The valiant never taste of death but once.”
I’m so caughtup in mourning the pretend loss of my own life, tears actually blind my vision.
I kneel on one of the kneelers before the altar, and lift my face heavenward. I breathe in the cleansing smell of the church—that unique blend of incense, candle wax, and wood polish. I exhale in contentment, and pull out my mobile.
I swipe it on and go to the camera. I’ve never used it as a phone. I certainly have no one to call or text. It’s a hand-me-down from one of Father MacGowen’s friends, who upgraded my phone and said he liked the pictures I took. I marvel at its capabilities.
The altar’s still adorned with faded poinsettias from Christmas, though that was weeks ago. I forgot how long the Christmas season lasts in the church, but the Catholics don’t like to pack things up on December twenty-sixth. This weekend is probably the last weekend of Christmas or some such thing, I forget how they name it all.
I kneel on one knee before the altar, amazed that the vibrant red flowers have lasted this long. I lift my phone, zoom in with the camera, and hold my breath as one of the flower petals falls tothe ground. I click the button that makes a shutter sound, and glee fills me when I realize I caught it. It’s perfect, metaphorical and symbolic, the end of a season.
I get lost in the moment, snapping pictures of the altar. Moonlight filters in from above, and it glints the edge of the golden tabernacle, shining like a beacon in the darkness of the church. I take picture after picture. The shadows beneath the statues, looming like omens from above. Melted wax on the side of the candle, a symbol of our mortality. The greenery around the altar, a sign of life eternal.
A door opens, and I start, shaking myself for once again getting so caught up in my mind that I didn’t pay attention to details. I turn, looking for a place to hide, when Father MacGowen enters the church. He’s a young man, just around forty-years old, the youngest chaplain that’s ever resided at the Cathedral. Tall and thin with wire-rimmed glasses, he’s studious and quiet.
If I could, I’d say something to him to alert him, but I’ve been cursed into silence.
He doesn’t see me at first but walks toward the altar, his keys in hand. I watch as he kneels, makes the sign of the cross, then when he stands, his eyes meet mine.
“Oh, hello there, Cairstina,” he says with a warm smile. “Gave me a wee bit of a startle, lass. I didn’t know you were there.”
I nod in greeting, and I hope he knows I’m sorry for scaring him. His eyes go first to my phone, and he smiles.
“Taking pictures of the flowers? Good timing, as they’ll be cleared away by the weekend.” I smile at him, wishing he knew how badly I wish I could speak to him. He’s the only one who understands me.
He steps closer to me, when the moonlight shifts, falling right on my cheek. He gasps.
“Oh, my,” he says sorrowfully, reaching a hand out to me. “Who did this to you?” At first, I don’t remember what he’s talking about, then quickly realize with shame that my brother left a mark. A swollen lip, perhaps, a reddened cheek. For a brief moment in time, I’d disassociated myself with that girl, so much so I’d forgotten the altercation before I came.
If I could speak, I’d ask Father MacGowen not to ask questions. If I could speak, I’d gently push him away and change the subject. Instead, when he reaches for me, I turn away from him. He pauses before speaking again.
“I see, lass,” he says quietly. “I won’t ask any questions.” He doesn’t finish the sentiment. I couldn’t answer him if I wanted to.
“Well, now, it’s a good job you’re here since I could use a bit of help closing up for the night, you know, and I—” His words are cut off by a slamming sound, and heavy footsteps entering.
“Get down, Cairstina,” he says quickly, nearly shoving me behind the altar before he steps out into the open. His face is grim, as if he knows exactly what to expect. My heart thunders as my knees hit the rough burgundy carpet behind the altar.
“Who’s there?”
“Father MacGowen, show your bloody face!” an angry snarl of a voice declares. What an idiot. The priest just stepped right in front of the altar bravely, the call to have him come out completely unnecessary.
“Who’s that?” Father asks. I can’t see a thing from where I am, but can only hear them. I begin to tremble as the heavy footsteps draw closer. How many are there? “Is that you, Alaster Aitken? Why come in here all forceful-like, when we can have a pleasant discussion?”
But I can hear the thread of fear in his voice. Rumor has it these were the men that hurt him last month. No one knows why, only that he was found bloodied and bruised in the sanctuary. Some suspect it’s a warning to the citizens of Inverness, though none of us know exactly what the details are. My brother mentioned it could be the men of the north, but I know that isn’t true. I’m one of the few that knows Father MacGowen is allies with the men of the north. I may be the only one.
“Now, gentleman,” Father MacGowen begins, and I suspect he’s only stalling because of me. He wants me to get away, but the distance from here to the sanctuary is too far for me to go unnoticed. “Honestly, you shouldn’t come here into a house of God with violent intents.”
One of them sounds as if he’s making a spitting noise. I flinch. Is he spitting on the beautiful carpet? The intricate altar? Thebastards.
“Violent intents, boys,” one of them says with a laugh. “Imagine that, eh?”
“Now what on earth would give him that idea, hmm?” another says. There’s a sound of a scuffle and I wince at Father MacGowen’s cry of pain. I have to help him. What can a girl like me do, unarmed, against a passel of violent men? I close my eyes and rock back and forth, berating myself. I can’t even defend myself againstoneviolent man, never mind several.
“You told the authorities we robbed you. Admit it.”
“I did not,” Father MacGowen says staunchly.
“Bollox,” one shouts, and there’s the unmistakable and all too familiar sound of flesh on flesh. I go to cover my ears. I can’t bear to hear them hurt him, when suddenly the sound of the door clanging open makes all else stop. Has someone come to help, or have more come to attack? I freeze, holding my breath, listening for a hint of who’s come.
