The Intercessor

The black covering billowed as she prayed. A silent voice hidden in plain view. In public she was private. In private she prayed in her secret room. She raised her voice in her heart only, not brave enough or foolish enough to shout aloud. She was small, she thought. She was a whisper. No matter. Her prayer rang at the gates of Heaven and the ground shook beneath her feet.

Everywhere she stepped belonged to her, the dusty street between her door and the waiting car, the market stall, her children's school, the library, and the home of her dear, dark, disbelieving friend. She hoped her prayer would reach the seat of power. She hoped her world would open to the truth. The shadow had covered them for so long.

She had to see the answer. She had to know. She cried out with no sound, not even a breath, straight into the darkness where she knew the light had set up camp. And a hundred miles away, in the city center of a great world capital, the ground rumbled. It rattled with transformation, creating a ripple certain to undo many years of damage, to restore, renew and rebuild.

The earthquake spread out, gaining speed as it went. She didn't feel it at first, just went about her regular day cleaning pots and slicing carrots and folding clothes. Then in one sudden moment it arrived at her doorstep, because she had been heard.