These few minutes early in the morning, a true respite from his tedious schedule, had been growing increasingly difficult to preserve. Perfect was his view every day of the coming dawn rising in the east; a fine fraction of light beginning to give life to the world his God so beautifully crafted, awakening the fresh greens in the dewy fields and the red rooftops shaped as domes of the owners’ home that seemed to form an elaborate pattern down the length of the cliffside. Shifting the eyes from one direction to the other revealed a sort of shine that may seem like a trick of the mind’s eye, though the reality was much more divine, as each rooftop housed a small cross made of real gold that kissed by the sun. The crosses were gifted to all the residents of High Hillford, for all of the people in this country had opened their hearts to the Holy Spirit above, and the church Christopher stood in front of was a second home for them all.
Lately, however, the church seemed to be mistaken as a first home. This of course did not bother Christopher, for he had recommended coming to some of those who would be in attendance today. Christopher could not guess how many exactly, although his current standing with the Grand Bishop suggested his passion and success in proselytizing many over the years had been incredibly rewarded. To be the first of the fathers to enter the courtyard and to hold the responsibility of the entrance to the most captivating church in the entire world was not lost on his peers or himself. At the young age of two and twenty years, the young man was shaping to be a great servant of God, and the only thing stronger than his faith was his motivation to share in His glory with those who could not see it for themselves yet.
The disturbance still lingered idly in the back of his mind as he tried to take in the fruits that God had left for him this morning. It was another cool morning, a light breeze that Christopher knew was a bit of a tease and would soon be swallowed up in the strength of the sun. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and Christopher had overheard a joke about clouds going extinct that now was much less funny than it had been. He had never encountered such a hot summer, for there surely hadn’t been one in his years on earth. An hour past dawn would begin to reveal the true outlook of the day's weather, with its arid, choking humidity sucking the energy from anyone who dared to solicit outside for too long.
“Father...please…”
At least three minutes left, Christopher thought to himself, ignoring and refocusing his thoughts on the glory that was in front, above, and of course behind him; the Cathedral for All.
There could be no contest between its beauty and all the other architecture the world had ever seen; eighteen identical pillars of concrete, each curving inward toward the midsection of the structure before curving outward as it reached the roof and heavens, evenly spaced out created the infrastructure of a massive circular dome that overlooks each point in the compass that was Silveracre. Between the pillars was stained glass, each piece unique and labored by a different artist over the centuries to the point that there had been little more space for art to be expressed, although the artists of Silveracre would surely spend their life savings for a half a foot of space that would be cherished by God and His followers for eternity. In the center of the roof, reaching over one hundred feet above any of the pillars, stood the Cross of the Cathedral for All in all of its awe and power.
The doorway Christopher stood behind seemed more like a shadow in its uncanny darkness and was incredibly small for such a structure, only fitting two people at a time shoulder to shoulder, but Christopher thought that was his favorite part of the structure. The feeling of leaving the tight darkness and entering the enormous hall inside had to be the same feeling as the warm embrace God would one day express for-
“Father Christopher, b-bless you...I th-think today’s my day...”
A hand met Christopher’s shoe, and he knew there was no point in tuning out the masses for his last minute of God’s appreciation. He breathed deeply in, held it, and exhaled slowly.
“I truly pray that it is, Follower Harry.” Christopher got to one knee and took the hand that lay lazily on his foot into both of his own. The hand was extremely light and expressed no resistance or care, and as he stroked it he could feel more veins than he had thought resided there. Bony hands that lead to a bony wrist, and to an extremely bony man. “Harry, you must eat something today.”
“E-earthly needs, f-fog His devine p-priorities...H-he will h-help me.” The man croaked as he lay on his stomach, his eyes nearly in the back of his head as he tried to look up to Christopher but couldn’t get his neck to help out.
