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Here's story 277, of 288 so far.

Please note: permission is expressly denied to input any part of the story below into a machine learning (ML) or artificial intelligence (AI) or Large Language Model (LLM) system in any form.

Fluent

The Reverend Jim Miller was a blessed man, in every sense of the word.

He had dedicated his life to his divine calling: ministering to those in need, spreading the good word of God, and serving both the community and the Lord tirelessly and in any way that he could. He was the reverend of St. Brigid’s in the same small town that he’d grown up in himself, and though he had travelled to many places in the world, the arrival of his fifty-fourth year found him wholly content to preach and serve from the most familiar of surroundings.

When he did still venture abroad, his travels were made so much easier by the gift that the heavenly Father had seen fit to bestow upon him. He had learned to hide it when he was a young man, and he was still careful about how he conducted himself even now, but once he had left high school and gone to university, his talent had opened up the world to him.

He became aware of it during his first week of high school. He’d been walking down a corridor that happened to house the modern languages department, and through a door that lay ajar, he’d seen a beautiful raven-haired woman in her late twenties talking on the phone. He’d been struck by her appearance, being a young man of only twelve years old, and had eavesdropped on her conversation for a minute until she noticed him. He apologised, but she’d smiled in apparent surprise, and complimented him on his Spanish. He was confused, and could only give an awkward grin before hastening away.

Miller had long since given up questioning his ability; the Lord did work in mysterious ways, after all, and the Bible was replete with examples of His miracles. Resurrection, the curing of blindness, the loaves and the fishes… the list went on. By comparison, his own gift was almost modest. It was almost embarrassingly simple.

Whenever he encountered someone, he could instinctively speak their native language.

He had the gift of tongues, and God in his mercy and wisdom had allowed him to benefit from the ease and fluency of speaking with so many of His children all over the world. He had made pilgrimages to Rome, and to Bethlehem. He had visited China, Japan, Vietnam, and Thailand. He had enjoyed temporary secondments at churches small and large in many European countries, and even once in Venezuela. He had holidayed in Mexico, and Norway, and Russia, and dozens more places. And in every single one, he spoke like a native — and understood every word that he heard.

It was a profound gift, and he was grateful for it beyond measure. His congregation enjoyed the fruits of his talent too, taking great pleasure in his welcoming of any visitors to the small town. He had greeted additions to his flock in Polish, and Welsh, and Danish, and Catalan; always flawlessly, and he knew that the shock and delight of those who heard their familiar language in the most unexpected place was God’s reward for his diligence and devotion. On one particularly auspicious Sunday about three years earlier, he had surprised both a middle-aged deaf woman and indeed himself by demonstrating his instant grasp of sign language.

It made him look forward to the main service each Sunday morning at 11 AM sharp, and as usual he had already completed his plan for this week’s sermon, even though it was still only Saturday, and not quite yet ten o’clock. The church was spacious and warm in appearance inside, though the exterior was somewhat drab. Miller wanted the house of the Lord to be welcoming to all, and he made a point of keeping a stack of foreign-language Bibles and hymn books available to anyone who might want them.

His remaining formal tasks today were relatively few, but there was some maintenance to be done, and the monthly financial reports were almost due, so he would have no shortage of things to occupy him before the Saturday evening service — even if none of his congregation dropped by for an unannounced visit. Miller was currently outside in the plain concrete courtyard, updating the glass-fronted bulletin board with the latest notices: one about a charity bake sale to benefit the local sports centre, and another regarding a choir recital two weeks from now, by the children of the primary school three streets away.

The man passing by was unknown to him, but Miller made a point of smiling and nodding courteously.

“Reverend,” the man said in response, and Miller’s brow creased in a frown, though he was unsure why. It felt like there had been the undertone of a sneer, or at least some private humour, to the simple greeting. He chastised himself for the uncharitable thought as soon as it appeared in his mind, and forced himself to smile more widely.

“Good morning,” he replied brightly, his vocal cords automatically and instinctively forming the proper sounds. He knew he was speaking a language other than his own — he’d developed a sense for it — but he had no idea which one. “St. Brigid’s is always open, and you’d be most welcome to visit us.”

The man slowed to a halt, his head swivelling to fix his gaze upon Miller again. There was a cold intelligence in his eyes, which were an indeterminate colour under the grey sky. He stood motionless, all rapt attention, and for the first time in a very long number of years, Miller suddenly felt afraid.

Pull yourself together, man, Miller told himself. We are all God’s creatures.

Nonetheless, he gave the man one final nod, then closed the glass front panel of the sign casing, and walked back towards the church, forcing himself not to hurry. He went inside, deliberately leaving the door open, and proceeded through the nave.

The door creaked behind him, and then banged closed, making him flinch.

“Windy today,” he said to himself, too loudly, and he realised he was speaking the same language as he had outside. The overhead lights flickered, and the words tasted bitter and metallic on his tongue. They felt wrong, somehow; profoundly wrong. Like something better not known.

The Lord is my shepherd— he began in his mind, but even the thought became twisted into the guttural, whispering language of the man who had passed by and seemed amused at the very idea of a man of God. Miller turned slowly around, and then he saw the dark shape inside the doorway.

It was as tall as a man, or perhaps taller, or perhaps shorter; it seemed to change from moment to moment. It flickered as it moved, rather than walking. It was there, and not there; black as oil smoke, and thin as mist. It was freezing, but it reeked of ash. It cast shadows in all directions, and where its shadow fell, it tarnished the brass fittings on the pews, and the hymn books yellowed and curled.

“Dear God,” Miller whispered, and at least those words were in English.

The shape was almost upon him now, and when it spoke, its tangled and charred words were inside his mind.

“Thank you for the invitation,” it said.

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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