Listen to my words, and pay good attention, my children, for this is a story of things that happened in the past, things that still affect us and that should never be forgotten. Listen well, and remember this story, so that you can tell it to your own grandchildren when the time comes.

It happened when your grandparents were not yet living, and when I was still young and inexperienced. I was a spoiled little girl, spending most of my time in front of mirrors with countless perfumes and hairbrushes, caring little for anyone else beside myself. My parents were rich and powerful, and we lived in the great city of Plenus, a place where there were no poor, no prisons and no diseases. Its streets were shining with cleanliness, and its towers glittered with diamonds. Everyone was rich, and everyone was happy. So I grew up, knowing nothing about misery. Even had I known about it, I would never have cared. Not until that fateful day that I discovered a white blemish on my face.

It was a very small spot, in the middle of my nose, but it was a spot, and spots were my worst enemies. Yet, however much I tried, whatever I did, the white mark would not be defeated: instead, it grew and multiplied until my skin was full of the blemishes.

In our house we had many servants. One of them had nursed me from birth, and knew me better than my own mother did. So one day, while she was brushing my hair, she noticed a change in me. "My daughter!" she exclaimed, dropping the hairbrush - I remember because it was my favourite hairbrush and I would not tolerate her letting it fall - and grabbing my hand. Shock and worry were painted over her face; I can still see it so clearly before me.

"What is it, Serva?" I remember asking.

Oh, how those words she spoke in reply remained in my mind forever after! "My child," she brought forth. "You… you have the Disease. You have White Death."

Children, in these times of peace and happiness you have the joy of living in, the name does not give you the chill to the bones that I felt when it came to my ears. I told you there were no diseases in the entire city of Plenus, and that was true, for every man, woman or child to show any symptoms of illness was quickly and cunningly removed, in ways I had never bothered to wonder about until my turn arrived. Never in my young life had I thought that I could become one of the few victims of White Death, and one of those unfortunates who disappeared and were never heard of again.

White Death was the disease most feared in the country. It attacked young and old alike, gnawing its way hungrily into their flesh, destroying their features and turning them into living dead. Anyone and everyone, whether master or servant, whether human or animal, when found to carry it was labelled 'dead' and sent away. The family I had known and loved for all my young life rejected me, even Serva, kind Serva, loving Serva, dearer to me than my mother, no longer dared touch me for fear of being attacked as well by the white fingerprints of death.

It was my doom to carry the burden of my suffering alone. I was banished, away from family, away from friends, tot he place I had previously thought only existed in far-fetched legends: The City of Outcasts.

I can see it again before my eyes as I saw it on that first day, its high, grey walls rising out of a sea of mist, deathly pale. I had been left behind in the midst of a marsh, far away from the home I had known so long, and the city was the only place to go to. From afar, its shape reminded me of a skull, its gaping eye sockets glaring at me. As I neared the rusty grates of the gate, I was greeted by the cold tinkling of a bell. By the wall was slumped a beggar wrapped in the white garb of those suffering the same ailment as me. As I passed, he looked up at me, his sunken eyes betraying sadness and loneliness. They were the eyes of a child younger than me, although the cracked skin on his face made him look like an old man. I quickly turned away, appalled at the ghastly sight, and even more afraid than before of my inevitable fate.

The sound of the gate clanging shut behind me has followed me even until now. It was like a death-knell, and for a second, I tell you truly, my heart stopped beating with the fear of what lay ahead.

The streets were full of mist that day. I had been told where my assigned lodging could be found, and began to search for it; but the City of Outcasts is big, and I was soon lost. The people passing me by looked frightening and strange. One of them I was sure had a wolfish gleam to his eyes; another sneered at me, baring long, white fangs. You cannot imagine the fear of being all alone in a city full of those rejected by the people of the city. Blind men sat huddled in corners, crying out with misery; cruel-looking men stood huddled in groups, fingering knives and whispering plans for evil deeds; women and children in rags approached me begging for food; people without arms or legs hobbled past on crudely shaped crutches, looking up at me with deep contempt in their eyes… Everywhere I received glances, some pitying, some cruel, some disgusted, but most of them suspicious.

