Seeking Quiet
S he hesitated on the threshold of the small chapel of the moon designated for the common folk of the castle.
It seemed worlds away from castle corridors that thronged with people going about their business.
The silence and stillness of the chapel settled on her like a soft blanket and already her muscles relaxed and her breathing eased.
The resident moon priest spotted her, and she turned away, pretending she had not seen him in turn, but she was too late.
“Rider,” he called, “may I help you? All are welcome in this sanctuary.”
“Thanks, but I was just passing by.”
“Rider,” he said, “there is only one way in and out.”
She glanced at the stairs that she’d just descended. It was true, there was nothing else at their bottom but the chapel. Well, except for an entrance to the warming room that led to the royal tombs, but that didn’t count.
“Uh...”
“Perhaps you’d join me for a cup of tea and a scone?” he asked. “I just put the water on.”
She really wanted to decline. She had wandered this way at loose ends, not really noticing where her feet led her until she was there.
“The scones are fresh from the kitchens,” the priest said, “still warm and I’ve a pot of cream butter.”
It did sound tempting, and at this point it would be rude to refuse, so she smiled and nodded.
“Excellent. I don’t often have company except during reg ular services,” he said as he led her into the chapel. “Oh, once in a while someone will come to light a candle or pray, but casual conversation? People in the castle are just too busy, always hurrying from one thing to another.”
To her surprise, he set up their tea on the altar. She would have thought it disrespectful, but he had no such concern, it seemed. He pulled up chairs reserved for priests. Plain wooden benches were arranged before the altar as seating for parishioners.
“Thank you, Father—uh—,” she began.
“Brother Leon, actually,” he replied. “And you are entirely welcome. With whom do I have the pleasure of sharing tea?”
“Karigan.”
He offered her a basket of scones, and she chose one on top and split it in half. It was indeed still warm, and the cream butter melted deep and satisfyingly into the nooks and crannies of each half. They ate, sipped, and spoke of small things, especially the weather.
“I have not been up for some while to look upon the world without.” Brother Leon chuckled. “One almost forgets there is a larger castle beyond these walls.”
It was like an island of tranquility, Karigan thought, far removed from the cares of the world.
Without prompting, he proceeded to tell her about life growing up in Hillander raised by monks after his parents passed away.
The life of venerating the gods, he said, spoke to him as a calling.
He’d tended the shrine in the lord-governor’s keep until Zachary requested he come to Sacor City to oversee the castle’s small chapel.
“But here I am blathering on,” he said. “Tell me, Rider Karigan, how you came to be a king’s messenger.”
“It’s a complicated story,” she said with a smile, “but it was also a calling.”
“Service to the king would indeed be a calling, especially as a messenger.” He poured each of them another cup of tea. “It is a dangerous vocation and you’d have to be prepared to serve under difficult circumstances.”
Karigan did not wish to talk about her history of “difficult circumstances.” Her gaze wandered about the plain chapel with its simple tapestries woven with religious scenes. “How do you occupy yourself when you’ve no visitors with whom to share tea?”
“As a monk I am accustomed to long silences. I pray or meditate upon this world the gods have given us, or I may read the lessons as scribed in The Book of the Moon. If I hear of someone who has been sick or injured, I will pray for them and visit if I can or am requested. Then there is sweeping and removing candle wax from surfaces and replacing candles. But—” and now there was a light in his eyes, “—I also put my hands to craft.”
He removed from a pocket in his robes a carving. Its details were delicately carved, an ordinary squirrel.
“My order was founded in ancient times to venerate Fleuria, goddess of woodlands and all the creatures that live within, but especially the smallest.” With his carving on his palm, he continued, “It is said she would appear as a squirrel or bird to oversee her domain, but like so many of the old nature goddesses, she is largely forgotten. Long ago my order converted to direct worship of Aeryc and Aeryon, overshadowing their lesser kin among the pantheon who have slipped from memory. At my home abbey, however, we still put out seed for the birds and squirrels. Never know when Fleuria will look in on us.”
“I admit I’ve never heard of Fleuria,” she said, “though I am familiar with Marin the Gardener.”
“Ah, yes. She was one of the sisterhood of nature goddesses, and is often recalled by those who cherish gardens. Here, you keep my little squirrel.” He pressed the carving into her hand.
“What? Are you sure? It’s too fine for—”
“You seem in need of a friend,” he said. “A little woodland friend. Please take it. I’ve already begun work on another.”
“Thank you so much.” She was pleased by the unexpected gift and would put it in a place of honor on her bookshelf.
“Now,” Brother Leon said, “perhaps you will tell me what brought you by today.”
Karigan sat in silence and gazed down at the wooden squirrel cupped in her hand with its friendly face. It held an acorn in its front paws. Brother Leon, who was used to silence and being patient, sat meditatively with his eyes half closed.
Why had she come? She knew the gods existed; she was even Westrion’s avatar.
Yet, she was not one to pray or attend services though her aunts had made her do so when she was little.
She viewed the gods as capricious and doubted they paid much attention to prayers or mortal needs.
Aeryon had proven outright hostile to her.
As Westrion’s avatar, Karigan knew her aunt had ascended to the heavens and that there was some existence beyond the veil, but . . .
“I...” she began. “My aunt passed away recently. She, along with my other aunts, raised me. I thought maybe I would light a candle for her, but I know she’s all right in the heavens and the gods could care less.”
Brother Leon gazed knowingly at her and seemed unoffended by her words about the gods. “But you miss her, yes?”
She nodded, afraid that if she spoke her voice would break.
“Many of the trappings you see in a chapel,” he said, spreading his arms wide to take it all in, “all the services and rites, are as much for us to work our way through life and to its end, as it is to exercise our faith, and to honor the gods. For many, it brings them closer to the divine. For others, not so much, but there is peace and comfort found in the routine. There is no reason why you should not light a candle for your aunt. Such rites are for the memory of loved ones, a gesture on our part to acknowledge their lifetime of existence in this material world even as they have transitioned beyond. It need not be burdened with symbols of worship or ceremony. Would you like to light one?”
Again, she nodded.
He led her to a small side altar where several beeswax candles burned, some sputtering to nothing in their own melted wax. Others were new, never lit. He handed her a red candle.
“Use this to light the one of your choice.”
After she accepted the candle, he moved a respectable distance away so she could have privacy. She did not feel compelled to choose one candle over the other, so she picked the closest one.
“I miss you,” she said to Aunt Stace. Perhaps her message would rise on a thin wisp of candle smoke to the heavens, or Aunt Stace would hear her, regardless.
She set the red candle aside and watched the flicker of flame for a while, trying to think only of her aunt, but she thought also of Fleuria and Salvistar, and how temporary life was even for gods and goddesses.
Someday she, too, would ascend to the heavens, or so she hoped, and see Aunt Stace again.
She wiped tears away with her sleeve and turned back to Brother Leon. “Thank you.”
“The candle will burn for a full day and a night,” he told her. “My thoughts go with you in this time of grieving. Do not hesitate to visit again. Tea is always at the third hour of the afternoon.”
She bade him farewell and climbed the stairs from the chapel to the main level of the castle, feeling lighter than she had in many days.