An Indifferent Hand

                “Have you steeled yourself for what must be done?”

                The flickering candlelight cast grotesque shadows across the reredos behind us; in stark contrast to the radiant glow the rose-hued sunlight brought.  By day, thousands would gather here to whisper their desires, the things they needed God to grant; as if God would be moved by such ephemeral dreams.

                Again, the voice echoed itself, “Have you steeled yourself for what must be done?”

                And again, my brother and I remain silent, the torch held tight in the bishop’s hand teasing at the thoughts which lurk behind our dark eyes.  One did not voice that they were ready, to do so would show that words had to be said.  True confidence was as silent as it was intense and overbearing.  We would not break our silence, our vow.

                The bishop gazes over us, my brother and I, and as was tradition, spoke, “You can never walk the righteous path; so you must never speak.   For your every word is laced of poison, and will lead your fellow men astray.  But even apostates such as yourselves have merit; only you can do what must be done. So I ask you a third time, have you steeled yourself for what must be done?”

                We simply look on with indifference; to some this would be a sign of arrogance, to not acknowledge someone such as the Archbishop.  But a true bishop leads only men of God; we lead ourselves, for we have already forsaken more than just the speaker of God’s will.  Our hearts are already beyond this room, beyond shows of reverence to God.  Only one who has not prepared himself, would show interest in this exchange.   The bishop nods, he already understands our indifference, before blowing out the torch; in the swirling smoke illuminated faintly in the moonlight, we hear the whisper, “Then go, go unseen.”

                We turn, and swiftly descend into the catacombs below the cathedral--the final resting place for saints.  As the door closes behind us, sealing us with the musk of decay, we are at last alone.  Here, where the Saints have already entered heaven, where only husks remain, we may speak.  Licking my dry lips, I ask my brother, “Who is the mark?”

                “Brendal, he lives near the outskirts.”

                He could have told me more, told me of what the man had desired, what he had called upon God for; but when you only speak within musky catacombs, you tend to say only what is necessary.  Who this man is, has little bearing.

                A faint breeze whistles through the cracks in the masonry above.  At times it feels as though the dead around us are trying to join our forbidden conversation; but we don’t believe in such things, we simply can’t.  Passing the resting place for Augustine, we pause for a moment.  I knell upon the slick, slimy, stone and ponder the passing of our father.  Brother does not; he refuses to even acknowledge the passing of memories, that there is any significance in a final resting place.  Still, he is willing to silently grant me this small penance.  I whisper again my vow, to the memory of our father Augustine, the last great saint, who has passed beyond where my words could damn him, “Father, your passing, it took more than just you from us…  But we will still serve your will, and give purpose for those who cannot walk our path.”  Standing I look to my brother, his face is unnaturally forced, his age showing itself in a way that even his greying hair cannot.

                Turning briskly, he walks away; I have to briefly jog to catch up.  He hasn't been the same since the passing of our father; although I suppose the same could be said for me.  Coming to one of the many exits to the catacomb, he pauses, his hand resting on the door which will take us outside the city.  “There is no meaning to, that.” he says coldly; but by saying anything, I can tell that he finds a bitter meaning to it all.

                I don’t respond, there is no point.

                With a grunt he turns back to the door and mumbles, “the dead are best forgotten” before pushing the door open.  But despite his attitude, I know he cannot let go of the past; just as I cannot.  We are now in a dark cave, one of the secret entrances to the catacombs.  We resume our vow of silence, one that we made after the passing of Augustine, to never be one with the children of God.  Quietly we make our way through the cave in complete darkness, rolling each step so that not so much as an echo can be heard over the drip of water.  Exiting the cave, I follow my brother; he knows where this Brendal lives.

                We walk in silence, avoiding the main road, sticking to the moonlit undergrowth.  Cautiously holding out a tightly wrapped parcel, my brother gestures to the small cottage ahead.  Despite the fact that he is the one who silently listens to the prayers of the patrons, that he prepares each package with such care, he still wants nothing to do with delivering them.  Brother is odd that way; perhaps it is because he feels he is already too close to our marks?

                I move quickly, but without a sound, towards the cottage, making my way to the back, away from the main road.  ‘How to carry this one out?’ I ask myself; it needs to be sudden and surprising.  It needs to look like an accident, an act of god.

                “There is not enough, there is no way we can last this winter!” booms a voice through the thatched walls.

