This story is inspired by Greg Bear's short story "Petra" (1982).
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“His Coming and Going”
by M.P. Xavier Dalke
Timorous steps of porcelain fracture the silence of the Cathedral’s sacristy, the pitter-patter tattoo breaking the atmosphere of timeless hallowedness. The tiny linen-draped figure treads lightly across the inset mahogany counter, but the density of his substance strikes the wood like the tongue of a dull bell. Gaining speed and confidence, the length of the counter ends as the figure fumbles his halting, sliding into the trim with a delicate bump. Peering over the side of the mahogany precipice, he gapes at his intended descent but seems to be intrinsically aware of his own solidity and permanence.
#
I kneel, almost cower, behind a brass cross opposite to the mahogany counter where the minute figure nimbly scuttles across its surface and haphazardly meets resistance at the trim’s perpendicular face. I cough a release of laughter at the risible scene yet remain composed enough to study the newly volitional porcelain figure. His spry manner and eager intent catches my breath as not all the awakening statues have exhibited such vitality after the passing of the Mortdieu; most lumbering gargoyles heave to and fro while the lithe angels preserve their grace and tiptoe on the very surface on which they tread. I have waited earnestly for this figure to animate; his awakening and presence could be influential to how our kind are treated in the Cathedral, in the world.
#
Without recourse to abseiling the steep wooden veneer, the brunet figure plunges toward the carpet on a supine trajectory, connecting with a faint blow and a wisp of dust; seconds follow as its toile loincloth drifts to the cushioned landing, many arm spans away from its personage. Conscientiously adjusting his crown of thorns, the figure plods through the flocculent shag of the carpet to retrieve his lone cloth adornment with a reassuring tuck and fold. Standing erect with the shag brushing his shins, the figure begins to beat a path toward the distant tiles bordering the Cathedral’s ambulatory.
#
Given my hierarchical importance, perhaps I’m drawn by my nature to the porcelain figure, be he stoically splayed on the crucifix or temerariously high-stepping through the carpet’s shag. I have a certain affection for him, an affection faceted by admiration and avuncularity. He falls, I wince; he gallops, I elate. As he reaches the tiled ambulatory, I follow with timorous steps of my own, bronze-feathered wings tucked akimbo to my gleaming plates of armor. The small figure pauses at the open threshold, gasping at the cavernous interior of the Cathedral. The dusk’s dying rays illuminate the stained glass windows of the western transept, giving the nave a warm aura amid its mahogany pews.
#
The timid angel behind the crucifix abandons his recess, at a distance following the miniscule height of the loin-clothed and blood-speckled Figurine, an effigy I adore. The Mortdieu has done strange things to the Cathedral, where the inspiring yet once impassive statues have come to life, descending from their alcoves, candelabras or other fixtures. Like the Archangel had done, I cower; the tiled floor under my knees supports my trembling genuflection, a mixed attempt to ask God for guidance while seeking cover from the roaming, sacred effigies… yet, the approaching Figure, nimble and confident, invigorates me with an obtuse sense of hope. As He has guided me in times of weakness oft before, now He advances toward my cold-tiled refuge, coaxing faith from my enfeebled soul.
#
Passing the threshold from the dense shag to the expansive, stable tile is a relief. From my acutely angled perspective, I sight a white-clad man cringing under a distant pew, yet he seems to gather his courage as my steps clink upon the grey tile. On all fours and with teary eyes of obedience, he peers at me yet also behind me. I turn swiftly, forgetting my polished heel upon the glossy tile; I spin twice around before collapsing in a shatter of noise as my limbs twinkle with their fluttering about. From my floor-level vantage, I collect my crown as I see the winged, armored figure crouching on the shag carpet from where I came. He watches me as if frozen into a statuesque form; the white-clad man, too, watches me like all of time has suddenly stopped. The world hinges upon my very movement. This is awkward.
#
The spectacle of the figure’s advent had held me in reverent awe but now my lurking presence has been made known to him, thwarted by the errant glimpse of the man in superficial sanctuary under the pew. My movement halts, my breathing ceases; he evaluates my position yet turns back to the man. Composing his porcelain self on the floor, he then stands erect and proud, taking slow minute steps of resonance toward the row of pews bathed in the warm light of dusk. His back toward me, I also proceed with reverence on a similar course.
#
This is His Coming. I’m immediately self-conscious of my person: my lavender stole draped to the grey floor, my cincture untied and hung around my neck, my once spartan alb smudged with the age-old scuff of practitioners’ dress shoes. Rather than meekly await His Advent with blurry eyes of soulful longing, I prostrate in obeisance, silently praying for order in this time of godlessness.
#
I approach the folded man, offering a hand to help him up but then realize that he dwarfs me by orders of magnitude. Regardless, as an irenic gesture, I keep my hand out; I feel his warmth before his flesh, an invisible aura of pleasure which heats my whole density. I sigh and close my eyes to savor the unique sensation as he grips my hand. The pinch is painless; he knows his physical strength but, obviously, his spiritual fortitude had failed him some time ago. Rather than rise to tower over me, he leans toward me; his irregular breathing drafting my wrapped linen, creating eddies of force around my legs. Tears stream down his cheeks, he incants a homage. I don’t know what to make of this heap of flesh, cloth, breath, and tears.
#
He offers His hand to mine, a gesture which melts my heart with gratitude for His Concern, for His Love, and, ultimately, for His Coming. I mumble an unrehearsed prayer of thanks. I catch my breath, compose myself, and the words spill from my mouth, “My Savior.”
Blessedly stoic, He replies, “I’ve saved no one.”
Trembling as the lilt of His tiny voice resonates my unworthy eardrums, I shudder and shallow, composing myself yet again for another brief exchange of words, “From Evil. There is Evil here—all around. I’m scared, my Savior.”
I cannot face Him, I cannot meet His eyes. His presence strengthens my soul but turns my body into a melting votive candle. I wait for His soothing voice to console my absolute grief.
#
Who am I to this man? Why do his tears pool under his prostrated face? And why does he call me his savior? I’m perplexed yet unconcerned for his troubled emotional state. I have little to offer aside from: “There is no evil, only freedom.”
The man mumbles gratitude, as if not even hearing my contradictory words to his own. I add, “I am no one’s savior. I’m just...” This is where words fail me; I don’t know who I am, but I know who I am not: this so-called Savior.
#
This scene of reunion captivates my attention as I approach: shepherd and sheep. I slow my pace, hear the mumbling of the man and the tinny whispers of the figure, but eventually I am part of his congregation. Loathe to break the silence but sensing the importance of opportunity, I speak, “Our savior.”
The bearded figure’s head slowly turns my way, his eyes obscured by ashen hands rubbing his brow. Have I spoken too soon?
Flinging his hands wide, he releases a torrent of twinkling words. I gather he’s angry, but I don’t understand a single word of his high-pitched rant. I wait for him to collect himself.
“Am I your savior, too?” Each word emphatic, his question bites.
I reassess. “Like you, I am a statue under my own volition. We are not natural. I fear our well-being at the hands of the humans.” I point at the trembling man, “Like him.”
#
Why is everyone so needy? I leave them where they are.
#
I hear His porcelain steps fade. I look up to see the Archangel staring at me, kneeling on the grey tile; his wings beat gently behind his back. I test the moment, “Savior?”
He shakes his head and mutters, “We’re all lost.”
I retreat under the mahogany pew.