Perhaps you thought I would feel relief at finally finding the house I had been looking for, and so I believed too until I saw it. It was identical to all the other buildings surrounding it, except for the number painted untidily on the door: high, white, with few windows, it appeared to glare down at me as I looked at it. The stares of the neighbours added to the feeling that I was most unwelcome.

Inside, I was given a bowl of tasteless food as grey as the mist outside, of which I could hardly force down a bite. My room was tiny, with no mirror and no place to keep my hairbrushes. Everything was a depressing light grey, from the walls and blanket to the curtains and furniture. Everything already resembled the dust I was to become.

From that day on, my life became a blur. In the day I paced around the streets, wearing the white clothes of the living dead, ringing my little bell warning anyone nearing me. Some people avoided me in fear of the disease, but others were too used to carriers of White Death to care. Some enjoyed chasing me and throwing dirt and stones after me. I had no friends. Those few I ever spoke to I never saw again. The City of Outcasts was too great to allow such chance meetings to happen more than once.

There is one girl I still remember, and I remember her best because she was the first. She was collecting fruit with me from the weekly wagon sent from Plenus. She noticed my clumsiness and confusion. "You seem new here," she said. Those were her very words, and the first I had heard spoken to me in over a month. The other girl was also one of the Diseased, as I could see from the bell hanging from her belt. Her clothes were a deep red, the colour of a virus less contagious than White Death but all the more deadly. She was friendly to me, aiding me in the choice of fruit less rotten and squashed than the rest. We talked all the way back to the city.

She told me that she had lived in the City of Outcasts all her life because her family was poor and her father had no work. She had caught the virus by sharing her bed with a man who had it, and had been moved from the Quarter of the Poor to the Quarter of the Sick. "The city is divided," she said to me. "Even among the Outcasts there are some more outcast than the others. This city used to be a camp of the poor, but Plenus has built it to this immensity so that it can house the childless, the jobless, and those superfluous to the city. They send us their criminals, their sick, their beggar and their disabled. They even send us those they know not what to do with, like the wolf-men and the bloodsuckers and the mad. So this city has been divided, for everyone is filled with fear and disgust towards everyone else. The Poor hate the Sick who inflict diseases on them, the rich Widows and Orphans, the Childless and Superfluous fear the Thieves and Murderers. All fear the Strange and the Mad, while those feel a burning hatred against everyone normal.

"Beware, my friend, for this city is not Plenus. It is not a haven for you to die in, but a prelude to hell. Beware, for few can be trusted within these walls. Keep to your own kind, and stay within the borders of your Quarter."

I remember her exact words even to this day, my children, for the years in that city etched them into my mind. Every day filled me with despair, for everywhere around me I saw only white and grey, and everywhere around me I could find only hopelessness and misery. There seemed to be no escape from the deathly whiteness enveloping everyone and everything in a pale shroud.

You might think, dear children, that my days in that city were filled only with walking about and searching for food, but that is far from the reality. Life in the City of Outcasts was not that simple. Some days I could not leave the room because of fights in the street below me. From my window, I saw wildly angered people from the Poor Quarter attack my fellow Diseased, beating them with sticks and throwing stones so as not to touch them. Often criminals came at night, smashing windows, killing people for no reason, and running away with stolen goods. The cobbles of the streets beneath my feet were never completely grey; always there were dark stains from the last attack. Yet the Sick were not always the victims. Sometimes I watched in shock as groups of cloaked men crossed the border to the Quarter of the Unusual, killing wolf-men and children with strangely shaped ears. Never was there a day of peace in the City of Outcasts; never did a day pass without at least one death by causes other than disease or starvation. And never was there a day without at least one funeral procession passing through the city, filling the streets with wailing and mourning.

As time wore on, I longed for an end to my suffering and to the fear that haunted the streets of the city like a hungry ghost. I no longer counted the days that passed, so I no longer knew how long I had been in that place where even the sun dared not show its face. Can you imagine that, my children, to live for many years in a place never visited by pure, direct sunlight?

When first I arrived there, I expected to last less than a week. But time stretched on, and White Death continued gnawing at me slowly, as if enjoying its meal, despite my prayers that it would swallow me whole and be done with it. My frustration at this prolonged and painful passing grew to the point that I decided that if in a month death did not take me, I would go to him myself.

