Every human life has its own trajectory.

And if there is one 'trick to life' worth learning it is being able to accurately sense the current vector of one's life trajectory, especially at certain key junctures.

By the age of forty, however, Sebastian Turvey had not yet learnt this trick. In fact, he didn't understand a single thing about vectors. Although he could use the word 'juncture' in conversation, he could not be certain that he was doing so correctly.

It had not yet occurred to Sebastian that his life was travelling along in a manner comparable to a projectile in motion through the air.

Insofar as tricks were concerned, by the age of forty, Sebastian Turvey knew two party tricks. First, he could juggle four screwdrivers quite competently, infrequently suffering serious injury. Secondly, he could skull a full jug of beer in less than half a minute. He would invariably attempt to perform these tricks at any social occasion, wherever possible. These two tricks had served him well over the years. He seldom had to practise the tricks at home. Once he had acquired the necessary skills, he never looked back. The tricks were usually quite well received by his audience, including by gasps and whoops of delight, cheering and chanting of his name, and applause. If Sebastian delayed his performance until after midnight, a warm reception was practically guaranteed. After a while, the timing of his performance also became part of the theatrics in itself, with the party guests doing a countdown from 10-1 and watching the clock.

Sebastian's record of success in performing these tricks, and in avoiding expensive medical bills, had improved immeasurably since he adopted a strict policy of always performing these tricks in the correct order. If anyone ever contemplated making an attempt at these party tricks (which they certainly shouldn't) then it is crucially important to leave the beer jug skolling till last.

Exactly one month before Sebastian's forty-first birthday, on a mild sunny afternoon at the beginning of winter, he was seated on a bench, in a churchyard near his home, playing a traditional Russian three-stringed musical instrument called the balalaika. His playing had drastically improved since the balalaika had first fallen into his hands the previous year, just before Christmas, but it was still terrible. The churchyard belonged to the local Ukrainian Catholic Church and encircled a precarious but imposing chapel, with a spectacular but fragile looking dome, perched upon its pinnacle. Sebastian had only been inside the church once before, but that day had been such a complete debacle that he tried not to think about it too much.

Sebastian's stubby fingers repeated the same aggressive pattern on the fretboard of the instrument until his eyes glazed over. He could almost hear himself snoring very softly as he played. He had come to this specific churchyard in the hope that he might be able to absorb any psychic energy which may have leached out of the mostly Slavic congregation on their way to and from the Sunday Mass. He believed that this could potentially help with his playing, although it did not appear to have done so thus far. He was trying to picture in his mind's eye a sketch he had drawn of an old woman, looking like a very tubby Russian Matroushka doll, cackling a toothless grin, while singing and playing the balalaika. Suddenly the whine of the strings intensified and locked into an oscillating hum that sounded as if it was comprised of millions of human voices, all desperately crying out in hunger. Sebastian sat up with a start, pushed the balalaika away into his lap and rubbed the palm of his right hand, around his eye-sockets.

"I haven't heard that tune before," said a grey-haired man with downcast eyes, who appeared to be dressed as a priest, in brown hessian robes, standing on a gravel path opposite the bench where Sebastian was seated. He must have snuck up on Sebastian when he wasn't watching.

"It's just a method of noodling around," said Sebastian.

"Noodle or no, the balalaika has a distinctive sound. Another priest and I have spent all afternoon preparing holy water inside the Church. When you started playing, I thought I was hallucinating, it is so long since I heard a balalaika."

"That's nice," said Sebastian, "so you could hear me playing out here in the churchyard?"

"Yes," said the priest, "that's what I came out to tell you."

Sebastian considered whether to offer the priest a seat on the bench, but wasn't sure what to say as it was really the priest's bench more than it was Sebastian's.

"Would you like to take some holy water home with you?" said the priest.

Sebastian was quite unable to pick up on the priest's subtle invitation to promptly depart the church premises, but when he heard the words 'holy water'", he jumped to his feet.

"I sure would," said Sebastian.

"Then come with me," said the priest.