                Peering through one of many cracks, I look into the faintly lit cottage.  The man whom I presume to be Brendal is standing over a small sack, shaking his head in dismay.  Several children are looking at him in fear, quiet; somehow they understand that they are part of the problem.  Looking at them, the man lets out a sigh.  Tossing the bag to the corner of the room, he doesn’t even bother to gather up the paltry grains of wheat which spill onto the floor.  Without a word, he sits dejectedly on a cot, and as the minutes pass the light and the hushed whispers of children slowly fade away. 

Stealthily I open the door to the cottage; everyone in the room is asleep.  Hefting the parcel that my brother gave me, I make my way over to the corner of the room.  Opening the parcel, I pour its contents on the floor, mixed with the scattered wheat.  To awaken to find that there was enough, surely Brendal would believe the hand of God had a part.  Just as quietly, I leave the room, making sure to not leave so much a trace of my presence.  No one can ever find out that it is us; they must believe it to be an act of God…  It was the least we could do for the memory of our father.

Brendal needed to believe in a miracle,

    like I needed to believe that all this matters

That even godless men can create miracles

    while everyone else waits, waiting for

    the indifferent hand of god.

Reviews

[Woody]

brilliant! but then most your writes are. I know you craft them with care.

a question obviously needs to be asked. isn't that an act of God after all?
I like the unexpected ending. leading the reader into believing that the protagonists had evil intents (particularly with the use of the wrd "mark".

[Nusquam Esse]

Hahaha, one could certainly say that it was an act of God in a roundabout way. But perhaps, much like the protagonists, not everything that a God does needs to be shown so clearly. :) Yep, that was certainly my intent, to mislead using cliches. Of course I need to fine-tune it some, since this was just a first-draft.

[Rene Salinas]

Lately I have had quite the experience while reading your writings I have tried hard to share the feeling and I hope I have somehow managed to convey to you how your latest offering had not only been of my liking, but they have also served as “study pieces” so I felt having a little time that I would go a different way with this review:

Concept – Although there is a clear indication through the narrative of a place where wishes may be granted, the word of God, bishops miracles, I felt it still left room for the vagueness of interpretation or said in a different way, it left it open so that there could be many takes, in language in details even in those”crafty “ moments where the prose carefully changes or acknowledges the need for more poetic language.

Structure – I would subjectively say that the feeling of the piece came stronger than the narrative itself. In fact, I ask myself while reading and re – reading, “have I understood this?” Oh, maybe it is this or that” So -- there seems to be a very palpable tension throughout the piece yet I couldn’t venture a logically developed explanation if I was put on the spot. Yet I am able to express my feeling while reading it. Really enjoyed that aspect.

Characters – Clearly defined ones with their own subtleties yet again and maybe I need a few more reads, they felt as if “carriers of meaning” rather than protagonists, which if they were to die there is no reason for the writing to exist any longer.

Dialogue – “We walk in silence, avoiding the main road, sticking to the moonlit undergrowth.” It is because of the crafty dialogues that the piece spoke to me, I could copy paste many more lines that resonated loudly but it wouldn’t add to what I am trying to convey.

Thank You.

[SweetNutmeg]

Like 'The City of Dreams,' this story leaves me with a lot to think about. It took me a while to understand the role the father Augustine plays in this strange farce. You're leaving a lot of blanks for us to figure out and fill on our own. I've noticed you like to do that. I am unsure if maybe you have left too much to the reader this time. Sometimes we readers can be dolts.

Anyway, I found this an interesting vignette.

I found one mistake:
"I knell upon the slick, slimy, stone and ponder the passing of our father." Typo: kneel not knell.

Thank you for sharing this with us.

PS: Haha, apparently I am the only dolt, Woody got it just fine.

[Nusquam Esse]

To be fair, this was a first draft; it has not underwent any substantial revisions (I usually wait a couple weeks first, so I can approach it with a fresh perspective). I know that the flow between some of the sentences is a bit off, and I feel like the atmosphere can be made to flow a bit smoother. Hopefully I can tweak this into something decent when I go through to revise. I have come to appreciate the value of good copy-editing after all. Thank you for reading, and for noticing the typo... :) And I will go through later on and see if I can't clarify it a bit; but yes, the characters are written to come across as assassins of some clandestine organization or something; all the talk about a target, being unseen, never speaking, tainting others, and steeling themselves. But the actual situation is that after they lost their father they also lost their faith in God; I was imagining an older setting, in which atheism was essentially a crime. I envisioned that they would have been taken in by the Bishop as a favor to their father, on the condition that they take a vow of silence. I am not sure how much of this 'back-story' is wise to reveal. Point was that those who believed in God were too preoccupied praying for miracles to actually make one. My little take on 'miracle makers' I suppose.