Another Installment of "An Angel in Citadel"
Isabella instinctively bit her lip; she could not believe she had not noticed him before. Immediately, she realized that, even in church, wandering around at four bells was likely not the smartest thing to do. If nothing else, there was likely a reason the man was praying so early in the morning, and she did not want to interrupt. She put a foot behind herself and began to walk backwards, slowly, towards the door.
"A little early to be out, isn't it?" said the man at the altar. His voice was hard, somehow; Isabella could not decide how to characterize it, exactly. It was deep, and perhaps a little cold, but it was not angry or annoyed. In fact, there was a slight undercurrent of sadness to it, the sound of a man who had lived a life he was not proud of.
"I... Well, yes, I suppose," she replied. "I woke up this morning and couldn't get back to sleep."
"Mmm. It happens." The man sighed and looked up; behind the altar was a large marble statue of a bearded man in flowing robes, reaching out his hand towards the pews. The man stared into its eyes and shook his head slightly. "Every Sunday morning, I come here... Just lookin' for whatever they see in him."
"Him?" asked Isabella.
"God," said the man.
She watched him, fascinated. The firelight played on his form, dancing lines of orange against his silhouette. There were little things about him that she found compelling; his posture, for one. He looked like he was carrying a heavy pack, even though he was standing up straight. He never fidgeted. And even though his hair was clearly gray, for some reason, she could not help but suspect that was not natural; he was younger than he looked. Perhaps it was just an illusion, however, brought on by her perception of his voice.
"What do you mean? It's... Well, God. What isn't there to see in him?"
"The ways they describe him... The priests. Hear them talk about him, he's this great, all knowing, all powerful, all loving being... A protector. A father." He swallowed. "A redeemer."
"Yes?"
He said nothing for a long time, and then turned away from the statue, his face pointed towards the ground. He had a beard, and his face was full of worry lines; however, she noted that he did seem to in remarkably good shape. He apparently took pretty decent care of his body, but Isabella was unsure about his mind. He walked over to the pews and slumped into the front one. Hesitantly, Isabella walked forward, coming closer to the stranger.
"Used to be friends with some monks, a few years back," said the man. "Good men. Did a lot of fine things... Fed the hungry, clothed the naked, all the things they say God likes 'em to do. And I can believe in that. I've known a few churchmen who were bastards, but by and large, most of them are pretty decent. Can't say anything against people who help the needy, y'know.
"But it's one thing to believe that some people are good, that some institutions are good. One thing to think that genuinely good things exist in this world. It's another thing entirely to believe that the thing that created it all is the same way."
"Why do you think that?" asked Isabella.
"Heh. Answer to that is as simple as it gets... There's bad people too. Can't have it both ways. Can't have a good God and a bad world. Least, not to my way of thinkin'." He paused. "Don't suppose you really care to hear me talking about that, though, since you're probably here to pray to the guy."
"Not... Well, I wasn't necessarily planning on it. I wasn't even sure the church was open this early."
"Well, if you want to, go ahead. Don't mind me... Even I hope I'm wrong in the long run about him." The man stood up, lifting a cloak off the bench as he rose. He undid the clasp and wrapped it around his shoulders. The cloak was long and brown, and it masked his figure well. He turned back slightly to face her as he raised his hood; in the orange glow, she saw a small black mark on his left cheek. He raised his hood and started walking toward the side aisle. "Have a good night, kid."
She watched him walk away. As he neared the door, she called out. "And you have a good morning!"
He paused, and briefly, she imagined he smiled beneath his hood, his bearded face shifting into an unfamiliar contour. "Yeah," he said. "I'll try." Then he left, stepping out into the rain.
Isabella turned back towards the altar. Nothing stood on it at the moment; the priests kept all of the ritual tools locked away most of the time, taking them out only at the appointed times. She ran her hand atop it, feeling the smooth, cold marble, and then looked back at the statue. Just like the rest of the church, it was like nothing she had seen before.
The lines of the beard, the waves in his hair, the flow of the robes, the lines of his face... The statue could have been a real man, frozen in that eternal gesture of invitation. Most churches had some representation of him, but nothing so grandiose as this, nothing so fully realized. It was very nearly perfect.
Perhaps that was why, she reflected, it did not interest her nearly as much as the man who just left the cathedral.
Isabella considered saying a prayer, but she had no idea what to pray for; it seemed shallow to simply ask God for a successful production, and yet that was honestly the only thing anybody she cared for needed right now. If Auggie's first run was a flop, it would ruin him, both financially and spiritually; he would blame himself for bringing his daughter to this city and then failing to provide for her. He might even start drinking again.