The verse wasn’t exact, but such a message did exist in the texts. Christopher tried to feel happy for the man, as Harry had chosen a path of salvation in living for Him, and also tried to feel a bit of pride for himself as he had recruited the man and his wife to join the church in the first place. However, this thought quickly turned dark, as he hadn’t seen the wife of Follower Harry in a week.
To make it to Christopher’s feet was no easy accomplishment. As Christopher began praying with his recruited followers, the sights and sounds around them were about to become amplified. It was now minutes past the sixth hour of the day, and soon the bells would chime. A low groan was steadily increasing, as it always had each morning. There was a cry from a baby that was quickly stifled. More Followers were waking up, the masses preparing for their daily service. And the masses had been growing more massive by the day.
Rows of huddled men, women, and children began quite literally at Christopher's feet, and it seemed to him that he stood on the shoreline of an ocean of mismatched brown and black that made up their collective clothing. In a reverse wave, it usually was the front to stir first, although the front could not stir for as long as the rear was able to. To make it to the front, as Harry had, meant the consecutive services the individual attended may be clearing one thousand or more. It also meant that this follower was either extremely devout, or desperate.
“...and until I embrace in His Glory, my life to thee. Amen.” Christopher finished, waiting for the echo from Harry before realizing that it wasn’t coming. Focusing on his hands sent a chill down his spine and immediately let go as Harry’s hand fell unceremoniously to the ground. Christopher had never studied medicine and was doing a bad job trying to convince himself that a pulse may have been there before being startled by the first bell.
Situated precisely three hundred feet from the base of each concrete column, a copper-standing bell of considerable weight stood ready to announce the start of service. Directly in front and to the right of Christopher’s view stood what was considered the first bell, and as the name suggested, was the first bell that needed to be rang. A sliver of twine, unnoticeable unless close up, connected each bell to the other. Forming a large circle around the cathedral, the chimes stretched far throughout the land, and those who did not rely on service each day could be found in prayer, giving thanks to the church and all their doings, and to the one above who allowed them all to prosper so fruitfully.
Christopher tried to focus himself, knowing of the coming moment of madness that was now budding on the horizon. The first bell alone acted well; those who weren’t yet awake, mostly those situated farthest from the entrance, were brought out of sleep by the sound. Those a bit closer to the middle section seemed to wake in a frenzied panic, eyes glazed with tiredness yet bodies still moving with the rigor of a man hard at work. The middle was always the quickest to pack their items, the few scraps of clothes and possible bed sheets that separated the ground from their skin formed all their worldly possessions. The farthest from Christopher would still have some moments, goods, and more than one change of clothes to gather before their feet allowed them to shuffle into the forming line. But that wouldn’t last long.
Ten seconds into the first bell’s chime, came the second bell. Seemingly an echo at first, the bells together doubled the noise in the courtyard. Those who weren’t yet gathering their items in the back would surely be up by now, with the rest either in line or attempting to haggle their way in line. The price to cut in line became heftier as one tried to get towards the middle of the line. After the middle, responses to any offers became barren, for the time and hope those closest to the door had paid became priceless.
Christopher wanted to try and remember the times when it was difficult to get such a large group of families and individuals to properly line up without hassle. There would only be those who complained that they weren’t allowed inside due to the absence of seating available to deal with, and even then there hadn’t been anyone rowdy enough to draw attention in some months. Christopher decided to stop trying to recall the scene as the fourth bell followed the third.
It wasn’t quite loud enough to drown voices, but it soon would be. In the eightieth second since the first bell rang, the ninth bell would begin to chime. It was at this halfway point that the noise began to irritate the youngest in the crowd. There weren’t many babies, but there always were at least a few, and in chorus, they always burst into weeping together. Strangely, Christopher always enjoyed this moment, as the raw emotion on display had become an outlier within this crowd of people.
The line was impressive; one straight stretch of faces reached from the cathedral entrance to the courtyard gate, where the line tailed along the stone wall that enclosed the courtyard. The tail continued to wrap around the length of the courtyard, until it needed to snake back towards where it started, creating at least three rows from the wall. Many people, especially those from the middle to the front, could be seen either relying on the person in front for support or being used as support without a trace of care. Unblinking, their eyes seemed to burrow through the skulls of those in front of them at some fixed point in the distance.
