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Entry 5 -- Sister Sara

To all of my sisters,

The Shedim are not afraid of us.
There is no power short of Adonai which can hold them.

The Utukku are safe behind the veil.
Their Kings celebrate our suffering in the hidden lands.

The Rabisu know they can feed upon us and live forever.
Our struggles are nothing.

The Jinn know their power and revel in it.
But what is that sound echoing from afar, from the corners of our
dusty rocks? The littlest sound, it is. Like a tinkle of a bell.

My name was given for the laughter which never ceases. Can you
hear it? It is the music that flows across our ship and stirs the
hearts of my sisters.

You cannot see the Jinn unless they wish it. The hidden folk may
seem like men or they may seem like the animals of their true
face. The dog snout and yellow teeth are no more fearsome than any
other mask they show.

When we were young and lived in mud and grass, their cathedrals
were the stones of the mountain. When our cities rewrote the land,
theirs floated across the sky. When we put our first step onto
another world, they were guiding the stars. How could a face
convey more fear in our hearts?

The Shedim are made of smoke and fire and their world is the same.
They see us as we see the beasts, for surely to them we must seem
God's lesser creation. We splash about in our mud like swine. For
millennia we fought our primitive fights. Even now we barely live.

We amuse them, anger them, and sustain their endless days with our
blood. We are nothing, and yet...

The laughter flows from deep in my chest and it shakes my whole
body. Some nights my eyes water and I cannot see, but the tears
are not of sadness.

Millennia! And only now, our small group will do what generations
never imagined. They are the hidden folk, the Jinn, the Shedim,
the Utukku. They are the vampyr and the demons. They have haunted
our stories since fire drew us together. They torment us from the
invisible places where we cannot see.

And that is what's so funny. They gave us the idea, you see. And
now they are the ones that do not see. When we come--when Hawwa
speaks the word--I will not stop my laughter until each of them
understands. I will see recognition in those canine eyes. Then,
and only then, will the joke finally end.

Oh my sisters, I could tell you my story like the others have
done. I could tell you of my journeys and of my husband, now six
years in the dirt. I could tell you of children who followed.
I could give you the stories of pain and suffering and let you
share the anguish and outrage that plagued my soul, but no.

Share my laughter instead. It is not bitter. It hides no malice.
It is pure chaos in the way that bridges pain and joy as only
laughter can. Hawwa will speak the word soon, and... you'll see!

Hah! You'll all see!

Watch their faces, sisters, when it happens. My spirit will be
there with each of you in the smiles that will bless your lips. My
heart will fill your throats and you too will be Sara, then.

Come, laugh with me at the hidden folk and their scary palaces of
stars. Laugh at the dogs in their costumes. Hah!

There was a legend from long ago, a set of stories that has become
almost myth. They were whispered by children to one another in
play. Each child in her own language, so well known they were. The
phrases were memorized and repeated as we do with scripture today.
Such eloquence and simplicity! You have, maybe, heard the way they
all start for yourself? Even thousands of years later,
incomprehensibly far from the land of our origin, in languages
evolved through ages, unchanged--

Knock, knock...

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