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The last thing I do before I leave my room is wrap a piece of muslin around my head. As a priestess, I am not obligated to do this, but today I want to give as much of myself to Karona as I possibly can.
I pass several handmaidens in the halls of the temple on my way to the breakfast room. Unlike myself and the other priestesses, the handmaidens wear gauzy, delicate veils made of different shades of white and cream that cover their features but still give a glimpse at their faces.
They greet me in their quiet, sensitive, feminine voices, and I am awed, as I always am, at how well the handmaidens embody the spirit of Karona.
I may be a priestess, chosen for my talents, but the plain, nameless handmaidens surpass anything I could accomplish.
I come to a skidding stop at the circular landing that leads to the breakfast room.
You’re not supposed to hurry. Haste is not supposed to exist in this temple,I admonish myself.
And then, as if to drive the point home, the sun moves to this side of the temple and sunlight pours in through the stained-glass windows.
Color bursts across the floor of the landing, dancing exquisite sequences across the marble floors.
My breath hitches in my throat at the sheer wonder of it. The sheer unutterable beauty of this temple and everything inside it.
And then after I give myself a shake, I walk, more slowly now, towards the breakfast room.
The room is empty, though the tables that line the walls groan under the weight of the warm food.
I gather up some fruit, and some bread and cheese, along with a carafe of water. I go into a side room, and after saying a quick prayer of thanks to Karona, I eat.
The fruit is good, cold and sweet, and the bread is moist and flaky. The cheese is decadent, crumbling between my fingers. The water, fresh from a nearby spring, is sharp, cool, and bracing.
So when I leave the breakfast room and walk towards the back of the temple where Karona’s art room is located, I am ready for the task at hand.
It is still early when I take my shoes off and leave them outside the door to the art room. The temple is quiet. Many of the handmaidens have taken a vow of silence to elevate the level of their worship.
The floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and the door, heavy and wooden, creaks as I push it open.
The room is cool and dark. An easel, canvas ready, stands at the center of the room as though waiting for me.
This room is where I show my devotion the best. This room is where I speak to Karona. Where she guides me. Where she shows me how to live in her image.
In this temple, I am the priestess of painting. In a way, I am also a handmaiden to Karona.
It is just that, as the priestess of painting, my duties to Karona are more defined than those of the normal handmaidens.
I pick up the brush then – the paints are also ready, waiting for me – and say the usual prayer before I start to paint.
“Oh, great Karona, please be with me. Bless me, guide me, show me the truth. Show me your vision for this temple and for those who worship you inside it. Envelop us in your grace and wisdom, and inspire us, your priestesses, so that we can aspire to be like you. With this prayer, I summon your spirit and ask you to always show me the way!”
Tears have welled up in my eyes by the end of the prayer and my hand shakes slightly as I feel Karona respond.
New strength flows through me and I exhale, though it is more of a sigh. A sigh of relief.
I dip the brush in some pigmented paint and move it towards the canvas. My movements become almost mechanical as I give myself and my talents up to Karona.
Soon, everything but the painting falls away. Eventually, I have to shake myself out of my reverie so that I can step back and examine what I have done.
A flood of color glimmers at me from the canvas. The colors are all different shades of brown, orange, and red, with glints of deep green shining at me.
I let out a slow breath and force myself to unclench my hands, which I unwittingly have balled into fists.
The paintbrush in my right hand clatters to the floor. The painting is a vivid, brilliant tapestry of the forest floors during autumn.
I lean forward, barely breathing, to examine it for any imperfections when the door to the art room opens.