Christopher stood stoically as the chimes sang from fourteen, no fifteen bells, he decided. Christopher did not feel the need to glance and look to find if his guess was right, for the bells would either be done in three or four more rounds. It was as if the bells were inside of them all now, urging their hearts to follow the same pattern that pierced the morning air. It was a deafening, vibrating bang each second, and as it reached either the second or third final bell, Christopher observed as a man, whose identity seemed to be the same as the rest in the line, stepped out from his spot.
He may have been in the line closest to the wall, or the second row, though it truly wasn’t possible to tell. The man hadn’t been in the final row, as he struggled to get past two men who ignored his existence entirely, which meant that he had to have been coming to service for at least a few months now. To Christopher’s horror, the man revealed a knife from his backside, and before Christopher could even blink, the man sliced through the front of his throat. Red mist sprayed the air, as the browns of his shirt began to turn scarlet at the neck of his shirt. Christopher swore the two made eye contact before the man fell face first, where he began making a pool using nothing but his bodily fluids.
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The finale of eighteen bells chiming and driving everyone who could still care to near madness either did well to conceal the scene, or the people just did not trouble themselves with the fate of another. If Simon could have seen through the rows of people, he would have seen more than a few people behind where the man once stood in line elated and thankful for being a quarter foot closer to the door He allowed them to be. A fellow priest, older yet not as highly ranked as Christopher, waddled more than walked to the scene with a black sheet. Christopher peered questionably, as the black sheet duty usually fell on the younger priests. For now, it was all they could do until the crowd of people were let in and gave way to the front gate.
It was the norm, and Christopher was now coming to grips with his friend who he had wanted to pray with. Still lying, his hand unmoving from the place Christopher dropped it, the body seemed to be far more dead than only three minutes. Sadness and pity climbed their way to Christopher’s throat, with Christopher welcoming the former in the form of an inaudible prayer and correcting the latter by assuring himself that without Christopher’s words to guide the poor man, he had no entrance to the heavens above. Now, he was saved for all eternity.
A black sheet obstructed his view as he finished the last line of his prayer, “Father Christopher, another great day to serve the faith.” The words came from a short, hefty man known as Father Gabriel, an elder priest whose upbeat enthusiasm was an outlier, to say the least amongst his peers.
“Father Gabriel, the days are made better by Him and yourself my friend. Did you offer to do His duty this morning?”
Gabriel’s lips rose brightly, “Oh no! Not that I mind of course, but the credit is His and His alone. The Grand Bishop Paulo tasked me specifically!”
Christopher’s head tilted questionably in reaction, but reflected the energy all the same, “A duty straight from the top! He always notices his most faithfulness, does he not?”
“He does Father Christopher! Amen!”
“Amen.” Christopher said, his cheeriness lost at a sight closer to the middle of the line. Someone had fallen, or maybe they had never woken up, and another individual had dragged the body out of the line. The one who dragged the man, a disheveled man with a hunch and beard that swang in front of him, was pleading to be let back into the line.
The line has no ears, Christopher thought, the line is but a worm burrowing instinctively. Even if we had two doors and cut the worm in half, it would just be two worms moving in deaf and blind persistence.
“That is probably my queue,” Gabrielle said, “Provide me the strength I need, Father Christopher!”
“Yes, amen.” Christopher said mundanely, as Gabrielle was already off and heading to the situation. Christopher continued to watch the man go through stages of either devotion or madness; pleading with those in line with the use of his hands, attempting to force his way between two members of the middle whose unwavering resolve did not shake for the fallen man nor this presence. Begging seemed to be the current stage, as everyone in the middle seemed to turn into both this man's judge. But the court was never in service during hours of worship.