But, as you see, my children, I am still here and living, after almost a hundred years. And if you wait and listen, I will tell you why.

In the great city of death, no one cared anymore about material possessions or about gods. After spending years in that place, our faith slowly melted away and was replaced by a cold, icy hole. The things most seen on the rubbish piles between the houses were statues of the deities once worshipped, now forgotten and thrown away. The city was ruled by superstition and by grisly tales that old beggar women told on the streets for a copper coin or two.

Yet there was one belief that had been carried through the generations, a prophecy told already before the Poor first set up their camp in the marshes. I once heard a dying man on the roadside whisper it softly: the promise of One who would come and bring Hope and Freedom to the Outcasts. It was a promise all in the city, whether they admitted it or not, believed and hoped in. It was the one thing we all still clung to, like dry land to someone drowning.

It was only shortly after my deadly vow that I saw a most strange assemblage by the river that parted the Quarter of the Unusual from ours. A man was standing to his waist in the water. He had wild, tangled hair, and from his red eyes I could see that he was one of the wolf-men. The strange thing was that the onlookers, probably over a hundred people, were not only Unusuals from the other riverbank, but among them were also a number of Sick with their cloaks, Disabled with their crutches, Criminals with their weapons for once stowed away, haughty-faced Superfluous; even some Poor and Blind had come. I cautiously stepped towards the group and asked one of the Poor, "Who is that man?"

"I do not know," he replied, "but he is a prophet."

"He speaks of one who will come and save us at last!" a Blind old woman behind me exclaimed. "Do you not notice? He is speaking of the One we have always been waiting for! He is coming! He is coming, and we will be free once more, and happy!" For a moment she seemed to forget her blindness, and to forget that she was in the City of Outcasts. She turned away and danced down the street, singing loudly. "He is coming, he is coming, the One who will renew our land and bring hope to the people!"

The song remained in my head for the rest of the day. You cannot know what feeling the words brought into my heart: after years without hope, a small fire was rekindled in my heart, and I forgot my earlier promise. Instead, I returned to my house and took out the few possessions I still had from home. I took in the memories for the first time since my arrival, and for the first time I thought I actually saw a ray of sunlight burst through the thick, white mist surrounding the city. Hope had come ahead of the One already.

From that day on, I looked at every single person I passed, wondering, "Could this be the One?" But soon I noticed that all the Sick were still sick, ugly and disgusting, that all the Poor were still poor and ragged, that all the Unusual were still unusual and strange, and that the Superfluous were still superfluous and haughty. There was not one standing out from the others, not one I could actually see as the saviour of the Outcasts.

But one day, while I was collecting food from the wagon from Plenus, I hard the voice of someone teaching. Oh my children, I remembered at that moment my childhood and my hated school lessons, and I was stung again by the pain of longing. I followed some other curious people to a place close to the gates of the City, there where I had seen the boy with White Death on that first day long ago.

And that is where I saw Him for the first time.

He was not one of the Sick; neither was he Unusual, Blind or Disabled. He did not wear a white turban like the Poor; neither did he wear the haughty expression of the Superfluous or the black tattoos of the Criminals. He did not look like an Outcast, yet somehow all of us felt that he was one of us.

His voice was soft and kind; his words were words of love and caring. Into the misty chaos and turmoil of the lawless City of Outcasts, he gave us rules of kindness, compassion and love, warning us against murder, hate and vengeance. We listened spellbound, for once people from all seven Quarters united, and I knew in my heart that this was the One the wild man had told us about, even though he looked nothing like a great leader or a mighty king. He looked like a completely normal man - a little like a servant in Plenus.

Suddenly, someone began pushing aside the crowd and hurrying towards him. It was a woman, cloaked in the black of those suffering from Black Death, and among the most hated of the Sick. In her arms she was carrying a black bundle - a child dying from the disease.

I did not hear what she said to him; her voice was clouded with tears. The people around me began to mutter. What was she thinking, interrupting his speech? Beside me, some men were picking up stones ready to throw at her. But the teacher calmly looked at her and spoke something. I had to stand on tiptoes to watch what was happening.

