TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE XLIV

S T A V E

XLIV

"I find religion to be most sensual." He said it in passing as he escorted her into St George's Chapel. "Don't you agree? High Church I mean." He dropped to a whisper though his words expanded among the many empty pews. "How dour Low Churchmen – the Congregationalists completely angry and these evangelical Methodists – simply mad. The Great Awakening – I guess it gives a comfort."

The few heads turned as Obedience shushed him.

"I mean all in all, if one participates, why not believe wholeheartedly? God knows we're all damned whether He be or not."

She shushed him again.

"And if He not be, we must make our own salvation and do what we can. You agree?"

They slipped into a side pew.

"You're talking," she said.

"And who's to hear? That old couple in their private booth? There's not a handful here to make a platoon. And they won't mind – these few."

The church, for its size, was empty, a spattering of worshipers here and there. They gave each other distance, a Luxury not often granted; so much of daily life crammed together – in the market, in the street, in the taverns and the clubs, always a roiling crowd. If a straggler came in, they would not sit too near. Each believer sought their own temple and in doing so, it gave them a communion they would not have had if jammed in.

"I imagine Heaven thus," he could not help but whisper, "with a crowd when you want them, otherwise to be alone. A place of Body and Soul. Indeed, they're one and the same."

"Is this why you brought me here? To talk my ear off? We could've done it in the sled."

"Can't help it." He looked up at the structure overhead, taking in the details – wooden angels mounted on the beams. "And we couldn't have," he said. "Nature's beauty wouldn't allow us. We'd be awed into silence before her scene. Here we have a manmade hall, an empty hall. We must fill it with noise. Hear how the voice rings out."

"You are mad," she couldn't help but giggle.

A number of the churchgoers turned around. He lowered his voice. "It demands we be discovered."

In the choir, the organ sounded, an air by Balbastre, like a soft road blunting the hurried step, throwing off distractions and slowing all activity in body and head so one may reflect. Obedience and Dalrymple turned to look up, the music rendered sweetly. Who could be playing? No amateur – that St George's would have such a musician on this snowy day.

"A Molly," Dalrymple whispered. "The best of 'em are you know. They have the Art. Gives them expression with their hands."

As the final note rose, it paused, and then opened the processional hymn. Obedience and

Dalrymple, knowing it, need not crack the hymnal.

          Guide me, O thou great Jehovah,

          Pilgrim through this barren land.

          I am weak, but thou art mighty;

          Hold me with thy powerful hand.

          Bread of heaven, bread of heaven,

          Feed me till I want no more;

Dalrymple looked into her eyes.

          Feed me till I want no more.