Father Gabrielle was doing his best now to escort the man away from the middle and to his new place in line. Christopher could not recall someone as far up as this man stepping out of his spot in line without it being due to his death. The only real memory Christopher could conjure was a young boy who had stepped out in order to reclaim a ball he had dropped. Christopher didn't feel so well remembering the shock on his parents' face turning cold as ice, and the wailing boy being escorted to the back of the line alone sans his ball.
This man was similar to the boy but even more pathetic, for he had come with no one. No one had even given him a cold look to signal they knew his problem, that he existed. He had existed to them all one time, he had been a space in the middle of the line, but now the line had filled his space and was getting more eager to burrow. The man seemed to not know he was being dragged and continued to look at his former spot in the line in agony and anguish. The man was either fortunate or cursed in his luck that the line wrapped itself and ended only about ten yards from where he dragged the lying man. Gabrielle seemed to believe in the former, and to conclude his service for the man the priest took a knee and the man’s hand in prayer. Horror housed itself in his eyes, and Gabrielle got up to go find more followers to aid in His name.
Christopher was about ready to move on to his own duty, as it was almost time to open the entrance. The sun had fully breached the horizon now, and without a cloud in sight, the forecast surely called for another blistering day. He was always so good to Silveracre, shining brightly and warmly for even most of the winter. No doubt in Christopher's mind the sacrifices and unity of the people who resided in this land made for the root cause of their prosperity, the unmatched divinity and devotion that was mostly barren on the main country. But like many here who took Christopher’s and His words and exchanged their lives for his salvation, others will eventually seek out and find a home here and later after their passing.
Christopher closed his eyes, “From the glory of each day to the peace of each night, I thank you for each breath, I thank you for my life. Amen.” Side-stepping once to the left and facing the line head-on, Christopher opened his eyes to the surprise of another pair. In front of him now stood the line leader. The man was not the specimen of great health; posture disturbed by a hunchback, skin of leather with veins and bones omnipresent, miserable eyes that did not seem to have life to them lay in the deep sockets that were his tired eyes. How the tarnished rags remained on his body seemed a miracle, with rips in the torso and shoulder revealing ribs and sharp shoulder blades. The man swayed once in what seemed like a falling motion but was able to correct himself, the exertion leading to a rapid succession of coughs.
What crawled up Christopher’s spine though continued to be the man's gaze. Though his eyes didn’t seem to care for recognition, they also never seemed to leave his own. Was the man looking at him? Through him? The latter seemed to always be the case each day without much objection, but Christopher could swear that the man indeed seemed to be looking directly at him, the look of someone who was waiting for the other to stare back. Christopher did not like this feeling, for this man truly was the head of the worm. He did not want to be the one line burrowed through, thinking with equal fear that he didn’t want the line to learn of other destinations it could burrow through.
“Open it...devil.” Christopher's heart flew into action as the words came out, though he could not tell where the words came from. He had been locked into a staring match with the line leader and swore his lips nor expression wavered. Had he said that? The words seemed too powerful, full of too much emotion to be conjured from someone of his health status. Christopher found himself trying to look at the man past the line leader but to no avail. It seemed the only face he could match was the man in front of his own, fitting as the face of the line.
The next moment, the line leader took a step forward. The person behind followed suit, and so on and so on. Christopher would soon be contemplating when he had decided to move towards and open the entrance, for he hadn’t remembered ever moving from his stunned silence trying to find the person who uttered such a wicked statement about him. But before he could settle these thoughts, the mass began.
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Entering the wonder that was the cathedral always had an uplifting effect; for the priests like Christopher and Gabrielle, the shift was much more prominent in their posture and expressions, while the majority of the followers of the faith seldom showcased their delight but were extremely grateful and ravenous when it came to the soup and bread that was given. In yesterdays, a priest would hand those who entered their meal as they made their way to the pews, offering water and even wine to any and all. But the setup and location of where the pews used to be seemed to be buried in Christopher’s memory, as they had not joined the mass in quite some time. Without them, more space was created for the abundance of followers that flooded the church each morning, and in an attempt to ease the burden of finding a seat, the meals provided laid on the ground, with a little more than a foot separating each other from left to right and front to back. The followers sat crisscrossed with their meals in their laps, their knees almost always meeting the back of the person in front of them and vice versa. For mostly all in the front portion of the line, the back support provided a welcome resource for getting through the mass.
