(no subject)
I supposed I would return here. The dust has settled, the war drums have thundered off to a mere thump in the distantly dying sun, and a sense of relative calm has descended. Will this once again be the vessel for my own continuing passion plays, or perhaps just a chronicle for something a little more sublime, a touch more... restful.
It was the pride and joy of the village. The destination for all pilgrims and travellers for miles around. Saint Papias Cathedral in what is now central Turkey... it was once a marvel to behold. Oh, truly, the architects and contractors of Jerusalem, Paris, and Rome would scoff at the thought of inducting such a structure into the Grand Prix du Rome, but the sleepy-eyed citizens of Hacan would hear nothing of it. Every Sunday, dutifully, they would travel here in their finest to worship their Lord Jesus Christ, and whisper smugly among them at the traveller's reactions as they crossed the threshold of the holy place.
Naturally, they chose to ignore the visitors who seemed less inclined toward open-mouthed awe, keeping the blissfully ignorant thought in their collective minds that, yes, this cathedral was indeed the crowning landmark of the entire Turkish countryside. Naturally, when he entered, they opted once again for the comfortable folds of nescience, little knowing that such an idea would prove most difficult.
Clad in fine Parisian evening attire, he strode in, oblivious, or uncaring, to the obtrusive clacking of his metal-soled boots striking the lovingly polished flagstones below. The occasional townsman would glance up and scowl, while the women-folk would whisper amongst themselves as hens in a house. It would have to be said, mind you, that it was not just his rude presence that caught the ladies eyes.
Simply, the man cut quite a fine figure, presenting himself in so elegant a manner amongst these proud paupers. Truly, though they were garbed in their Sunday Best, they looked adorably shabby, and one might daresay, downright penurious. Almost as children, parading about an absent parent's bedroom. But if this new interloper was aware of the absurd picture obvious due to his presence, he made no sign of it. Instead, he strode to a pew midway up the aisle, knelt, crossing himself, and sat. In silence the dark stranger remained, unflinching at the subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle glances continually aimed his way, making no move save to brush a single ebony lock that had strayed from it's crimson ribbon at the nape of his neck.
And so the hushed whispered continued until the attending priest stood and approached the dais, commanding silence with his presence. Needless to say, his irritation showed clearly in the furrow of his brow as this traditional sign went largely ignored. His sparse frame shuddred, almost violently, signaling his vexation, preceeding an abrupt, if too-loud, "Oh Father", to which the crowd silenced itself like a group of chastened school-children.
The service continued as planned from then on, save for the occasional piercing glare from the priest at a gawking child or twittering pair of unattached females. Soon, as the prayers and psalms drew to a close, the stranger once again drew himself up, silent but for the obnoxious clank of his heels against the stone. All eyes were upon him instantly, and even the eccleastic himself skipped a beat in the midst of his closing comments, though he swiftly gathered his wits, and his temper, about himself, attempting a stronger finish.
But the transient would not be deterred, nor apparantly ignored. With one deft maneuver, he jumped to the raised platform the dais itself rested upon. The upsring occoured with such suddenness, the congregation barely noted it until his dark form drew itself up behind the padre. All present crossed themselves at this point, though their prayers died on their lips, if even they got that far.
The priest, hairs raising on the back of his neck, sweat beading on his brow, remained utterly still, consulting in his soul that his faith would protect him from this bizarre and seemingly hostile intruder. No blow was struck, however. And in fact, only a single sound issued from the dark personage. It was a sound so graceful, so magnificent in it's production that one was almost able to forgive the hissing threat spoken in the simple words... "Finish the prayer."
Those three words, though whispered, heard like a churchbell crashing to the cobbles, so quiet was the assemblage, and again, more than one attendee crossed himself.
The father clutched at the crucifix about his neck, trying to gain strength, but with that unnaturally steady breathing so close on his neck, such paltry symbols as the martyred cross seemed as childs props in a play, and he felt his conviction draining. He gathered the remnants of his courage, like a tattered cloak against a brutal winter wind, and rushed through the snowdrift of uncertainty, finishing the prayer with a haste that would later bring a flush of shame to his cheeks, if indeed a later was to be.
As the last words left his parched and trembling lips, a change overcame the man. His eyes, dilated and red-veined with fear, slowly closed, a smile creasing the thin apeture sometimes mistaken for a mouth. Ecstacy evident in his features, the suddenly peaceful priest slowly raised his arms, as though prepared to embrace the Lord God himself. And slowly, almost too slowly for the gathered to perceive, he rose into the air, until he hung some twenty-five feet above their heads. All eyes were upon him, an image of the martyred floating like a vision overhead. Several women dropped to their knees, and with their men, openly wept at the beauty.
And so it was they were entirely unprepared when his shriek pierced the stale air, and his fragile body dropped from its suspense, dashing him upon the floor below. Bones were heard to snap, joints twisting at bizarre and aberrant angles. Several of his ribs had been ejected from his chest, leaving a gaping, messy cavity open for public viewing. The silence of the tomb descended for a mere breath more before a child's shrill squall ripped the air. From there, a stampede.
Having little care for the recently deceased, the congregation drove themselves from the cathedral, never more eager to leave the hallowed place, and the hell with anyone who got in the way. Children and elders alike found themselves becoming closely intimate with those once burnished cobbles, and by the end of the greusome parade, several lay dead, and a score more wounded.
A word and a gesture from the 'til now unmoving figure on the dais sent the hapless townspeople scattering out the portal like leaves on an autumn wind, and with but one more wave, the doors slammed shut after them. Silence, blessed silence, once again descened upon the empty hall, and were there any remaining but that one figure, it might be said that the air grew warmer, the oppressive blackness more comforting.
