text: A desperate and destitute farmer turned to God after his harvest failed. Hungry and penniless, he was not able to feed and take care of his daughter. The heavy rains had flooded his fields and ruined his crops. One cloudy day after mass the farmer stood watching the clattering of raindrops on the slate walls of the church steeple. His eyes transfixed on the rough black texture and he became entranced with the rhythmic repetition nature provided. The pastor grabbed the latch on the door after the last parishioners had left the church, taking a moment to ponder at the poor farmer who had steadily refused alms. With a worried look he pulled shut the door behind him, to prevent further wetting of his robes. &nbsp; The farmer stood exposed to the elements, not paying any mind to the wind and rain slashing around him, wetting his cloak and breeches. He felt weightless in the dark, as if there were no veil between him and God. His internal dissociation brought him closer to the elements, closer to the surface of the slate walls. His eyes widened when he saw her, the pristine shape of the virgin Mary falling off the slate bricks. He felt a comforting warmth fill his entire being, a grogging recognition of the holy, which brought him back to the material world. His eyes watered not only from the rain but now his tears as he uncontrollably sobbed. At a search for meaning his mind began being filled with desperate, blasphemous and irrational thoughts. _Perhaps his daughter would carry the second coming of Christ. It would be her salvation of the suffering she had to endure at the hands of his inept caretaking. He would serve by kindling the conditions that would manifest God’s desire._ It would be his last desperate attempt at saving her from a life of poverty and despair. &nbsp; At his homestead, the farmer warmed himself by the meager fire that he managed to build and ate a few bites of leek and bean soup with his daughter. After she was put to bed, he pondered his next steps. He felt a strange calm washed over him, as if his goals in life were never this clear. In his limited religious understanding he knew that it was blasphemous to propose his conclusions to the church. The pastor would not help him, and he might even risk excommunication. He decided that with no one else to turn to, he should visit the village witch for advice. He lit an oil lamp to guide him through the darkness, beyond the boundaries of the village, into the confines of the broadleaf forest. He traded the clear night’s sky for a roof of tree crowns. The smell of damp earth and moss and rotting roots met his nose. The chilly night air pricked his skin. He followed the small path that he knew led to the witch’s hut. &nbsp; There was light pouring out of a small window next to the front door, under the thatched roof. The house was surrounded by a variety of different plants he guessed were used for her medicines. After he knocked, he heard shuffling and the door creaked open. An old woman of small stature stared into his eyes and welcomed him into her home. Inside it smelled of incense and herbs, a cauldron brewing above a log fire emitted a subtle but foul smell. He was nervous, he knew the witch had powers beyond his understanding. He also knew that if anyone found out he was here in the midst of the night, he could be suspected of devilry himself. The witch listened with an understanding look. She explained there could be a way to contrive his daughter’s salvation. She immediately went to work collecting herbs and plants from her garden and combining these in her mortar and pestle. A vial was filled with the resulting concoction. It was to be given to his daughter during a full moon as it would open a connection between the heavens and her body. The witch also stated the ritual would bring luck into their lives. The farmer would not have to fear hunger and despair anymore. Finding what he was looking for, the farmer returned to his homestead with a smile on his face. &nbsp; At the next instance of a full moon the farmer gave the concoction to his daughter. She willingly took it without question and swallowed the bitter taste down with some water. Nothing of note seemed to happen. The evening went by with hunger in their bellies, as they were accustomed to. The next day the farmer was awoken by a shill scream. He looked over to his daughter’s bed and immediately saw red stained linens. She bled as a woman would do. She was too young for that, he thought. It probably was the witch’s concoction. He panicked; this was not what he had envisioned of his self-proclaimed pious quest. He helped his daughter change the linens. Luckily, she seemed to be fine. He was unsure of what the future would bring. From that day onward his daughter would never bleed again. &nbsp; The luck of the farmer and his daughter took a turn for the better. Their next harvest was more successful than it ever was. The profits even allowed him to buy livestock, a white sheep that gave them milk and wool. It was a turning point in their life, it was a steppingstone to their future health and wealth. The farmer saw his daughter grow older, taller, and stronger. She turned out to become a beautiful young woman. One day a suitor proposed to wed her, with substantial dowry, and the farmer accepted. With a smile on his face, he saw his daughter leave his home to start a new family. After all these years he never forgot what had happened to them. He saw how his daughter seemed to now be saved from her suffering. It was all he had ever wished for. &nbsp; Year after year passed. Grey hairs grew in the farmer’s beard. His farm grew more prosperous. He had now even been able to hire farmhands to do the heavy work for him, so he had enough time to spend with his daughter. She led a happy life with her husband, the local blacksmith’s apprentice. She became a devout and pious woman. She learned skills like weaving and knitting. She had already made children’s clothes in the prospect of starting a family. It would not have been for a lack of trying, but she seemed not to be able to bare children. As the years passed the farmer’s daughter grew quieter and sullen. Her body was not capable of that which would fulfill her innermost desires. She grew more distanced from her father and even from her own husband. &nbsp; One faithful day the farmer sat out on his porch when he saw his son-in-law approach his home. The look on his face was one of panic. His wife had locked herself in their home and was not herself. The two men made their way over to the family home. Piercing crying could be heard outside of the wooden building. The farmer’s daughter cried out: if she could not give life then her life was of no value. The two men tried to break down the wooden door and found that it was barricaded from the other side. With enough force they were able to push aside the bookcase that was pushed up against it. The men found her disconsolate, with frantic darting eyes. They attempted to subdue her, but she managed to wrangle free of their grip and to hastily escape through the opened door. &nbsp; A chase followed through the town. A flock of geese hurriedly stepped out of the way, honking after the skirts of the fleeing woman. The townspeople looked up from their daily chores to witness this peculiarity that disturbed this otherwise quiet hamlet. The farmer’s daughter plunged her way through a group of workmen, whom had to drop their baskets of wool at her passing. She ran up to the church and entered the nave through the open front door. The farmer followed her and caught a glimpse of her skirts at the stairwell going up to the steeple. When he reached the top, he saw his daughter standing on the ledge of the steeple window, with big teary eyes looking back at him. He tried to utter words, but nothing seemed to come out. She smiled. _This is my salvation_, she said, before letting herself fall.