Christopher stood waiting at the end of the entrance’s hall, taking in the scene and waiting for Gabrielle. The glass dome above him never ceased to amaze him; stained glass filled with so much art that at first glance, it would be defined as abstract, with pinks, blues, purples, and yellows the most prominent colors twinkling like a collection of gems as the sun reflected and shifted based on the position one was looking from. But the details in the art seemed to be too divine for the hands of man; images of men in their studies conversating, groups in prayer, women holding their children in the holy moment that was post-birth, women dancing in dresses embroidered with stones that seemed physical rather than painted, and the laughter and happiness expressed by frolicking children depicted so perfectly that only a still moment should've been able to capture were all just a small portion of the work completed. Divided only by the concrete pillars that began equidistant apart from one another and converged briefly before fanning outwards again in a crown-like manner, the natural light provided gave an extremely calming feeling.
Christopher needed this moment of observation and appreciation after having to close the entrance on a good many followers. The very back of the line always had the energy to still complain, and complain they had. A few more wicked insults were thrown his way, though the expression of the woman whom he had shut the door on wounded him more than any verbal attacks. Her hair had been unkempt and messy yet in a way that bolstered the natural beauty of her thin face, Christopher matched the horror in her eyes as she hobbled to the entrance on a crutch. He was late to distract himself with a prayer, managing to hear her plead to be let in.
She will make it in tomorrow, Christopher assured himself. It was in this assurance that he realized in disdain that his hopes for her entrance hinged on the death of another follower. Christopher heard whispers in his mind expressing that there surely would be followers who died tomorrow ahead of her in line and that his thoughts were not as vile as he began to believe they were. He decided that this sin must be absolved by the Grand Bishop himself, and so he tucked this away for the evening.
The last of the followers were filing in now, with their spaces being nearly at the door and close to the hallway they emerged from. The shuffling of feet, the ravenous eating of many, and the few toddlers that were unable to be quelled in their cries set the ambiance in the hall. It would all soon change, Christopher knew, as soon as the Grand Bishop entered the hall. When he entered and took the stage, it always changed. His presence had that effect.
With so many of the followers already finding their seats, the few that were left standing had ample sight of the hall in its entirety, with the main attention grabber being the stage; a five-foot tall walkway that ran from the back of the cathedral up the center of the hall before ending in the middle, right under the eye of the cathedral. All eyes would find and unwaver from his glory, babes included. Eyes that both admired and pleaded to be chosen for his next miracle.
What miracle would it be today? Christopher thought about the question but would have rather asked a peer aloud, and so he turned towards the hallway. Unlit, the stretch of passageway between the entrance to the hall and the entrance to the cathedral had only the sliver of light between the doorway to thank for not being pitch black. He frowned as if Gabrielle disappointed him by not hearing his thinking. It was taking quite a long time for Gabrielle to be rid of his duty, longer than others who performed the duty every single day in which they would always be at the tail of the line and take their place at the other side of the hallway opening, on the opposite of Christopher.
Gabrielle is one of the bigger priests, he may take longer. There may even be a record number of bodies for him to cover.
Christopher wanted to continue musing over where Gabrielle was and began considering if he should go outside to check when a chill ran up his spine. The hall was beginning to change, as the few voices there became hushed, the final baby ceased crying, and the starvation became unimportant. Christopher was not thinking now, though he was moving, his conditioned feet knowing it was almost time for mass. Weaving between followers, their faces giving no indication they saw nor cared, Christopher made his way to the back of the hall, waiting at the bottom of a three-stair flight that would place him on the stage.