Demon Stories

Beau: Romance of the Church, 1939, Germany

Beau

Romance of the Church

1939, Germany

The church square had grey stones cobbled in a circular pattern. Raw wood benches sat under the many bare trees, appearing dead with Winter but still thriving from within. The air was silent but for the breeze, whistling very softly. A light snow was about to begin to fall, I could feel this in my bones. It was very cold. I began to shiver in my suit. 

I rounded the church, wandering into the back garden. The garden led to a graveyard, I could see. Heavy wrought iron gates were open to the waves of grey headstones, far too many for this town. 

I didn't see her at first. My eyes alighted on her on the second pass of my gazing about the garden. She was sat on a bench under a rather large tree. I couldn't tell what kind it was without its leaves. She just sat there rigidly, looking at nothing in particular. After watching her for a few more moments, I figured out why she was staring as she was. She was blind. 

She was dressed in a plain black habit, a brown rosary strung around her neck. I could see she was holding a small wooden cross in her hand also, its tip peeking out from her tightly curled fingers. She was a young girl, maybe not more than eighteen, perhaps nineteen. Her slim form was barely there, perched straight backed on the edge of the wooden bench. 

I didn't want to startle her, so I tapped my foot on the stones of the path rather loudly. She startled anyway. "Who goes there?" she called out in a slightly scared way.

"It is but no one," I answered back in my best German.

"A visitor," she said, smiling. She got up primly and turned towards the sound of my voice. "Are you here to see the church? It really is quite splendid."

"Yes, I am. Thank you," I replied, matching her polite speech patterns.

We walked into the church together. She spoke of the carvings of the pews, touching them and inviting me to touch them as well. She spoke of the history of the church, how the town had built it about a century ago when the old one's interior had burned and made it unusable. Her face brightened when we neared the large tapestry behind the altar.  She pointed at it and explained its picture vividly, with lush detail and love of the subject and craftsmanship.

"Hmm," I said, finger to my chin, deciding to play a little game, "but that's not what's on this tapestry. Its entirely different."

Her whole body froze and she stared in the direction of the tapestry like a woman betrayed from the core of her heart, and I knew I had gone too far. 

"But the tapestry survived the fire of 1839. How can that be? Why would it be replaced?" She asked. Her fingers hovered near the tapestry now, but still dared not touch the obviously old and delicate, heavy threads.

I hung my head. I touched her shoulder gently in apology. "I'm sorry. Its the same tapestry as 1839," I said in shame. Why hurt the poor girl? What had I been thinking of? This nice nun who probably never even killed a fly in her life.