Excerpt:

There are some chances so small that they verge on the impossible. That must have been the thought going through the old man's mind as he stared down at the one in eighteen thousand chance which he held in his trembling hands.
A once in a lifetime chance for a man nearing the end of his life. Were any of the others envious? By the flickering light of the brazier in the courtyard, in the dusk's long shadows of the temple walls, it was difficult to discern traces of emotion, but it was unlikely that envy would have been visible; the men that were gathered were already experiencing an opportunity that came up just twice a year. The biannual ritual was familiar to them, and for somebody else to draw the lot was a familiar part of that ritual.
For the elderly man, watching somebody else draw the lot had been part of the ritual year after year after year, but now the chance was his. His lined face registered awe and reverence, but also fear. The duty before him required nothing less than perfection; the potential power of what he was about to do was immense.
He began the ritual cleansing prayers and washing, the rhythms of the familiar words calming the first shock of having drawn the lot, and reminding him instead of the mundanity of his task. After all, here was a ritual which was performed twice a day, every day, and which had been performed in that way for as long - longer, even - than the ancient building itself had been standing. It was performed by a new priest each time, but thousands upon thousands of men had managed it before without incident. Individually, it was an awe-inspiring and unique opportunity, but collectively it was mere routine. It was his turn, that was all, to cast off a warm cloak in favour of ceremonial robes; his turn to shuffle away from the warmth of the courtyard fire and its companionable glow on the familiar faces of his colleagues; his turn to go and wheeze the incense into his asthmatic lungs.
Having reasoned with himself in this manner, the old man was able to retrieve the glowing coals from the brazier calmly, solemnly and with a steady hand, guarding them against the chilly breezes that whistled through the courtyard. At least there would be relative warmth in the sanctuary, with the smoking coals wafting the spiced incense into the air. Outside, even colder priests began to lead the people in chanted prayers. Robes were brought forward to replace the ones covered in blood from the animal sacrifices, and as they were put on, the bells that were sewn to the fringes tinkled and jangled, adding to the music of the chanted petitions. The elderly man, once robed, winced slightly as the rope was tightened around his chafed ankle, then hobbled carefully forward and into the building. In procession, his fellow priests followed, seating themselves in their places by the huge embroidered curtain which separated the altar from the innermost part of the temple. Towards this curtain shuffled the old man, pausing to select the careful blend of five fragrances between his fingers and to sprinkle them over the coals, releasing the aromatic scent into the air. The others watched, letting out the rope, echoing the chanting in murmurs; they mouthed the words automatically with barely any sound. They drew their cloaks tighter around them as the November evening began to draw in. Only the youngest among their number watched with fascination, lips parted but forgetting to move along with the prayers, until the old priest had disappeared behind the heavy curtain. The young man then remembered himself, and with a furtive sideways glance at his elders, rejoined the chanting with an unnecessary aplomb that attracted precisely the unwanted attention he had been attempting to avoid. He reddened, adjusted his volume and ducked his head to watch the rope sliding to and fro like a slow snake along the floor as the man within paced around the altar.
The prayers continued, the chanting rising and falling like a distant familiar lullaby. The only evidence of the ritual happening behind the thick curtain was the muffled scent of incense, the fresh smoke mixing with centuries of stale spice embedded in the fabric; that, and the steady swish of the rope on the floor, sweeping its old pattern in the dust. The footfalls from within, each accompanied by a jingling of the bells on the priest's robe, and the swish of the rope fell in to their own steady, mesmerising rhythm.
Outside, the people intoned the final response. Some set off home at once, their duty done, thankfully pulling up hoods against the cold and hurrying back to their families; others, with particular prayers and petitions, lingered for a while in the silent crowd, hoping to hear an answer in the quiet. Unseen to them all, inside the court where only the priests set foot, the rope that led beyond the curtain stopped moving.
