Angels in the Architecture (41 page)

‘You’re on.’

Pete finished restoring his mustang. He had a brief moment of anxiety during the spray painting when he found Tim with both hands well into a pot of paint, large dollops of it through his hair, and clearly in his mouth; how much he’d ingested was anyone’s guess. Pete had come to his rescue at the point where the taste of the paint had gone beyond the curious and obviously was attaining some level of dissatisfaction that provoked a loud bellowing from the small boy. He had all but thrown him in the back seat of their station wagon and sped into the hospital in Lincoln; despite Tim’s obvious discomfort at the taste of the paint, Pete didn’t think he was going to be in any particular danger. They got to the Emergency Room in time for Tim to volunteer a racing green, projectile vomit. He didn’t like to vomit, and the experience brought on another hour of bellowing; Pete having to reassure the nurses that this was not a response to pain or illness but just that he was disturbed by the loss of control over his body.

It was a horrendous
clean-up job, and Tim had shades of racing green in his hair for weeks after, not to mention that they were all over the interior of the car as well. His teeth and mouth were green for three or four days, and Pete thought better of taking him out anywhere.

I mean, let’s face it, he’s bloody odd
our Tim; don’t need any more bloody stares than we already get, eh?

For his maiden run in the
mustang, Pete waited till Jillie was at school and he strapped Tim’s car seat into the front passenger seat, plopped the roof back, and the two of them spun out of the driveway into the verdant Lincolnshire countryside: Tim laughing away and Pete praying for a cop-free blast.

The two monks stood side by side within the southern choir aisle of
the Cathedral. The older dropped to his knees before the throne-like structure that had been erected over the small tomb.

It was hardly a whisper we blew his way, and it so swelled my heart that day he understood.

The younger monk stood still and wept.

We could not have foreseen
...

How is it that he failed, the older one?

Did he? I hoped perhaps the presence of the Bishop would come earlier into his life. This might have seemed to have created some order to his purpose, should that have occurred.

How would this have helped him, when his mother was so strong? Surely she had this influence.

Yes, but she was lost in her time and her context and could not rise above that.

But
the Bishop
...

He was a powerful figure and knew his responsibility to us. Certainly the boy heard the call, but circumstances were against him. His task was far more difficult.

But the world was dire for the younger boy and far more complex. We cannot deny the challenge set him, in that time. And yet ultimately, he could prevent a disaster of far greater proportions.

His father rose out of his times
.

Of course they will never know.

How can any of them ever know what influences they have had? This is the challenge to all the race – to go beyond, with no knowledge of the power they can wield, to change things.

Simply with their openness to our realm
...

Yes, indeed.

Will there be others, do you think?

There will always be those who will try, and many will fail – most, in fact.

Let us see who else can go beyond themselves, as the great ones before them
...
The Son, The Prophet, The Glory
...

They will always be with us, and with them, and
their Word is emblazoned forever.

Morality is unclear to men. They twist and turn it to their own devices.

Yes, of course. They are men. They will always put their own interpretations to it. But not all. Not all.

No, not all.

We must prepare a welcome for the older boy. Despite his immediate failure, he left behind his own influence. He left a call to the younger boy. That was not an easy thing to do. He found the connection across time – this is not easily understood, and yet he found the key. This was a great courage on his part. And there were nonetheless some great men of the time – sons of the Prophet even – who were greater and more beneficent that others may have thought, then or now.

Yes,
the Bishop didn’t see it in this light. Just the words, but not the reality
.

And this is the problem after all
–
words alone. But without application they are worthless.

Perhaps, as you say, he did not really fail.

The monk stood from his kneeling
, and the two turned together and walked solemnly from the Cathedral, past the building going on around them, and the noise, and the gaping holes still in the side of the great Church.

All the religions are one.

If there be an ear to hear, or a heart to understand.

Lord Abelard
sat by a large fireplace, his booted feet crossed and resting on the table before him.

‘How many did you say?’

‘Over a hundred, my Lord,’ replied the Priest, sitting opposite, comfortable but not so much as his host.

‘Well then
, we’ll round them up in the town and send some packing down to London.’

‘I don’t think that’s necessary,
my Lord.’

‘Why the devil not? If
the King wants Jews, I’ll give them to him.’

‘Because
the Bishop
does not want
Jews, my Lord.’

‘I see.’ Abelard dropped his long legs to the ground and stood, wandering nearer the fire.

‘So you’re the Bishop’s man then? Well, I’m the King’s!’

‘I would say you are both,
sir, and it is perhaps not so simple to put a preference to such a thing. Nor indeed wise.’

‘Who the devil do you think you are to tell me what’s so
wise, Priest?’

‘Merely some advice for
your Lordship’s consideration. There’s been enough to stir the folk about lately, and I think – and our Bishop agrees – that it would be best if we leave things to calm for a while. The King has enough to make his foolish example of.’

‘That’s a brave statement, to call
our King foolish.’

‘Just his action,
sir. Just his action.’