After turning on his heel, the priest strode back towards the church, appearing to glide over the flagstones of the churchyard.

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder at the bench where he had been sitting. Before he had commenced his noodling on the balalaika, he propped his skateboard up against one end, adjacent to where he had carefully arranged several personal items he had removed from his backpack. For a moment he contemplated packing them all away, but when he glanced back towards the priest, the cleric had already disappeared from view around the corner.

Sebastian performed a slow pirouette and quickly surveyed the general vicinity of the churchyard for any potential pilferers. Seeing none, he trotted after the priest, still clutching his precious balalaika.

Rounding the corner, he spotted the open side door of the church and stepped through the opening into a dark vestibule. Ahead of him, inside the brightly lit church, Sebastian could see the priest, standing in front of the altar and conferring with one of his colleagues, a very large man wearing a long black smock. The colleague appeared to be gently stirring the contents of a huge silver bowl, perched in front of them on a wrought iron stand.

The priest noticed Sebastian creeping gingerly out of the vestibule into the light. He briefly held up an index finger to the colleague and took a long stride toward Sebastian. "Welcome, welcome, to the house of God."

"Er, thank you Fath-..er,...er, kind sir." Sebastian winced inside at the sudden realisation of his complete ignorance about the Ukrainian Catholic Church. "I thought I should just say that I'm not baptised, and I'm pretty sure I've never been confirmed, is that going to be okay?"

"Not in the long run, I must say, but perfectly fine for today," said the priest in a flat tone.

"Absolutely, perfectly fine!" boomed the colleague, flashing a wide grin.

"Oh good," said Sebastian.

The priest's colleague was carefully rotating a long metal ladle which he used to stir the contents of the large silver bowl. Sebastian presumed that this was the holy water, offered to him by the priest. He noticed, not without some disappointment, that it looked identical to the unholy water that he was accustomed to.

"This is Father Joseph," said the priest, gesturing to his deep-throated colleague in the black smock, "and I am Father Stefan".

"My name is Sebastian."

"We heard you playing the balalaika, and I sent Stefan to investigate," said Father Joseph, "Now, tell me Sebastian, do you have your own container?"

"Er, no, sorry I didn't realise..."

"Not a problem," said Father Stefan," the Lord will provide," He produced a small plastic flask to Father Joseph, who raised the ladle out of the swirling whirlpool of wet holiness, to expertly pour a laminar stream of clear fluid into the flask.

Father Joseph passed the flask to Father Stefan, who held the flask up in front of his face, and whispered something while waving his hands around. He then screwed on the lid to the flask before passing it Sebastian.

Sebastian thrust out both hands to receive the item, with the balalaika still dangling from one, and gave a small involuntary bow, much like he imagined a Japanese businessman would do upon receiving a business card.

"Thank you so much, Fathers, and, um, what can I do with it?" Sebastian said.

"You shall make good use of it," boomed Brother Joseph, chuckling to himself.

"It can be used for healing, it can be used for sanctifying, it has been blessed in the name of the Holy Spirit," said Father Stefan.

"Also good for fighting vampires," said Father Joseph. He and Father Stephen glanced sideways at each other and laughed. Upon guffawing, Father Joseph clunked the shaft of the ladle into the side of the bowl. A few big drops of holy water splashed over the side.

Father Stefan peered over Sebastian's shoulder, towards the vestibule, and his eyes lit up.

"Olympia, come forward please." said Father Stefan, "Oh, hello Diana, please come, come,"

Sebastian turned around and saw that two rotund old ladies in shawls were sitting on the front pews behind him.

"Thanks very much then, Fathers, I'll be off now." said Sebastian.

"Peace be with you," said Father Stefan.

The two old ladies waddled past Sebastian, pointing at his balalaika and muttering. Sebastian nodded his head in acknowledgement, but they did not appear to notice.

Somewhat relieved to be escaping the strange awkwardness of the scene and his own confusion, Sebastian walked briskly out of the side door of the church, clutching the flask of holy water to his chest, holding the balalaika at his side, and hoping that no-one had stolen his skateboard.