Tales of Disturbance

The Fox and the Starlight

He steps into the dark churchyard, eyes darting furtively around him. He is convinced of imminent danger, most of all, some predator soldier lurking in the shadows. But there is only the darkness; the silence punctuated by the panting white strips of his breath. 

And watching over everything, looming up ahead, is the shadowy, Gothic stone building.  He approaches and the building looms taller, like a solemn judge rising to its feet.

He feels something cold on his face, unexpected. He thrusts out his hand of frayed finger-less gloves. Snowflakes scatter in tiny white feathers into his neck and hair.  

He nuzzles his chin into his collar, then rubs his hands together through his gloves. He is suddenly more aware. Aware of his aching, tired feet and his hands so cold they are inflexible blocks of ice. The bitterness of the frost penetrates his torso through a rip in his jacket.  

Yes, he is weary, so weary; the night air bitter, so bitter. His skin, made sensitive with blunt government razors and coarse coal soap, reddens raw and chilblain, pocked and raw with cold. 

He cannot stay here in the elements for much longer. 

Yet he knows with certainty that he cannot go back tonight. 

He is not, if he is honest, completely sure of the way back. 

He could die in this weather, he thinks suddenly. The thought is frightening. Since the party's ascent to power, his soul aim has been survival.  All he can do, he considers, is attempt to seek shelter here in this strange, ancient church.  

He does not hold out much hope. Yet, he thinks, there is something strange, mystical even, about this night. He feels differently ever since he saw the fox. Lighter somehow, like his life was opening up like a fan. He thinks again of the sudden shock of tawny plume across the path. The unexpected creature moving with such urgency along the path that gave him a sudden surging hope. 

Yes, he has felt differently since he saw the fox. Perhaps, just perhaps, things will go his way tonight.  

He reaches the door, grand and heavy and ornately carved. He does not know if he will find warmth, but shelter is enough. With another furtive glance behind him, he tries the rusted iron handle. Locked? 

Not locked. 

It clicks and releases quickly. He pushes and it opens like a slow, dark mouth- a sustained creak, high and human.  

He shrugs off a sudden uneasy, creeping feeling in his stomach, and slips inside the building. 

It is immediately very dark. He feels rather than sees the vast hallway of damp grey stone. The air smells damp and shut. The door creaks again, and he thinks he should close it. His feet tap slowly, slowly over the cold stone floor. His nerves seem to balance on some high precarious ledge with a high drop underneath, and he rubs his eyes to make them adjust. It is then he becomes aware of something - a quiet glow beneath a door. It must be the way into the sanctuary. But the light. Why? 

Is it a light, or is he imagining it? No, it's really there. 

He moves towards it as if he moving through a dream, and listens at the door. 

Nothing.

Unsure of what he is doing, he pushes and suddenly, he is inside the glowing church. It is quite preserved. Wooden pews on each side, angled into the crucifixion at the centre. Then there are candles, many, and the close, red smell of melting wax catches on his throat.

He looks up, mesmerised. He is not thinking of the danger now, that the lit candles could mean someone there. He brushes it to the back of his mind that someone might be there. Imagines a senile priest perhaps. 

Such a strange, beautiful place. So strange that it is still here, still preserved. And to have come across it this night, led here by the fox. What luck. Above him, the ceiling rises to a sharp point, an apex, where the gaze of the suffering Christ finds him, and seems to look straight into his soul. All references to religion have been banished by the party, and it is very odd to see it now.

He thinks suddenly of the last time he was in Church. It was on Christmas eve as a boy. A giant Christmas tree was branched out broadly in the centre of the building. He could still see it, rising to an apex, its thick luxurious branches lit with candles, the branches climbing and narrowing until they reached a sharp apex of decision on which was placed a single, beautiful star. He could never stop looking at the star, so much so that his mother had boxed his ears...

WHACK. THUD. THUMP.

Someone suddenly behind. Something hard and metallic thrust against his skull, then dropped on the floor. He sways and his senses blur and start to close. But it is the shock of the blow that is so jolting. Clumsily he half turns, tries to see who it was. Nobody there. A moment later he passes out.

Knees bent, hands stretched out as if in supplication to the devine, he lies senseless and motionless on the cold church floor.