A Shrine for the Lost

Amid golden light that filtered by through lush green leaves, Corraine paced nervously. Across the small forest clearing, a sharp turn, then back again she walked, her hooves crunching over fallen leaves as she stepped through tangled roots and vibrant ferns. Despite the sublime beauty of the glade around her, tension gripped the doe’s form. Her tail lashed instinctively as she walked, her walking rhythm interspersed with frustrated, nervous stomps. It seemed such an easy task, so what was she so afraid of?

Exasperated, Corra turned back to the small pile of items she had brought out to small glade: a fresh-cut wooden board purchased from a local merchant, a chipped ceramic bowl from an abandoned teahouse a few towns over, and, most importantly a parchment wrapped around a peacock feather quill. All the materials she needed to build a shrine to Grace. The doe paused, taking a long breath in an attempt to soothe the irritation that rolled off in her waves, though she couldn’t resist the temptation to knock the ceramic bowl off its precarious perch amid its pile of stuff. It rolled harmlessly into the grass with a slight clang as she watched. “This isn’t good enough,” she murmured to herself, looking at the pale wood, the now tipped-over vessel. “Why did I think this would be good enough?”

She had chosen this location, just off of a well-traveled path, in hopes that the shrine she would build would be frequented by other travelers. A place where other lost souls such as herself could pause for a moment and thank the forces greater than themselves. A place for both solemn reflection and, if Grace was feeling generous, hope. Deep inside, Corra knew there were selfish motives far at the heart of her work, as she, too, wished to leave offerings to the mysterious force, as just maybe Grace would smile down upon her and lead her away from her curse. In reality, she was frustrated by this whole ordeal—weirdly, not because she thought failure would prolong the curse that afflicted her. For, despite how self-conscious Corra was of her curse, she had learned to live with the disgusted looks strangers gave, or the guilt of spreading her rot to new greenery. No, this time, Corra feared her work would be disappointing.

Here in the quiet glade at the heart of the woods, the world seemed peaceful: birds sang, the wind blew, and the air seemed to burst with the smell of fresh greenery. Why would Corraine dare mar this beautiful path with her own creation? The materials she had gathered were not nearly remarkable enough to inhabit this space. Any passerby would turn up their nose at a shine of wood slab and chipped ceramic. Perhaps no one would ever stop at the shrine; offerings would remain absent, leaving Grace disappointed by the ramshackle structure. Perhaps the townsfolk would quietly complain about the eyesore that marred the otherwise tranquil forest views.

“No,” Corraine reminded herself quietly, responding to her own doubts. “Who cares how many others use the shrine?” This path, this way through the winding woods, was traveled often, but not by the wealthy or well-do-do. Here, through this glade, went the run-aways, the travelers, the lost. Those who were willing to risk a more precarious and unknown route to avoid being seen or to escape the costs of the main road. No, this shrine was not meant for everyone to use. It was meant for the most desperate. For those who, like her, sought solace within the wild woods. What truly mattered was that the shrine stood there for those who needed Grace the most.