‘Hmm. Well then. Is there anything to suggest a crime then?’

‘Not particularly. The boy had wandered and obviously been caught in a trap. It would have been easy enough for him to fall.’

‘Bloody poachers! What happened to that last one? Best we at least make an example of him then.’

‘I believe he was given a beating by your men and thrown out on a road with his arms broken. I expect he’s been set upon by thieves or some such by now. Certainly, he’s not been heard from since, as far as I’m aware.’

‘Well
, get back to your flock man and don’t be bringing me any more of these problems. Keep them settled, for God’s sake!’

‘With your help
, sir ...’

‘Not with my bloody help! The next nonsense you bring me and I’ll have someone’s head.’

‘Indeed.’ Father Taylor stood and bowed his head just a little, waiting for the Thane to reciprocate.

An acknowledgement almost imperceptible came and the priest turned and left the room, hearing some piece of furniture kicked or thrown behind him as he closed the door.
The Father smiled at the frustration exhibited from the other man.

I was such, once.

There was a balance to restore among the people of these parts, and he thought it would bring a fresh vision of the future for many simple but noble lives.

The Bishop
walked the path from the wharf; his assistant, Peter, in tow. The days were cooling, much to everyone’s relief, and tempers had burnt out likewise.

Thank God
.

‘How are
you, Peter?’

‘Eminence?’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m well,
my Lord. Thank you.’

‘There were two monks here recently, along this path
–
one older and one younger. Do you know them?’

‘There are so many come to the city,
my Lord. No, I’m sorry.’

‘No matter.’

The two men, Bishop and priest, walked on together. There was no hurry today.

‘I’m sorry about the
bird, Eminence.’ Peter braved a comment before being spoken to, which would not have been his usual way.

‘Thank
you, Peter. I’m sorry for it too.’

‘Are
you
well, Eminence?’

Hugh stopped and looked at the young priest. He smiled.

‘Thank you, Peter, for your concern. You have been a loyal servant in such trying times.’

‘I’ve seen the weight of it on you,
my Lord.’

‘Yes, yes, it has been that.’ Hugh resumed his walk
, and the priest continued the pace alongside.

The Lord
prevails.

‘
The Lord prevails, my Lord.’

Hugh smiled.

Jacob Yazd lit the seven candles on the table before him and bade his family bow their heads in their usual daily prayer, grateful for their safety, for a growing calm, and for Angels living and dead that some part in even the most meagre of fortunes.  Although life could not be thought of as meagre.

Berta Draper
nestled back in her chair, smothered in rugs, and closed her eyes.

The puzzle of many events linked together in a picture in her mind.

Well then. Sometimes I’m right. And sometimes I’m less right.

2
1

Walking along the lakefront beneath her office, Alicia’s mind floated in a joyful melancholy of her present being. It was a state she enjoyed, and it gave her pause to reflect on what had been and what was, well beyond her own existence and those in her immediate surrounds. Alicia relished change at the same time that it also swept her into wallowing in her own history, followed by a wonder at how she had achieved this new intersection virtually without knowing it was to come upon her.

The excitement of change, the planning of it, the events and such that had occurred for herself and for her family, an enlightenment as to several new realities in their lives, the prospect of something better
– all this rolled into a giant ball of light and energy in her consciousness that she revelled in. It seemed only perfect that the day was light, the colours of autumn were at their picturesque best, and the air was still. There was even the warmth that sat at the comfortable optimum between too warm and not quite warm enough.

Alicia smiled at those passing by her on the path, and noted as she did that these recipients of her blithesome charm were a fuller, more caring, more spirited humanity than she’d noticed in a while
, and she made a mental note to reassert her intellectual views on the depths of human kindness and of humanity in general.

With a
wrapped-up sandwich and a bottle of juice in her shoulder bag, Alicia settled on a wooden bench just off the path and closer to the lake and pulled out her light lunch. A pair of swans immediately paddled near.

‘Don’t even think about it, all right. You’re not having any. Shoo!’ she waved an arm at the two birds and they retreated a fraction. Alicia pretended to ignore them and hoped some other
passer-by might attract them with the promise of more enticing snacks.

Munching her
sandwich, Alicia’s reverie extended to the history of the place she sat, the two-thousand-year-old town and its thousand-year-old cathedral, and she marvelled at how many had walked this path before her and for what purpose. She felt sorry to be leaving the town just as she was uncovering its inherent riches, not to mention that she had overlooked the pleasure her own family had taken in Lincoln’s many stories and figures, and for that she resolved to take better notice of what the people in her life were thinking and doing and becoming..

Finishing off her crust and resisting the urge to throw it out to the swans – lord only knows they’d be back at her in a shot wanting more, and bringing all their friends with them – Alicia picked out her second sammie and smiled at an elderly gentleman who’d just that moment sat at the other end of her bench seat. He tipped his hat to her with a polite nod and a smile and wrapped his overcoat across him, apparently cold despite the day.