The Rider
05-09-2009, 11:10 PM
First story I've written in a while, kind of short -
Non Est Mea Culpa
The pulpit was cold this morning; hard and cold. As he did when he was nervous, the pastor scraped a fingernail across the plastic coating of the plywood in front of him, back and forth, as if he was trying to scratch his way into the heart of the wood. He never broke the surface, but continued to scratch, and scratch, and scratch. Behind every sermon, hymn, and prayer was this scratching, unusually loud in the small space, but so constant that it was quickly forgotten by the congregation. Often the sound of the scratching would leave the church with them at the end of the service, a constant yet unheard reminder scraping within the skull. Today the scraping was much more vigorous than usual.
Perhaps a window had come unlatched, perhaps the massive door at the back of the building had swung open, but it was cold standing alone in front of the mass, sheltered from the faces by a small column of wood. Very cold. The pastor looked out at his flock below him, menacing sometimes in their apathy. Entertain me they seemed to say, give me a cheap thrill. Tell me what I should think of this. Blank faces clutched blank books in loose grips. Tell me what I need to know; I don’t have time to think. The finger continued to attack the cheap plywood in front of him, scrabbling, it seemed, for some sort of nook, some sort of weakness to allow it to break through. Still no breach. The pastor often imagined himself in front of a huge slate wall when he was elevated each Sunday; a wall, large and smooth, that he knew was not too strong, but never afforded one a chink with which to break through. So he continued to scratch.
Yawning and checking watches, the congregation rose and left; single file walking down the aisle. Some scratched at their heads in annoyance, but that feeling soon fades. Left alone in the cold, the pastor continues with his thoughts, scraping at the pulpit and wondering how next week he might be able to break through to them. How he can make them understand. The pastor rises, and returns to his study, banking a fire against the intruding chill. He has done what he can, yet his finger still softly plays across the arm of the chair, the cloth of his leg, the cover of the book. A constant movement. A constant itching to break through. Giving in, the pastor returns to his pulpit, staring out against the now empty rows of benches, the cold biting deeper now after the preceding warmth. The scraping of nail on wood echoes in the empty room. Perhaps despair clouds his features, maybe a melancholy, or even a sadness. Everything seems useless in the face of such a profound cold. With a sigh he closes his eyes and makes a prayer devoid of God. There’s nothing he can do now.
Returning to his study, he collapses into the chair. His finger has stopped scratching. Unconsciously he picks a sliver of plastic out from under his fingernail and falls into an uncomfortable sleep.
Outside, the worshippers trudge home; eyes on the ground, perhaps talking in small groups. They feel the cold as well. At their homes, the cold dissipates. Coats are shaken off, limbs are stirred, and coffee is made. Nursing warm cups the flock ascend, some to bedrooms, or studies, or living rooms. Quietly they bolt the windows, lock the doors, and close the curtains. Books are pulled out from coat pockets and purses.
A scratching heard on one side of town echoes on the other, a muffled scraping heard everywhere yet recognized by none. No one scratches their heads at this hour, only their armchairs, their pant legs, their book covers. Nooks are found, scrapes become trenches, walls become dust. A roar echoes in the streets like rocks falling. In their rooms the scratching stops. The curtains are drawn. The doors unlocked.
“Halleluiah” they will say, as they sit alone above the rubble. “Halleluiah”.
Non Est Mea Culpa
The pulpit was cold this morning; hard and cold. As he did when he was nervous, the pastor scraped a fingernail across the plastic coating of the plywood in front of him, back and forth, as if he was trying to scratch his way into the heart of the wood. He never broke the surface, but continued to scratch, and scratch, and scratch. Behind every sermon, hymn, and prayer was this scratching, unusually loud in the small space, but so constant that it was quickly forgotten by the congregation. Often the sound of the scratching would leave the church with them at the end of the service, a constant yet unheard reminder scraping within the skull. Today the scraping was much more vigorous than usual.
Perhaps a window had come unlatched, perhaps the massive door at the back of the building had swung open, but it was cold standing alone in front of the mass, sheltered from the faces by a small column of wood. Very cold. The pastor looked out at his flock below him, menacing sometimes in their apathy. Entertain me they seemed to say, give me a cheap thrill. Tell me what I should think of this. Blank faces clutched blank books in loose grips. Tell me what I need to know; I don’t have time to think. The finger continued to attack the cheap plywood in front of him, scrabbling, it seemed, for some sort of nook, some sort of weakness to allow it to break through. Still no breach. The pastor often imagined himself in front of a huge slate wall when he was elevated each Sunday; a wall, large and smooth, that he knew was not too strong, but never afforded one a chink with which to break through. So he continued to scratch.
Yawning and checking watches, the congregation rose and left; single file walking down the aisle. Some scratched at their heads in annoyance, but that feeling soon fades. Left alone in the cold, the pastor continues with his thoughts, scraping at the pulpit and wondering how next week he might be able to break through to them. How he can make them understand. The pastor rises, and returns to his study, banking a fire against the intruding chill. He has done what he can, yet his finger still softly plays across the arm of the chair, the cloth of his leg, the cover of the book. A constant movement. A constant itching to break through. Giving in, the pastor returns to his pulpit, staring out against the now empty rows of benches, the cold biting deeper now after the preceding warmth. The scraping of nail on wood echoes in the empty room. Perhaps despair clouds his features, maybe a melancholy, or even a sadness. Everything seems useless in the face of such a profound cold. With a sigh he closes his eyes and makes a prayer devoid of God. There’s nothing he can do now.
Returning to his study, he collapses into the chair. His finger has stopped scratching. Unconsciously he picks a sliver of plastic out from under his fingernail and falls into an uncomfortable sleep.
Outside, the worshippers trudge home; eyes on the ground, perhaps talking in small groups. They feel the cold as well. At their homes, the cold dissipates. Coats are shaken off, limbs are stirred, and coffee is made. Nursing warm cups the flock ascend, some to bedrooms, or studies, or living rooms. Quietly they bolt the windows, lock the doors, and close the curtains. Books are pulled out from coat pockets and purses.
A scratching heard on one side of town echoes on the other, a muffled scraping heard everywhere yet recognized by none. No one scratches their heads at this hour, only their armchairs, their pant legs, their book covers. Nooks are found, scrapes become trenches, walls become dust. A roar echoes in the streets like rocks falling. In their rooms the scratching stops. The curtains are drawn. The doors unlocked.
“Halleluiah” they will say, as they sit alone above the rubble. “Halleluiah”.