XII. Ruins

Heaven on earth, spilling out of a broken marble box.

The walls around you are a dingy sort of cream, but once, you imagine, they were blinding white. Even now, in their decayed state, they stand out like monuments in the green grass. You can see rotted wood here and there, of what must have been the floor many years ago, but most of the ground has been reclaimed by nature.

This, you know, was a grand cathedral once upon a time. You try to imagine it, as you stand among crumbled walls, bits of wood, and the crows who have replaced the congregation that gathered here so long ago. As you stand in this spot, the wind rustling through your hair and the too-thin jacket you regret choosing for the day’s adventure, you travel back hundreds of years.

You can hear the soft footsteps of people stopping in for daily mass, the quiet rustle of skirts and embarrassingly loud thunks as people take to their knees. You see candles, dozens and dozens of candles, lit for this blessing or that saint or this prayer or that bit of thanksgiving. The smoke of the hundreds or thousands of candles before it have stained the walls somewhat, but the white of them is still striking.

(Ah, your historical memory butts in, but remember: cathedrals were painted! Try not to imagine the stark white walls you would see in a cathedral today. Instead, think of the brightest colors used with reckless abandon. Reds and greens and yellows—blues only for the holiest of women, and real gold leaf for the stars and the sun and the halos of those who have earned them. Heaven on earth, contained in a pretty marble box.)

You’re jolted back to the present as you hear a car backfire on the road. The candles and the penitent are gone, and you’re standing in what’s left behind. The marble box has broken open, spilling out the greens and reds and yellows—and yes, even the blue—out to the world. Heaven on earth, left to the crows and the people, like you, who come to see it.

Another chilly gust of wind tugs at you, and you decide it’s time to get back in for tea. You leave the crows to their prayers, in a language only they understand, and head elsewhere to seek the warmth of a thousand candles.