Dotada

by Thomas Turnbull-Ross

 

[Item 405j-208]
[Transcript of pages from presumably a journal, translated from Spanish. Discovered in a cave on the Argentinian coast, near Rio Grande, alongside aberrant fish and crustacean carcasses <see Items 599b-326 and 599b-327>. Other pages apparently torn from the same book were also recovered, written in an unidentified language <recommend comparison to Items 347t-607 through 347t-729>. No trace of front or back cover found. No indication of correct order of reading. Order of arrangement assumed.]
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what He is gifting me with. I pray that I may endure the pain as He shows me the truth, and what it means to be perfect.
I praise Him.
 
I can hardly feel my collarbone today. His gifts have spread almost entirely over my shoulder. This is how it is meant to be. He shows me in their patterns on the rocks, those unknowable swirls which I somehow understand. His presence approaches, I know it, somewhere out there in the deep waves.
I saw someone. Not one of His. A boy came down to the beach today. He didn’t understand, but when I tried to explain I did it badly. It’s been so long since I’ve talked to someone not touched by Him, I think I might have forgotten how. I’ll have to be more prepared
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in future, in case there’s another opportunity like this. I pray that He may give me the strength and clarity I need when that time comes.
I praise Him.
 
[Brief sentence written in unidentified language]
 
He came back! The boy from a few days ago. At least, I think it was him. I was quite far away, and I don’t think he saw me. He was looking at one of the rocks I see things in. The patterns of the limpets and barnacles change, and they have meaning, telling of His coming. I wonder if the boy understood? Should I have gone to him and explained?
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Time will tell.
I praise Him.
 
I think he’s been in my cave. When I got back to it after reading the patterns there were bloodstains on the walls, and His children had their thread-tongues hanging out. They had tasted flesh, and wanted more. I could see the tiny razors flexing on the strands they usually keep hidden and safe in their shells. Even the gifts on my arm, I could feel them stirring as I went close to the blood. They know the boy is not of Him, is an unbeliever. He’s probably from the city. No one from the city believes.
Maybe this is His way of telling me the boy will never believe, that he is not one the chosen, but a sinner, whose fate shall be worse than imagination can allow. Perhaps the reason I have
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failed to explain to him is because He does not want me to? I pray that I would not presume to be above my station, as I fear I have been doing, and I pray that I would not interfere with His decided fate for this boy.
I praise Him.
 
I think they’re coming faster now. Little strings of them are growing up my neck. I can scarcely move my fingers for them. The only reason I can write this is because they’re only on one arm. So far. Eventually I too shall be a true child of His! Then I shall have no desire nor need to write anything, unless He requires it of me.
That time draws closer, I can see it in the patterns. They are more frantic, more complex than before. I had trouble making sense of some of them. More than usual. But I could gather the
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meaning, both from what I could read and from the mist I can see out there, above the sea. It will be here soon. He will be here soon
I pray that He would speed His coming.
I praise Him.
 
He actually came back. The boy. His name is Lautaro. I was wrong about His fate for him. It seems that it just wasn’t the right time when he came before. He may be from the city, but he believes now. His children didn’t wound Lautaro to punish him, but so that he would believe!
When I saw him this morning, I didn’t recognise him at first. I could only see his silhouette through the mist and he was walking strangely, like a drunk person. I saw him collapse, so
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went to see who it was, if I could help them, and whether I could do a better job of explaining His word to them than I had the first time I met Lautaro.
When I reached him, he wasn’t quite unconscious, but he looked badly ill. Nothing He can’t take care of: He put so much medicine in nature that I sometimes wonder if unbelievers are the only reason there is sickness in the world.
But there was also his hand. Where His children had cut the boy, I think, for the wounds had sealed, but they were oozing something like pus. The skin around them was hard and smooth, and I could see and feel traces of a growing shell underneath. And there were patterns. Very simple, and almost meaningless, but Lautaro has the patterns in himself! I’m so happy that I could save him!
No one will look for him. I asked about his parents, and he told me they had been dead for a
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[Transcript ends]