Silence, again, but for three more velvet-spoken words...
"This should do..."
It was the pride and joy of the village. The destination for all pilgrims and travellers for miles around. Saint Papias Cathedral in what is now central Turkey... it was once a marvel to behold. Oh, truly, the architects and contractors of Jerusalem, Paris, and Rome would scoff at the thought of inducting such a structure into the Grand Prix du Rome, but the sleepy-eyed citizens of Hacan would hear nothing of it. Every Sunday, dutifully, they would travel here in their finest to worship their Lord Jesus Christ, and whisper smugly among them at the traveller's reactions as they crossed the threshold of the holy place.
Naturally, they chose to ignore the visitors who seemed less inclined toward open-mouthed awe, keeping the blissfully ignorant thought in their collective minds that, yes, this cathedral was indeed the crowning landmark of the entire Turkish countryside. Naturally, when he entered, they opted once again for the comfortable folds of nescience, little knowing that such an idea would prove most difficult.
Clad in fine Parisian evening attire, he strode in, oblivious, or uncaring, to the obtrusive clacking of his metal-soled boots striking the lovingly polished flagstones below. The occasional townsman would glance up and scowl, while the women-folk would whisper amongst themselves as hens in a house. It would have to be said, mind you, that it was not just his rude presence that caught the ladies eyes.
Simply, the man cut quite a fine figure, presenting himself in so elegant a manner amongst these proud paupers. Truly, though they were garbed in their Sunday Best, they looked adorably shabby, and one might daresay, downright penurious. Almost as children, parading about an absent parent's bedroom. But if this new interloper was aware of the absurd picture obvious due to his presence, he made no sign of it. Instead, he strode to a pew midway up the aisle, knelt, crossing himself, and sat. In silence the dark stranger remained, unflinching at the subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle glances continually aimed his way, making no move save to brush a single ebony lock that had strayed from it's crimson ribbon at the nape of his neck.
And so the hushed whispered continued until the attending priest stood and approached the dais, commanding silence with his presence. Needless to say, his irritation showed clearly in the furrow of his brow as this traditional sign went largely ignored. His sparse frame shuddred, almost violently, signaling his vexation, preceeding an abrupt, if too-loud, "Oh Father", to which the crowd silenced itself like a group of chastened school-children.
The service continued as planned from then on, save for the occasional piercing glare from the priest at a gawking child or twittering pair of unattached females. Soon, as the prayers and psalms drew to a close, the stranger once again drew himself up, silent but for the obnoxious clank of his heels against the stone. All eyes were upon him instantly, and even the eccleastic himself skipped a beat in the midst of his closing comments, though he swiftly gathered his wits, and his temper, about himself, attempting a stronger finish.
But the transient would not be deterred, nor apparantly ignored. With one deft maneuver, he jumped to the raised platform the dais itself rested upon. The upsring occoured with such suddenness, the congregation barely noted it until his dark form drew itself up behind the padre. All present crossed themselves at this point, though their prayers died on their lips, if even they got that far.
The priest, hairs raising on the back of his neck, sweat beading on his brow, remained utterly still, consulting in his soul that his faith would protect him from this bizarre and seemingly hostile intruder. No blow was struck, however. And in fact, only a single sound issued from the dark personage. It was a sound so graceful, so magnificent in it's production that one was almost able to forgive the hissing threat spoken in the simple words... "Finish the prayer."
Those three words, though whispered, heard like a churchbell crashing to the cobbles, so quiet was the assemblage, and again, more than one attendee crossed himself.
The father clutched at the crucifix about his neck, trying to gain strength, but with that unnaturally steady breathing so close on his neck, such paltry symbols as the martyred cross seemed as childs props in a play, and he felt his conviction draining. He gathered the remnants of his courage, like a tattered cloak against a brutal winter wind, and rushed through the snowdrift of uncertainty, finishing the prayer with a haste that would later bring a flush of shame to his cheeks, if indeed a later was to be.
As the last words left his parched and trembling lips, a change overcame the man. His eyes, dilated and red-veined with fear, slowly closed, a smile creasing the thin apeture sometimes mistaken for a mouth. Ecstacy evident in his features, the suddenly peaceful priest slowly raised his arms, as though prepared to embrace the Lord God himself. And slowly, almost too slowly for the gathered to perceive, he rose into the air, until he hung some twenty-five feet above their heads. All eyes were upon him, an image of the martyred floating like a vision overhead. Several women dropped to their knees, and with their men, openly wept at the beauty.
And so it was they were entirely unprepared when his shriek pierced the stale air, and his fragile body dropped from its suspense, dashing him upon the floor below. Bones were heard to snap, joints twisting at bizarre and aberrant angles. Several of his ribs had been ejected from his chest, leaving a gaping, messy cavity open for public viewing. The silence of the tomb descended for a mere breath more before a child's shrill squall ripped the air. From there, a stampede.
Having little care for the recently deceased, the congregation drove themselves from the cathedral, never more eager to leave the hallowed place, and the hell with anyone who got in the way. Children and elders alike found themselves becoming closely intimate with those once burnished cobbles, and by the end of the greusome parade, several lay dead, and a score more wounded.
A word and a gesture from the 'til now unmoving figure on the dais sent the hapless townspeople scattering out the portal like leaves on an autumn wind, and with but one more wave, the doors slammed shut after them. Silence, blessed silence, once again descened upon the empty hall, and were there any remaining but that one figure, it might be said that the air grew warmer, the oppressive blackness more comforting.
Silence, again, but for three more velvet-spoken words...
"This should do..."