Inside the temple, ahead of where Cat and Mekarie dawdle in the entrance, the sound of steel rings out against soft marble.
The first blow strikes a narrow scratch in the mask, a bare glint of white against the encroaching forest grime. But as Gloria's rage builds, so too does her strength. Little by little, fragments flake away, and grow larger until the final blow splits the jaw and snarling lips free. The lower half of the mask tumbles to the ground with a crack, muffled in its descent by the padding of thick vines below. The eyes and chipped nose remain, sneering out from under the red paint, as if to dare the girl to continue her desecration.
It's remarkable, considering the nature of the temple, but the girl's assault on the mask is the first the site has seen.
Oh, there are minor, accidental damages that have occurred—some young swain, trying to reach one of the black orchids for his lover, had ripped through trellises with clumsy feet, and found himself with a broken arm for his troubles. Here and there, well-meaning visitors had pulled away small sections of mosaic in trying to clear away the creepers.
However, that sword in Gloria's mutilated hand is the first stroke of intentional violence against the sanctuary. It is the first fist raised against a silent idol.
Despite the attack and Gloria's fury, the Lady in the centre still stands waiting on her plinth beyond the remaining wall, her face an expression of longing. Of desire and welcome and need—a face that understands the mother who has lost a child, the seamstress who has lost her hand, the child who has lost her innocence.
And what face will she wear for the other two following the Jernoan girl's trail? Well—that remains to be seen.
⁂
Another has entered the gully, long behind the others. The churned soil shows the passing of their feet, to those acquainted with such things. There are freshly broken twigs here and there, and the bright, copper smell of blood in the air.
The gully is filled with bright birdsong for this interloper; little bodies flashing between the leaves. A flock of the dainty creatures has descended into the woods in a blur of motion, gathering for the last of the summer berries before they flee winter's encroachment. They swam and dart, moving away from the man-made structures of ribbon and bells, always flying nearer to the temple at the centre of the forest depression.