"Lord," whispered Isabella, "I know you probably have more important things to do, but if you could... Well, it would help dad alot if you would make this theater work out. I know it's not the kind of thing the church usually talks about- I mean, they don't even like actors- but this means more than anything to him. So, just..." She sighed. "Just let it work out, for both our sakes." She reached into her belt pouch and took out a tarnished brass coin, then tossed it in the nearby poor box. "Amen."
Isabella turned and walked away from the altar. She glanced upward at the ceiling again, but it did not hold her attraction in quite the same way it had before. Still, she planned to come again sometime when it was light; the clerestory windows at the top would undoubtedly provide magnificent illumination for the art, in a way that the spotty firelight could only hint at. She opened the door and stepped back out into the night, which was a little brighter than it had been a moment before.
She walked quickly; her father would be up soon, and she did not feel like having to explain where she'd been at four in the morning, even if she honestly spent that time in church. Instead of cutting through the market, she decided to go around it, passing through the center plaza of the Market Quarter. Once upon a time, she supposed, it must have been lovely: the fountain in the middle, in particular, was dazzling, showing a chorus of angels facing outward, encircling a spray of water that flowed over their heads and into the basin below. Time had not been kind, however, and the white stone had long ago turned to a dirty brown. Still, with a little care...
They only arrived in the city two days before, but Isabella spent a fair amount of that first day wandering around the Quarter to get a feel for it; that's how she knew there were places to post bills in the marketplace. If she remembered correctly, the alley across the street from the fountain cut through to the street the theater was on...
Citadel's quarters all had distinctive architecture, Isabella mused; she noticed it as they rode the wagons in, passing through most of the sections of the city. The Freeman's Quarter was full of nice homes, architecture that had at least been fashionable at one time, while the Tradesman's Quarter was mostly squat little workshops. The Convict's Quarter, of course, had its tall cell buildings. The Market Quarter, in turn, was mostly two story buildings, stone on the bottom story and framed plaster* on the upper stories. Overall, it seemed to be the friendliest of the Quarters, which made sense: this was where the Crown hoped his trade city was going to make most of its money.
Isabella frowned and looked around the alleyway. On second thought, this did not seem as familar as she thought it would have. Maybe it was another alleyway?
"Hey, little girl," said a voice from behind. "Little late for you to be out walkin' around, ain't it?"
"A little early to be out, isn't it?" said the man at the altar. His voice was hard, somehow; Isabella could not decide how to characterize it, exactly. It was deep, and perhaps a little cold, but it was not angry or annoyed. In fact, there was a slight undercurrent of sadness to it, the sound of a man who had lived a life he was not proud of.
"I... Well, yes, I suppose," she replied. "I woke up this morning and couldn't get back to sleep."
"Mmm. It happens." The man sighed and looked up; behind the altar was a large marble statue of a bearded man in flowing robes, reaching out his hand towards the pews. The man stared into its eyes and shook his head slightly. "Every Sunday morning, I come here... Just lookin' for whatever they see in him."
"Him?" asked Isabella.
"God," said the man.
She watched him, fascinated. The firelight played on his form, dancing lines of orange against his silhouette. There were little things about him that she found compelling; his posture, for one. He looked like he was carrying a heavy pack, even though he was standing up straight. He never fidgeted. And even though his hair was clearly gray, for some reason, she could not help but suspect that was not natural; he was younger than he looked. Perhaps it was just an illusion, however, brought on by her perception of his voice.
"What do you mean? It's... Well, God. What isn't there to see in him?"
"The ways they describe him... The priests. Hear them talk about him, he's this great, all knowing, all powerful, all loving being... A protector. A father." He swallowed. "A redeemer."
"Yes?"
He said nothing for a long time, and then turned away from the statue, his face pointed towards the ground. He had a beard, and his face was full of worry lines; however, she noted that he did seem to in remarkably good shape. He apparently took pretty decent care of his body, but Isabella was unsure about his mind. He walked over to the pews and slumped into the front one. Hesitantly, Isabella walked forward, coming closer to the stranger.
"Used to be friends with some monks, a few years back," said the man. "Good men. Did a lot of fine things... Fed the hungry, clothed the naked, all the things they say God likes 'em to do. And I can believe in that. I've known a few churchmen who were bastards, but by and large, most of them are pretty decent. Can't say anything against people who help the needy, y'know.
