nets full. It is my birthright, a part of the great cycle of the mooring time. If you stealing glances at my altering house. Of course it exists for the good of the village, of every soul here and those buried and drowned. It's

a beautiful listener. The shelves in the stone there at the base Polish Boister, dug from the shores before we had our own colonies, seated to keep with the Times in trade. This stone has been here longer than the church. It is a record of everything we are m I'm blessed dad my story, my work to it as well. So few have such an open book of their own history. I care for it a prime but just such a privilege to have you look upon it now, careful, can

take your time, try to understand all. You See. WHO lifted? We have our stories, but alas, a good word makes no mention at all of names. It is our way in my family. We offer our name to the tide and we are simply the bastard here, a servant to the sacred deep. As time flows, so do we pass. It's all that's written. But as the rich most of time to live, I am only honored with the sure a team that it was want of my blood. These here, the siegels. I asked please, please touch them, feel how

they've been carved into the surface. They are for safe passage, for the boats, for the seat to take only what is needed to ensure the bountiful return for those that harvest. They are ours and no outsider has ever used them. Some even say we came to be here on their commands, that we are bound by them. Who Pose? It is not my place to question. Ah, yes, this garlet nowhere. I wove it myself with my nets as a child. That Killed Devil's abling, the feathers and gulls a bit

like sulfur. That smell, yes, pure defies it signifies my station here and I wear it with pride, or rather I have for decades. I'm feeling a bit less deserving as a played h my shin grows as fat as the moon, for the altar has been void of new bran for months, but you an omen the fresh breeze in a damn cave. Soon, the holiest of Holy Knights of lives, as it must, there will be a fresh offering to the deep of dreamed prayed. What lack will

find a way to our nets. I have long made do, but I am getting a bit old to continue my own offerings. You See, the Hollow Times before alignment have called for creativity, dedication most extreme. Shall I reveal to you my own mortifications? I am tasked with a terrible way. You See, I must give when there was no other willing flesh to give in the lean times. It is my duty to offer myself along with the Sacred Ambergris, salt and iron. I had a vision, you see, in

a time of crisis of faith. But I was very young and new to my role and I was so desperate to prove myself worthy. I knew that I could be more than human, that I had within me a great beauty of only I could open myself to it. And so I set about my sacred working he here with my father's own Shark Hook, I had only a bottle of whiskey for courage and my mother's Little Sea Glass Mirror to guide my work. I freed them quick and sharp, as I was commanded to do for the

good of our village. My Own Gills do trisy. I am fashioned in their image by tent. We were handsomely rewarded for my devotion. M Hm, m HM, such harvests that season. Faith is a gift that gives ninefold. I knew, as I poured myself here upon the stone, that we are one to sea and I, and I give my own salt for our salt, my flesh for the flesh and the nets we build, we sail, we harvest what is provided by day that dwell beneath. Soon these little offerings will give way to heart, blood and bones for

the waves and sun to bleach. It is a very fair trade, my spare flesh for blessings. When our altar is overflowing, we can hardly count the bounty and overwhelms ussel the fruits of sea. No child here knows hunger. Our homes hold fast when the Nor'easters ripped through. Our boats are never lost. Our people do not fear the rip tide or the shark when the altars fall. Every living thing in this world as its cycles m waxing ways. And here we are, we with empty bellies and cattered

nets that meet mending with my slow work. Not even the gift of my stun crooked fingers could tempt their favor. Our church is dry and our people are rangeous. But soon, for soon we will celebrate once more. The pits will be dug, the fires lit. Oh, just to matching rock. Whe Pis there, beneath the sand and rimming full of John Crab. Little next lobster, open hordle fires for the skate had it car tuna. When we're especially lighting, it's the fresh sun. The oysters like swallowing the seas else

with recipes so old they rival my own. Hymns, our tapings to Rome, with the effort to hold everything we harvest meats and break never before seeing such a feast, and you can never will again. I think that I'm going to be sick. That will happen from time to time. We'd best take our leave. Father Blessed and keep you both. Everything returns to him, super both. Soon they're there. Get it out there. How do you feel? I'm okay, I'm okay. Ah, I feel better. My head doesn't hurt anymore. Good. What

did he give me? Who knows? It worked? Yes, but I saw things as he spoke, shadows of the far off beach, somewhere warmer, and then a crash. I was underwater, visions. None of it makes sense. That's good. It's probably your memory coming back. It's a side effect, perhaps, and the lucky one at that. Perhaps if we continue walking, it will come back. We'll have some time to kill before the doctor returns, and I have errands to run, shall we? The day is still young. Yes, yes, good, yes, good.

M tomorrow, on thirteen days of Halloween, the graveyard poor, a check for a beaten heart. He's alive, still alive, porter calls out, and then all of a sudden a man's arms shot up, clutched old porter by the collar, brought him down to his crusted lips so he could whisper in his ear. Poor soul managed to get a few words out so John could hear. A final breath was gurgled out to the salt water and sand and

has collapsed long. Don't put me down there, don't put me under m H. Thirteen days of Halloween the Church, starring Kathy and Jimmy, Bethany and Lynde and Nicholas Takowski. Written by led Westover with additional material by Nicholas Takowski. Sound Design and mixing by Ben Kiebrick engineering by violent Ferton, DUBWAY STUDIOS NEW YORK. Casting by Jessica Losa. Created by Matt Frederick and Alex Williams, with executive producer Aaron Manky.

A production of I heart radio, grim and mild and BLUMHOUSE television.