Squonk

The devilish sneers of the gargoyles kept vigil over the French city, harshly frozen expressions jutting from the church walls two hundred feet above the streets. The overwhelming embodiment of pain and despair, like spirits of the grotesque creatures, tempted bell ringers to fall freely, a loss of will that hung in silence like the bells. Prominent with the setting sun, the mosaic stained glass window served as a doorway and His entrance into the sanctuary was revered by nightly prayers. The sectioned light played across the marble floor of the gothic cathedral, growing dimmer then gradually brighter and paler as the moon rose. The soft light was kind to the hideous sculptures as it smoothed the rough edges and graced them as archangels.

Seeking shelter from the harsh weather, the clergymen would retreat to the darkness with only a single candle. Some preferred it this way, long having devoted their life to God and unwilling to recall the sensual blessings of the outside world. Others cast shadows in sharp contrasts to their real desires as they watched the city come alive with original sin—forever denied to their souls by that which was called salvation. So want was not lost and, being present, could not be ignored, no matter the more intangible pull of conscience. The presence of the House of God in Paris was formidable; hardly could one ignore the omniscient eyes that the zealous insisted held the power to condemn for the slightest mistakes. The teachings of Church enslaved the physical nature and mind for Sabbath sermons aimed to frighten them into the service of the ‘true’ way. The assurance of sanctifying grace had long disappeared along with Adam from the Garden and the priests were determined to save every damned soul from the gates of hell.

Rector potens, verax Deus,
Qui temperas rerum vices,
Splendore mane illuminas,
Et ignibus meridiem.

The voices faded out as the sounds of the hymn reached the rafters, echoes of the melody still lingering under the roof. Brother Reuel, following the chant with eyes at rest, recalled the encounter with Madame Leah before the sermon. She had approached him without fear though he was of the old clergy, an act he had entirely unexpected.

“O, Brother Reuel. Pray tell me what has happened to the unseeing old doorkeeper. Has he gone amiss again?”

Brother Reuel had stood in silence for a moment, unclear he was on the reason that she had spoken to him. The lady was standing opposite, by some strange will addressing him as if she were an equal. The quiet lasted a bit longer until the good Brother came to his wits. Reverently, as if speaking of someone dead, he answered her.

“Anath has been replaced by one more worthy of the position than he. The Father found evil lies spreading through the church and whisperings at mass. They were melodious falsities he were speaking at the door, great fibs that this House was wrong.” The Brother could hardly keep his voice level, speaking of the atrocities the man had been convicted of. He paused. “Anath was sent away over ten days ago and ye shall not be seeing him again.”

Recalling this conversation, the Brother came down with a chill. The doorkeeper had once been a prominent figure of the church; yet that had been years ago, far too long for most alive to remember now.

Exstingue flammas litium,
Aufer calorem noxium,
Confer salutem corporum,
Veramque pacem cordium.

Resting his head on his hands, Brother Reuel watched the sun set with the grace that he expected from his great conductor of the skies. The dusky clouds shot towards the horizon and past, reaching onward to the heavens.

The great window below allowed the sun’s rays to penetrate the clear glass and lull on the marble, projecting the biblical mural to the floor. A rustle behind told him to turn around, but seeing nothing there, he rose to leave the roof, the sky growing darker by the minute. Descending the sharp staircase his sandals tapped the stones with every step he took, and the Brother soon felt the sensation that he was falling. Clutching at a protruding stone from a tiny window of the tower, he closed his eyes in an attempt to regain his balance. The resonance of a tiny stone falling, somewhere above him brought his eyes open again, nervously scanning the apathetic darkness.

Returning to the roof, Reuel found himself standing under a sea of stars; like eyes they watched him as he opened his mind to more than he could ever hope to learn inside the church. Turning, he caught a glimpse of a figure sitting among the stones, a man surrounded by his foes. He made no sound as Reuel approached—the sandals had silenced themselves in reverence to the witnessing heavens. As a night breeze blew past the scene, he spoke.

“What is it I have done, Reuel?” The man’s voice was weary and without respect for status, yet his tone commanded the attention of Reuel’s soul. Leaning in, he answered the man.

“For your mortal sin, Anath, you are in limbo. You can neither stay nor go,” Reuel whispered, anxiously watching the form in hopes that his words would be of comfort to the old soul. To his astonishment, Anath gave a guttural laugh that lingered far too long in the ears of the poor Brother. Reuel shivered, though from the ringing or the wind he could not discern. When peace had once again descended on the two figures, Anath spoke again, his voice harsh but free.

“I am a creature of stone, undeserving of the people’s gaze, receiving of harsh looks from pious men, and avoided at prayer. I am to be pitied but also shamed. I am looked down upon as a monster, worthless even to taunt and abuse. They ignore me, they patronize me that they will surely go to heaven while I stay here on the roof to rot...on the last stop between heaven and hell.”

Anath’s gaze never wavered from the horizon in the distance. Though the sky was pitch, he could see that destination clearly and sought it through his words. The longing in his heart could not be extinguished until he could finally end all suffering. Reuel felt death in the man’s eyes.

Præsta, Pater pissime,
Patrique compar Unice,
Cum Spiritu Paraclito
Regnans per omne sæculum.

As the strong gusts of the afternoon brought the evening on, a man stood alone outside the cathedral. Rich sounds of holy chants sung in an antediluvian tongue enchanted the townspeople and the fog of faith huddled idly around the church for safety. The resonant song rose in full yet the sound did not register in Brother Reuel’s ear. He heard only the sound of raspy laughter, a haunting tune that displaced all the hymns he had ever heard in the church. Mingled with the melodious hymn, the throaty whisper, and the light breeze, was the primal woodwind of bones as they rattled.

posted by Sarah Ruiz  # 8:09 PM 1 comments