The Sibyl.

A sackcloth ephod covers her head, and she moves with stuttering falter. But none mock her; she knows the ancient ways. Grime of history and contagion of railroad march. Blind to the present only, her eyes peer on past and future. A Sibyl. The teraphim candles sputter as she passes. A viaticum of ash and ground after-birth swings from her neck. Her skin is speckled and tawny, like wet cloth smothering flame.