Chapter 2 #2
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? The bastards.
“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 against one violent 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.
“Let him go.” The voice is deep and commanding, like I’d imagine the commander of an army to sound. In my mind’s eye, I picture the newcomer with a sword and shield, like the men of old. Has someone come to intervene? One of the townspeople, perhaps, who heard the commotion?
“Who the ever-loving fuck are you?”
“Doesn’t matter who we are.” There’s more than one, then. “I said, let him go. If you want a fight you’ll have one, out in the graveyard. With me.”
The noises I hear next are confused and muddled. Curses and grunts, and to my shock, I see four huge, masked men dragging the others past me and straight out the door to the graveyard. No one sees me. No one even looks my way. One grabs Father MacGowen, and the door clangs shut behind them.
I should run. I should hide. But I’m far too invested in this now to leave, and there’s no way I’d ever leave my one and only friend bereft.
I look around me for a weapon of some kind, but only see my mobile that’s fallen to the carpet in my haste.
I can’t use my fists. I can’t even use my voice.
But I can use what little I have. I pocket my mobile and run outdoors after them.