Sunday, April 30, 2006

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

The stonework climbs skyward in a patchwork of textures, providing a varied landscape for the stone outcrops of statues. Sinister gargoyles line the walls, and overlook the small parish graveyard, monstrous guardians for the Faithful.

Stained glass tapestries, now dulled with inner city grime, capture the pious actions of the saints. The largest depicts a knight on white charger, his mount ensnared within the coils of a giant serpent, which the knight stabs viciously with lance.

The Church of Saint George, the dragon-slayer. Warden of the house of the God who stole the crown of the Blessed Isles; and now watches helplessly as the people turn away. The era crumbles as the time of Pisces falters.

Yet Paul still holds true his faith, and walks through the heavy oaken doors that stand open like welcoming arms.

He walks slowly down the aisle, and drops to one knee moving his hand quickly in the sign of the cross. He moves down the pew and kneels below the shadow of Golgotha, his head bent silently in prayer.

Give me a sign, Oh Lord, my God.

His body begins to shake as he starts to cry, tears sear the bruised flesh.

He looks up at the cross, beseeching the stricken man of peace, nailed in living agony. His vision is blurred by the flood of tears and it seems that the statue cries also. A drop of liquid running the length of the smooth marble cheek, the tear of an angel.

Oh, thank you Son of Man, Son of God.

He follows the statue’s gaze to a window, from which pours a rainbow of colour, lit through the outer grime by the morning sun. The window dedicated to Saint Peter and Saint Andrew.

The disciples…

The brothers…

His brother…

Yes, that is it, I must go to John.

Oh, thank you, my Lord.


The priest walks towards the altar, he stops when he sees something left on the pew. He leans and picks it up, a book. He turns it to the spine, cracked with use, and reads the title, “Dracula” by Bram Stoker.

© 1990 & 2006 Andrew M Boylan