There was a long time of silence. Longer than usual; but then, it would not be the first time that one of the more elderly priests had been known to doze off, even in the sanctuary, at the end of a long vigil. Only the youngest priest, whose head was still filled with the old stories, watched the rope nervously for movement. Only he remembered, in that moment, the reason for the rope: that one who is struck dead by a mere glimpse of the glory in the sanctuary can be pulled out by his friends, who in such a moment would not dare to enter the holy of holies. Similarly, the sound of the bells should have reassured the listeners that the priest was still moving and breathing, not paralysed by fear or dead in the face of such brightness. But it had been many, many years since such glimpses of glory had been seen; very many years since the holy of holies had seemed to contain anything more than ancient furniture and smoke. There was silence from behind the curtain. There had been nearly four hundred years of silence from behind the curtain. The rope was merely a part of tradition now, a redundant umbilical cord linking a dusty ritual to its ancestry in a living faith.
The congregation outside began to speak in low murmurs. Among the priests there was impatient shuffling of feet; then someone tried a loud cough, hoping to rouse the old man. Still the rope lay sleeping in the dust. Now a few more eyes were fixed on it frowningly.
Another five, maybe ten minutes past in a silence that became gradually more filled by deep breaths, ostentatious sighs and scuffles; then the priests looked at each other and shrugged in unspoken agreement. The man nearest to the end of the rope bent down, picked it up and weighed it experimentally in his hand, giving it the tiniest of twitches. When this gained no response, he put his other hand to it and squared his feet on the flagstones, preparing to pull. But he did not get as far as tugging on the rope. Instead, the curtain suddenly bulged like a living thing, shook as if something inside had fallen against it, a loud rattling issuing from its rings and disturbing the silent priests into a collection of alarmed vociferation: gasps, exclamations, cries and one nearly blasphemous utterance from the young priest who quelled himself with a hand over his mouth after the first syllable was out. A hand appeared at the edge of the curtain, gripping it with white knuckles, and the whole thing steadied itself. There was a slipping and sliding over flagstones, and then the man emerged and stood in front of the curtain.
He was shaking visibly, shaking too much for it to be explained either by his palsy or by the cold air. His ceremonial robes were in disarray; his thinning hair stood on end and revealed balding patches as if he had torn at it. His mouth gaped, but no sound came out.
The priest who still held the end of the rope loosely in his hand was the first to rush forward, as he had been half way to standing already. He grasped the tottering older man by the arm and led him back out to the courtyard, to his seat by the embers of the fire. Then other willing hands untangled the robes, supplied the warm cloak and untied the rope from around the ankle, each action coming with a question: "What is this, brother? What have you seen?"
The man's only reply was a helpless flapping of his hands, a vigorous shaking of his head, and the pointing of a trembling finger towards the curtain; and all was chaos until another of the older priests said, "Give the man some air! Sit back down, all of you!" and swatted the others back to their places. Only once everyone was seated did he continue, "Now, friend, take your time, draw breath, and tell us what has alarmed you tonight."
Once again the elderly priest shook his head; once again he pointed at the curtain, then at his own mouth, then at his ears, all the while continuing the vigorous shaking of his head. His eyes widened and watered, diluting their already pale and inward look of those advanced in years until it seemed that they were looking at some scene far beyond the anxious priests and the dying fire. His wrinkled and age-spotted hands drew frantic pictures in the air, casting alarming shadows on the wall behind: for a moment, the youngest priest thought he saw a giant creature with wings flit past there and disappear again as one sudden flame leapt up from the fire and sank back down into the ashes.
"What's the matter? Can't you put it into words?"
The elderly priest pointed once more at his mouth, which moved silently, the tongue straining, the lips pursing. His adam's apple jerked in ineffectual spasms; the veins in his neck stood out and twitched with the effort. Finally he sank onto his knees and, with one arthritic forefinger, he wrote three letters in the dusty ground; then, he collapsed across the lap of his youngest fellow.