Little Mouse and the priest kept to the dark places.

‘Christ’s light burns brighter to the soul in shadow,’ the priest had muttered cryptically.

Many had come to the village from the towns to the east, burned out and brutalized by the rogue Serb units. They slept in the ruins of the monastery. Little Mouse saw their pale faces at the windows. They were hungry, he understood. Hungry, wounded, sick and homeless.

The priest called them izbjeglice – refugees.

If his country wasn’t delivered from the demon Serb, none would survive. The True Church would fail. Little Mouse understood this now.

They watched the woman, Olga, move among them. To some she brought baskets of food, just as she had brought to the priest’s hut. To others she gave blankets or wood to make a fire. And where people were hurt, she helped as best she could, changing bandages, supplying medicine, all the while murmuring kind words, words of comfort.

The priest’s pale eyes shone like moons as he watched.

‘A saint,’ he whispered, over and over. ‘A saint.’

This Little Mouse did not have to be told. When he turned his head and let the image of the woman filter through the black smudges at the edge of his damaged vision, she glowed like a burning brand. A holy light. Christ’s light.

A most special soul, he thought. A most special and deserving soul.

A saint.