Isaiah 30:18 (MSG)
> But God's not finished. He's waiting around to be gracious to you.
He's gathering strength to show mercy to you.
God takes the time to do everything right—everything.
Those who wait around for him are the lucky ones.
---
The wind that morning carried the smell of fear and dust. It slipped through the thatched roofs and narrow lanes of Mahogany Village, whistling like a restless spirit. By dusk, the same wind had found its way to the old inn at the village square, where the people gathered in secret, hearts pounding with the weight of bad news.
The innkeeper, a short, broad-shouldered man with anxious eyes, motioned to his serving girls. "Pour for them," he whispered, voice trembling. They carried wooden mugs of the local brew—thick, bitter, a drink for courage—but none of the men touched it. The scent of malt rose between them, mingling with the sweat of fear.
All eyes were fixed on the old village chief, who sat at the head of the rough-hewn table, his hands clasped over his staff. His gray beard, streaked with white dust, quivered slightly in the lamplight.
"He will not help us. There's no need to keep praying," one man said, his voice breaking the silence like a cracked bell.
"I suggest we run—flee as fast as possible," another added, glancing nervously toward the shuttered windows.
"Nonsense," a third retorted. "There's no place to go. The witches' guards are everywhere."
"Then what should we do?" another asked, voice small and brittle as dry twigs.
The chief's eyes lifted, heavy with years and grief. "That's the most foolish thing to do," he said slowly. "We have to keep praying. Perhaps our God will answer. If He doesn't, we will sacrifice animals. If He still refuses, we will sacrifice our virgin daughters to appease Him."
A shiver passed through the room. The fire crackled; somewhere a dog barked and fell silent. No one dared breathe too loud.
There was no other choice—the witches had taken the neighboring villages. Flames, screams, vanished families; everyone knew the stories. Mahogany Village would be next. The people's prayers now hung in the air like smoke that refused to rise.
One by one, the villagers slipped away into the night until only the chief and his son remained. The boy—barely a man, his face still smooth—stood beside his father in the flicker of the dying lamp. The chief rubbed his forehead, weariness pressing on his soul like a stone.
"Father," the son said quietly, "Uwa didn't save the neighboring villages. How will He save us?" Doubt trembled in his tone, though beneath it lay something gentler—fear for the thousand men, women, and children who slept beneath their roofs, unaware of how close the shadow had come.
"Shut up," the chief said, but without anger. It was the cry of a man cornered by despair. "Meet up with Teuwa. Let him tell us how many animals to slaughter. Hurry—we have no time."
"Alright, Father."
The boy bowed and left into the night. The chief stroked his long gray beard, murmuring a prayer that felt thin in his mouth, then nodded once to the innkeeper and walked out into the cold.
---
The night deepened over the village, its darkness thick as ink. On the far side of the valley, beyond the ancient fig trees, a cold wind swept through a courtyard of carved stone. There, two women stood beneath the silver glow of the moon.
One was eighteen, the other twenty-one. The younger sat on a rocking chair carved from ebony, her pale hand lazily twirling a strand of dark hair. A glass of red wine glimmered between her fingers. The elder stood beside her, eager, nervous, her eyes flicking up and down like a servant before her mistress.
Their names were Ashley and Margaret. Though Margaret was older, her posture bent slightly when she faced Ashley. It wasn't rank by blood, but by power—one shone darker in the occult than the other.
Margaret smiled, too brightly. "Ashley, guess what?" she asked, voice sweet but strained.
"What? You know I'm not good at guessing." Ashley's tone was light, almost bored. She leaned back, her eyes half-closed as she breathed in the cool air. Beneath her calm was the faintest curl of disdain. Margaret's need to please irritated her, though she hid it behind a mask of indifference.
"Lately," Margaret began, twisting her fingers, "I've been checking on those tiny little villagers. Guess what they are planning?"
"Maggie," Ashley said softly, "you know I'm not interested in that. Hurry up with the advancement. We still need a lot of blood and puppets to carry out our great plan."
Margaret pouted. "You are no fun at all."
Ashley's eyes snapped open, cold and sharp as winter steel. The air between them thickened. Margaret froze.
"Get out," Ashley hissed. "I'm not in the mood for your silliness. Get the job done as quick as possible, or your head will roll on the ground."
Her dark red lips curled, releasing a faint, hissing sound like a serpent disturbed in its sleep. Margaret bowed, trembling, and hurried from the courtyard, her footsteps fading into the night.
Ashley sat still for a long moment. The wine in her glass caught the moonlight, shining like blood. She raised it slowly to her lips and whispered, "They think their prayers reach heaven." A low laugh escaped her. "But heaven has forgotten them."
Far away, in the sleeping village, a bell tolled once from the small temple at the foot of the mountain. The sound drifted through the darkness, thin but clear. To some, it was a call for mercy. To others, a warning that mercy might not come.
---
The hour grew late. Clouds gathered, veiling the moon. In his house, the chief sat alone by the hearth, watching the embers fade. He thought of the verse he'd heard long ago—God takes the time to do everything right. Yet time, he feared, was what they no longer had.
Still, somewhere beyond the reach of the witches' laughter and the chief's weary sighs, grace waited—unseen, unhurried, patient as dawn.