Chapel All of Gold

Chapel All of Gold

As the sun slowly sank into its scarlet sea, a gentle breeze, heavy with the sweet perfume of wild roses, stirred the creeping vines and living things nestled here and there amongst the crumbling stones. The fading light washed walls half-eaten by time in crimson blood, an eerie contrast to the pale, skeletal fragments of wooden structure that pierced through the rocky debris like shattered bones. Remnants of the past lingered in faded glimpses of color, a parade of lost memories weaving in and out of the inky shadows of the present.

The remains were haunting in their own right; it was impossible to stand before the entrance to the abandoned church, its door hanging half-rotten on its rusty hinges, and not be moved by the spirit of the place. The power of its ghosts was a tangible presence, moving and pulsing around him to the distant ebbing of the waves. He could taste the salt in the air, making the soft fragrance of the briar roses bittersweet. Here, he could almost imagine that there was a piece of heaven in this hell.

His footsteps echoed in the silent church, though there was no longer any roof to hold them in. In his mind he could see them drifting far away from him, to become lost in the empty black infinity of space. The wooden floor beneath his feet was far from stable, so that his every movement was made with caution--it was like a dance, to slither in and out with liquid grace, every step as light and fleeting as the wind. Crashing waves and silence mingled with the echoes of himself, until they became the music to which he moved.

The chapel was nostalgic in its own way, though the memories that lingered here did not belong to him. And yet, however much he was a stranger here, intruding into sacred places where he knew he did not belong, there was no resistance to his presence.

At the head of the church were the fragments of what must have been, at one time, a beautiful stained glass window. Broken, jagged edges pointed heavenwards, as if to pierce the bloodied belly of the sky. A dove of pure white, its brilliant wings spread, was depicted against the vibrant blue of the window. Tiny sections had fallen away over the years to decorate the empty altar like fallen feathers.

He paused there, to let the vision of the dove, olive branch clasped within its beak, become imprinted on his memory. It was important that none of this was forgotten. This was, after all, his last night on earth as a mortal man.

The sanctuary was cooler than the rest of the church, silently forbidding his careless entry. On the altar lay a Bible, its pages yellowed and warped, but otherwise untouched, and beside that, an empty chalice. The sky was darkening rapidly to a bruised purple, and dark shadows stretched their fingers out to grasp him, though he paid them no heed.

A small emerald snake, which had coiled itself loosely about his wrist, slipped forward into his palm at his whispered beckoning. Black eyes looked up into his own, and the light in their depths was understanding. He spoke to it softly, in a voice painted grey with regret. The hushed hisses fell from his lips to hang, frozen in the black wells of the snake's gaze, lost there because there was nothing left to catch them.

His movements were the swift, practiced strokes of a predator, filled with the easy confidence of Death. His fingers became knives, made sharp by the power of a single, barely spoken word. For all its shiny armor, the snake's scaled skin split as easily as any man's, soft beneath his gentle caress. Hot blood issued forth, rushing over his pale fingers and spilling into the tarnished, silver chalice. The snake's lithe body twisted in his hands, weakening as the life flowed from the hole in its neck.

It took little more than seconds for the tiny body to empty itself of blood--but in that time the sun had sunk completely beneath the flat horizon, leaving the once red and purple sky a deep shade of blue. With care that was almost reverent, he laid the snake upon the altar, avoiding its now sightless, glossy eyes.

Ivory hands moved to take the chalice in slow-motion, as though he were underwater. The blood that filled its hollowed insides was barely enough to cover the rounded bottom--it ran in thin streams to meet his lips when he tilted it toward him. The red liquid was still faintly warm against his tongue, and his throat rebelled for a moment against the coppery, metallic taste. But he closed his eyes and forced his traitorous body to swallow.

The moon, now bright in its intensity, spilled silver illumination over the rich ebony of his robes. The wind did not stop its eternal whispering, and the rhythm of the waves never faltered. In the unending course of the world, little changed--and yet, the irreversible had occurred. He could feel the earth shudder and recoil from him, see the shadows recede from the touch of his now red gaze.

In the midst of heaven, he conceded, there was a little hell.

Fin!