Stray
2/3
He continued like that for three months.
If he found a church, he would stop in it, see if he could find the truth that had given her life.
Everyday, another church. He would stop in whatever one he found, regardless of whether or not it was operative, because he was looking for the truth that had given her life.
He ended up in the south east, in a derelict husk of a church.
The outside was in perfect condition, save for a couple of broken windows and a few dozen roof slates scattered across the overgrown graveyard.
The inside was far worse.
All the pews save two at the very front were soft with rot and woodworm. They were moulding.
This was not like the damp he had grown accustomed to over the past three years, the damp that produced soft, vivid green moss. This damp was unhealthy. The wood was green black, and disgusting.
He had come to expect a pulpit, or an altar, or flowers, or a cloth hanging or a cross or something at the front of a church, but this one held nothing.
It was a Sunday.
He took out his battered black bible. It had been in perfect condition when he had been given it, but since then it had seen his rage and his despair and his sadness, and it had suffered for it.
He sat, reading his favourite passage over and over again.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as a sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal…
A young girl he’d snagged at one Sunday service had pointed him to it. Her energy, her vivacity had struck him. She reminded him of his dead love.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge…
She had gone round at the end, hugging everyone, smiling, making jokes and laughing.
And though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing...
She’d reached him and smiled just as warmly as at everyone else, and shaken his hand.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not....
He hadn’t spoken to anyone in a while, but he choked back his silence and asked her why she was a Christian. Her answer was what Jessica's would have been.
Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things…
First Corinthians Thirteen, she’d said in response to his question, it’s about love.
Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away…
She’d shown him how to find it, and pulled a receipt from her cavern of a bag for him to use as a bookmark.
For now we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away…
She’d bought him a slice of carrot cake, incredibly sweet and creamy.
For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face… And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
He made a habit of reading that every day.
The man came in at ten, when the sun was well and truly up in the sky.
In his hands he held candles, but they dropped when movement in the corner alerted him to the presence of the stray.
He was one of those spry old people, with bones of steel and muscles of wire. His face was wrinkled. The skin clung desperately to his bones in folds, causing peculiar hollows round his eyes and under his cheekbones.
The elderly man recovered his composure, and nodded at the stray.
“Don’t really get too many visitors out here,” he explained, picking up the candles.
The young man went over to help.
“I live in the back room, you see. Not a squatter, mind. Really, this should be mine, but I went away for a while, came back and they’d blacklisted it as derelict.”
“Oh,” was all the stray said.
“What brought you here?” asked the old man, once they’d gotten all the candles up and into the little back room.
The young man looked round, as if it were obvious.
“It’s Sunday,” he said finally, “and this is a church.”
The old man nodded sagely. “I see. Go to church every Sunday?”
“Every day. For the past ninety days.”
“Okay. Why?”
But the young man only shrugged.
If he found a church, he would stop in it, see if he could find the truth that had given her life.
Everyday, another church. He would stop in whatever one he found, regardless of whether or not it was operative, because he was looking for the truth that had given her life.
He ended up in the south east, in a derelict husk of a church.
The outside was in perfect condition, save for a couple of broken windows and a few dozen roof slates scattered across the overgrown graveyard.
The inside was far worse.
All the pews save two at the very front were soft with rot and woodworm. They were moulding.
This was not like the damp he had grown accustomed to over the past three years, the damp that produced soft, vivid green moss. This damp was unhealthy. The wood was green black, and disgusting.
He had come to expect a pulpit, or an altar, or flowers, or a cloth hanging or a cross or something at the front of a church, but this one held nothing.
It was a Sunday.
He took out his battered black bible. It had been in perfect condition when he had been given it, but since then it had seen his rage and his despair and his sadness, and it had suffered for it.
He sat, reading his favourite passage over and over again.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as a sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal…
A young girl he’d snagged at one Sunday service had pointed him to it. Her energy, her vivacity had struck him. She reminded him of his dead love.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge…
She had gone round at the end, hugging everyone, smiling, making jokes and laughing.
And though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing...
She’d reached him and smiled just as warmly as at everyone else, and shaken his hand.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not....
He hadn’t spoken to anyone in a while, but he choked back his silence and asked her why she was a Christian. Her answer was what Jessica's would have been.
Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things…
First Corinthians Thirteen, she’d said in response to his question, it’s about love.
Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away…
She’d shown him how to find it, and pulled a receipt from her cavern of a bag for him to use as a bookmark.
For now we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away…
She’d bought him a slice of carrot cake, incredibly sweet and creamy.
For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face… And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
He made a habit of reading that every day.
~
The man came in at ten, when the sun was well and truly up in the sky.
In his hands he held candles, but they dropped when movement in the corner alerted him to the presence of the stray.
He was one of those spry old people, with bones of steel and muscles of wire. His face was wrinkled. The skin clung desperately to his bones in folds, causing peculiar hollows round his eyes and under his cheekbones.
The elderly man recovered his composure, and nodded at the stray.
“Don’t really get too many visitors out here,” he explained, picking up the candles.
The young man went over to help.
“I live in the back room, you see. Not a squatter, mind. Really, this should be mine, but I went away for a while, came back and they’d blacklisted it as derelict.”
“Oh,” was all the stray said.
“What brought you here?” asked the old man, once they’d gotten all the candles up and into the little back room.
The young man looked round, as if it were obvious.
“It’s Sunday,” he said finally, “and this is a church.”
The old man nodded sagely. “I see. Go to church every Sunday?”
“Every day. For the past ninety days.”
“Okay. Why?”
But the young man only shrugged.