hieratic
\ hahy-uh-RAT-ik \ , adjective;
1. Highly restrained or severe in emotional import: Some of the more hieratic sculptures leave the viewer curiously unmoved.
2. Also, hi·er·at·i·cal. of or pertaining to priests or the priesthood; sacerdotal; priestly.
3. Noting or pertaining to a form of ancient Egyptian writing consisting of abridged forms of hieroglyphics, used by the priests in their records.
4. Noting or pertaining to certain styles in art in which the representations or methods are fixed by or as if by religious tradition.
1. Ancient Egyptian hieratic writing.
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The priest waited patiently for the
door to the pleasant looking suburban house to open, clutching his
bible like it was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment. In
truth, he was just very nervous. Considering what he had been called
about, it was quite understandable. Mr. Jacobs had called him up a
few hours ago, ranting about demonic possessions and unholy noises
coming from his son's room. Possession was a tricky subject for the
priesthood. He knew the prayers to say, just like any other priest
in the world, but he never actually expected to use them. He had
always thought that such things were the work of over active
imaginations. Yet, Mr. Jacobs and his family had always been good,
level headed people who never thought much of such stories.
It was Mrs. Jacobs who opened the
door. She was dressed haphazardly, in stark contrast to her normal
well kept, neat appearance. Her eyes were bloodshot, with deep dark
rings under them. She had clearly not gotten much sleep. She was
shacking visibly when she opened the door, a worried look on her
face. But, when she saw him, she seemed to cheer up a bit.
“Father Michael, thank god you're
here.” She motioned him to come into the house. Everything seemed
normal. Nice, neatly arranged furniture, paintings and a few potted
plants dotted the hall and family room. The artificial smell of
flower scented air freshener filled the room, so much so that it
seemed as if they were swimming in it.
“We tried dealing with it ourselves,
but nothing seems to work. If anything, our influence has just made
the problem worse.” She said, panic coloring her words.
“Calm down. Why don't we sit and
you can tell me exactly what's happening.” They sat on the newly
upholstered, overstuffed couch. Mrs. Jacobs took a few deep breaths
before continuing.
“Well, at first the changes in Adam
were slow, and gradual. We didn't even notice at first until only a
few days ago. He started dressing in darker colors, listening to his
music louder than normal. Then he started styling his hair oddly,
and wearing things with chains on them. And now, well, we just don't
know what to do. It's obvious that something unholy has taken hold
of him, and well, we just can't live with such a thing.” She held
her head in order to muffle the tears and short sobs that had
started.
He took a deep breath and thought
about what he should do. From what she said it didn't sound like
anything abnormal, but he had always heard that the devil worked in
ways that were unexpected. So he would give her the benefit of the
doubt for now.
“Why don't we go upstairs and take a
look then.”
She nodded quickly, and got up,
leading the way up the stairs. The stairwell was lined with family
photos. The young boy pictured in them appeared to be just as well
kept and behaved as his parents, so it was no wonder that the
behavior she had described would warrant such an extreme response.
They got to the boys room. Mr. Jacobs
was sitting in front of the closed door, as if he wanted to keep
something inside. When he saw the two of them, he got up and gave
Father Michael a look that was both grateful and worried. He went up
to his wife and the two clasped hands tightly, looking from each
other to him.
“He's in there.” Mr. Jacobs said.
There was nothing odd about the door itself, and no sounds came from
inside, so nothing seemed any different from normal. Then suddenly,
the door opened, flying open with a bang.
Adam stood in the doorway. He was
dressed head to toe in baggy, black clothing, with chains of various
lengths and thicknesses draped around him. His face was covered in
white makeup, with the exception of his lips and around his eyes,
which were also black. His hair was done up in sloppy rows of short
spikes, each of a different length and thickness. His eyes looked at
his parents and the priest blankly, no expressions showing on his
white face.
“Something wrong?” He said,
taking care to move his lips as little as possible. It was clear
that he was taking great pains to maintain he emotionless expression,
but his eyes told them that he was more annoyed at the perceived
intrusion.
“No, no. Nothing important.”
Said Father Michael, taking the Jacobs by the shoulders and leading
them back down the staircase, and back to the family room. As they
sat down loud, chaotic music filtered down from Adam's room. The
worried parents looked hopefully at their guest.
“Well Father, can you do something
to save him?” Mr. Jacobs asked. The priest sighed and thought
carefully about what to tell them.
“I'm afraid there's nothing that I
can do about him.” He said. The Jacobs' looked scared.
“Is he really that fargone?” Mrs.
Jacobs asked, leaning forwards.
“No, it's just that he's not
possessed.” He said. “Your son has just gone into a more
rebellious stage in his life. I think he's just acting like that to
be as different from you two as he possibly can. There's many more
young people acting and dressing in the same manner your son is. The
only thing you can do is wait for him to grow out of it.”
The music from Adam's room grew louder
as the teenaged boy emerged from his room. He went downstairs and
quickly entered the kitchen, emerging with a half gallon of milk.
The boy looked at the adults with the same elaborated look of not
caring, and proceeded to go back to his room, chugging the milk as he
went.
“Unfortunately.” Father Michael
said, concluding his thoughts as the door shut and the music was
again smothered by the door.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Jacobs asked
desperately, “There must be something you can do for him.”
“I'll pray for his soul every day,
and hope he comes to his senses.” He said, getting up. The other
two mimicked the action, and held each other tightly.
“I guess we really don't have any
choice but to put up with it, do we?” Mr. Jacobs asked in a final
bid to get the priest to do something. He just looked the two of
them over and sighed again.
“Maybe you could try counseling. It
may not matter, but it's probably the best thing that you can do for
him.” He said, hoping that would satisfy them. “Now, if you'll
excuse me I'll see you all on Sunday.” The two parents nodded
sadly, but said nothing as he turned and left, hearing the loud music
play all the while.
**********Right now, I'm sure my parents are very, VERY glad I never rebelled in such an extreme manner.
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