The black bundle began to stir. I saw the child stretch a little arm, then a little leg. Then he began shaking his legs, wanting to be let down. I watched, wide-eyed, for the child could stand! The child was well! And so, I could see, was the mother.

As we all returned to the city, many of us were talking excitedly. "This is definitely the One!" a Poor man behind me said to his neighbour.

"Imagine him healing all of us!" a red-cloaked woman sighed wistfully, looking up at the sky.

"That would be wonderful," I whispered.

There had never in the city's existence been such great hope within its walls, my children, as on that night. And in the morning, everyone gathered before the city gates again to listen to the man speak and to ask him to heal them. Before our very eyes, sick people miraculously regained their health, the blind regained their sight, and the disabled walked once more.

Yet there were some who did not believe that the man was the One. "He speaks with Criminals and eats with the unclean Sick! He cannot be the One!" some said. Others said, "Has he declared war on Plenus? Has he given us back our previous positions in society? He cannot be the One!" And again others - and these were represented in each of the seven Quarters - said, "The One is for us and us alone! Yet he is friendly to the others! He cannot be the One!"

It came so far that some people started throwing stones after him and chasing him away from the places where he taught, especially when he started speaking of himself as the son of a great God I had not yet heard about. "We should have seen him for what he is from the first moment! He is one of the Mad! He is possessed!" some said.

I no longer knew what to think of him. I heard his words and felt in my heart that they were true, and I saw how he loved all of us and wanted to help us. But some people blinded themselves to his kindness with their anger. I was shocked to hear one day that some of them were planning to kill him.

The One seemed to know of their plans, but never did anything to try to stop them. Instead, he went on teaching and visiting people who needed his help, even going to the most dangerous areas and the Quarter of the Criminals. More and more people were healed, and I was still sick. Soon I was one of the only ones on my street who still had White Death.

"You should go to him," someone told me. "Just go to him, he will help you." But I never dared.

And then the day came, the day that I remember so well for two reasons.

It was evening, and already night was falling, when I decided. I would look for him, and ask him to heal me. So I left my house and went to the market place where he usually taught. I asked people if they had seen him, and a wolf-man told me he had gone to the Garden with his followers.

The Garden, my children, was not what you would imagine it to be. It was not green and alive, but cold and white and dead, a forest of pillars and ruins, all that was left of an ancient city that had stood in the City of Outcasts' place thousands of years ago. That is where I went, my tinkling bell and the slapping of my feet on stones the only sounds around me. The Garden was in the most silent and empty area of the city, the same area where the Outcasts buried their dead, the area we rarely went to because of everyone's great fear of death.

I stopped, hesitating, before the gate of the Garden, a tall arched doorway remaining from an ancient palace. The lonely pillars and crumbling walls were shrouded by mist. Cautiously I entered, wondering what the One could be doing in this graveyard of forgotten buildings and lost civilisations. I wandered around, but could not see him in the thick mist.

Presently, I heard snoring and found three of his most faithful followers asleep beside an ancient wall. I passed by silently, careful that my bell would not wake them. If they were there, their master could not be far…

Suddenly, I heard a voice not far ahead. It was the voice of the One! But he sounded different. His voice was filled with sorrow as he spoke to someone I could not see. "Father," I heard him say, "if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done."

What cup? I wondered. Why could he be so unhappy?

I hid behind a pillar as he stood up and went back to his disciples. Somehow I had the feeling that he knew I was there.

"Why are you still sleeping?" he asked the three. "It is too late now. The Hour has come."

And just then, I saw lights nearing the Garden and heard angry voices. A group of people holding sticks and weapons came towards the One and his followers. I stood silently behind my pillar, watching. One of the men in the group stepped forward. "This is he," he said. I thought I had seen him once among the One's followers. Now he had betrayed him.

The men grabbed the One, and his disciples quickly turned away and took flight. They were going to take him away. They were going to kill him, I knew it. I felt tears run down my face. You cannot know my sorrow at that moment, my children. It was not because I had not been able to ask him to heal me, but because I knew that he had never done anything wrong, and because I knew that we needed him in the City of Outcasts. Everyone needed him.

Before they led him away, he turned around and looked straight at me. I held my breath. Then his captors pulled him around again and walked back to the gate, and I was left alone. I sunk to the ground, sobbing. When I looked up again, all was dark around me. But I felt different.