"But it's one thing to believe that some people are good, that some institutions are good. One thing to think that genuinely good things exist in this world. It's another thing entirely to believe that the thing that created it all is the same way."
"Why do you think that?" asked Isabella.
"Heh. Answer to that is as simple as it gets... There's bad people too. Can't have it both ways. Can't have a good God and a bad world. Least, not to my way of thinkin'." He paused. "Don't suppose you really care to hear me talking about that, though, since you're probably here to pray to the guy."
"Not... Well, I wasn't necessarily planning on it. I wasn't even sure the church was open this early."
"Well, if you want to, go ahead. Don't mind me... Even I hope I'm wrong in the long run about him." The man stood up, lifting a cloak off the bench as he rose. He undid the clasp and wrapped it around his shoulders. The cloak was long and brown, and it masked his figure well. He turned back slightly to face her as he raised his hood; in the orange glow, she saw a small black mark on his left cheek. He raised his hood and started walking toward the side aisle. "Have a good night, kid."
She watched him walk away. As he neared the door, she called out. "And you have a good morning!"
He paused, and briefly, she imagined he smiled beneath his hood, his bearded face shifting into an unfamiliar contour. "Yeah," he said. "I'll try." Then he left, stepping out into the rain.
Isabella turned back towards the altar. Nothing stood on it at the moment; the priests kept all of the ritual tools locked away most of the time, taking them out only at the appointed times. She ran her hand atop it, feeling the smooth, cold marble, and then looked back at the statue. Just like the rest of the church, it was like nothing she had seen before.
The lines of the beard, the waves in his hair, the flow of the robes, the lines of his face... The statue could have been a real man, frozen in that eternal gesture of invitation. Most churches had some representation of him, but nothing so grandiose as this, nothing so fully realized. It was very nearly perfect.
Perhaps that was why, she reflected, it did not interest her nearly as much as the man who just left the cathedral.
Isabella considered saying a prayer, but she had no idea what to pray for; it seemed shallow to simply ask God for a successful production, and yet that was honestly the only thing anybody she cared for needed right now. If Auggie's first run was a flop, it would ruin him, both financially and spiritually; he would blame himself for bringing his daughter to this city and then failing to provide for her. He might even start drinking again.
"Lord," whispered Isabella, "I know you probably have more important things to do, but if you could... Well, it would help dad alot if you would make this theater work out. I know it's not the kind of thing the church usually talks about- I mean, they don't even like actors- but this means more than anything to him. So, just..." She sighed. "Just let it work out, for both our sakes." She reached into her belt pouch and took out a tarnished brass coin, then tossed it in the nearby poor box. "Amen."
Isabella turned and walked away from the altar. She glanced upward at the ceiling again, but it did not hold her attraction in quite the same way it had before. Still, she planned to come again sometime when it was light; the clerestory windows at the top would undoubtedly provide magnificent illumination for the art, in a way that the spotty firelight could only hint at. She opened the door and stepped back out into the night, which was a little brighter than it had been a moment before.
She walked quickly; her father would be up soon, and she did not feel like having to explain where she'd been at four in the morning, even if she honestly spent that time in church. Instead of cutting through the market, she decided to go around it, passing through the center plaza of the Market Quarter. Once upon a time, she supposed, it must have been lovely: the fountain in the middle, in particular, was dazzling, showing a chorus of angels facing outward, encircling a spray of water that flowed over their heads and into the basin below. Time had not been kind, however, and the white stone had long ago turned to a dirty brown. Still, with a little care...
They only arrived in the city two days before, but Isabella spent a fair amount of that first day wandering around the Quarter to get a feel for it; that's how she knew there were places to post bills in the marketplace. If she remembered correctly, the alley across the street from the fountain cut through to the street the theater was on...
Citadel's quarters all had distinctive architecture, Isabella mused; she noticed it as they rode the wagons in, passing through most of the sections of the city. The Freeman's Quarter was full of nice homes, architecture that had at least been fashionable at one time, while the Tradesman's Quarter was mostly squat little workshops. The Convict's Quarter, of course, had its tall cell buildings. The Market Quarter, in turn, was mostly two story buildings, stone on the bottom story and framed plaster* on the upper stories. Overall, it seemed to be the friendliest of the Quarters, which made sense: this was where the Crown hoped his trade city was going to make most of its money.
Isabella frowned and looked around the alleyway. On second thought, this did not seem as familar as she thought it would have. Maybe it was another alleyway?
"Hey, little girl," said a voice from behind. "Little late for you to be out walkin' around, ain't it?"