I looked at my hands. They were clean and smooth, just as they used to be before I caught White Death. My heart quickened as I eagerly pulled up my sleeves, inspecting my arms. I looked at myself in a puddle of water, and gasped with joy. I was well! Just by looking at me, he had healed me. I was well!

"Your faith has helped you," I heard a voice say in my heart.

Full of joy and happiness, I ran through the Garden and down the streets, back to the Quarter of the Sick and to my house. But my happiness was short-lived. I remembered with a jolt that my health was no use now. They were going to kill the One, and nothing would be changed. I would only be moved to a different Quarter, maybe the Quarter of the Poor, maybe the Quarter of the Superfluous. If I was fortunate, I would be allowed to return to Plenus. But all that was no use.

They were going to kill the One, and without him, we could do nothing. Nothing.

I was awake all night, my children, full of fear of what would happen if they truly killed the One, the Son of the great and only God. I sat by my window, listening for news.

The next morning on the market, the gossip I heard shocked me. "I always knew he couldn't be the One!" a lady said.

"He can't even free himself, how can he free us, then?" another spoke.

Just then, one of the Criminals came, announcing that the One would be killed that same day, in the most painful fashion. No longer wanting to hear anything more, I returned to my house. I sat by the window, watching the people on the street, waiting for a miracle. Surely the One would prevent them from doing such a thing?

It was almost mid-day when I saw a large group walking down my street, shouting and jeering. More people joined them, even people I knew and had thought would never treat the One in this way. They passed by and went on into the distance, but I could still hear them. I did not want to watch. I just sat there, listening to their shouts, the tears running down my face.

And then, suddenly, some hours later, the sky darkened and it became night, a deeper night than had ever been before. It was so dark that I believed at first that I had been struck blind, but from the confusion further away I could hear that I was not the only one.

Then, as sudden as the darkness, came the most violent earthquake I had ever experienced. The earth shook so hard that I fell to the floor and could hardly move. When at last it was over, I knew that it he was dead.

It was finished.

Dear children, you know not how the following two days felt to me and to many others in the city. A depressing rain fell, the streets were churned up in mud, the mist was thick and cold, and even the most aggressive people did not go onto the streets to fight. It was quiet and the streets were empty. It seemed that the whole world was in mourning. Those who had jeered and laughed the day before now all had a bad conscience and were filled with fear of punishment.

It was early on the third day when I heard a knock on my door. It was one of the people I had sometimes spoken to when fetching fruit from the wagon or buying things in the market. She asked me to go with her to the grave of the One. I agreed and we went together to the area of silence close to the Garden.

The One had been buried by his followers in a grave separate from the others. "I heard that the leaders have put men there to guard it from his friends," the other woman said. "They might send us away."

But when we reached the great graveyard, we saw and heard no one. "Maybe they have gone away," I suggested.

We walked towards the grave, at the very back of the graveyard. There were no guards. Suddenly, giving an exclamation of shock, my friend dropped the jug she had been carrying and it shattered on the ground. She pointed ahead, at the grave.

The stone that had been rolled before the tomb was gone. Behind it was an empty cavern. He was gone. We fell to the ground and started to cry, for we thought that they had taken him away. Suddenly, someone behind us said, "Why are you crying? Who are you looking for?"

We turned around and looked up Children, I cannot describe that feeling of joy I felt at seeing him there before me again, alive, truly alive. He was not dead! He had been dead, but now he was alive! He had risen, and I knew now truly that he was the One, Son of the only living God.

You might have heard what happened after that. Maybe your parents and grandparents have told you already that he returned to his followers, then went back to his Father. But he is still here, my children. He is still here. The City of Outcasts is no longer a city of outcasts, but our great city of love, happiness and peace. So many years have passed, and so much has changed. Although Plenus still exists, although many still suffer and are in pain, we know that the One is watching over us, and that he has come to save us from an even worse suffering after death. My children, we all have the promise of eternal life, for the One keeps his promises, and so does the Father.

I have told you my story, now go and live a life of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

Go in peace and with my blessing, and remember always to tell others this most beautiful truth, that the one true God has loved us so much that he sent us his Son, the One, to save not only the Outcasts, but All.