Fridays.
His favourite and darkest day, made bright. This day for him seemed always to tilt the cosmic scales. The weight of Golgotha was almost tangible, a pressure in the air that made his own small act of light feel necessary.
The bell in his head dinged. He looked up; the clock hands aligned, as they always did, at 11:30. It was a call he could no longer ignore, a ritual now part of his flesh and bone. He rose from his bed where he had passed out, his body protesting, the ache of the previous day still a whisper in his chest. The pill remained untouched on the dresser.
He went to the large, old cupboard in the hall. It smelled of wood and wax. Opening the creaking doors, he brought out a cardboard box full of candles. In the kitchen, he grabbed a lighter.
With the box and the lighter in hand, he stepped into the night.
He walked into the cold dark, a one-man procession moving through the space of the living those who live and move and have their being in another realm. He moved slowly and deliberately, his sandals sweeping over the cold grass.
His Friday ritual began.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The wind swirled.
The Lord be with you...
The sound of nothing was disturbed as he made the Oran position.
Lord God Almighty, creator of all things and the giver of life, in your love you made man, and in our disobedience we have fallen... He sighed, taking a deep breath. ...In your compassion you saved us and lit the path to life eternal and to your eternal glory. Almighty Father, in your love there is justice and discipline, so nothing unclean will enter your kingdom. Hasten the purification of these souls I bring to your throne of Mercy: Agnes, Monica, Ruth, Theresa, John, Steven, Johnson... Let these candles be their hope in Christ, a reminder of the light they were given when they died with Him, died to sin, and will rise with Him in glory. Amen.
He raised his hand in blessing.
Bless these candles, O Lord, and grant the grace of purification upon them, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
He moved to the first stone, its name worn away by time. He stopped, placed a candle, struck the lighter. A single, fragile flame sputtered into life, pushing back the night.
He moved to a newer granite stone, a name he knew: David's mom, Anastasia. May the soul of Anastasia, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.
He walked the fields, a shower of light in the darkness of the night, in this field of death. He lit candles for those inscribed in his ledger: the ones he knew in his heart, the girl hit by a bus two years ago, those in the parish records, those known only to God. For each, he lit a flame.
Friday was no longer dark. It was a canvas of hope, painted by a man lucky enough to have his hands consecrated. The cemetery became a field of bright yellow stars, each one a promise of resurrection.
He made his way to the wooden altar and set out the sacraments for Mass.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit
The constant, unsettling murmur in his hearing stopped for a split second. Then, a thunder of hundreds no, thousands of voices chorused Amen. It was clear, and he felt it in his soul.
His heart skipped a beat. Not good for a man with a weary heart or so he'd been told. He himself had never looked weary during Mass.
A sudden and strong wind blew through the cemetery, rushing over the tombstones and through the trees. And yet, impossibly, not a single candle went out.
He knew it wasn't only him in the darkness. It was an assembly of three, worshipping. And he was able to create this atmosphere because only one can join the triumphant, the militant, and the suffering. He was privileged to be one of those ones.
The final blessing was given. The sublime unity of the converging Body of Christ receded like a tide as the Holy Presence withdrew, and something else rushed in to fill the void left behind.
It was different now. The murmur returned, no longer a distant, subterranean rumble, but a rising wave of distinct, overlapping whispers. Pleas and laments swirled around him, each vying for attention, growing louder and louder a cacophony of the rawest need of souls to see God.
And beneath those whispers now were clear, defined footsteps. Where before it could have been phantom pressure at his back, now the sound was clear and present. The crunch of gravel, a soft squish of damp soil to his right. They were not synchronized, but chaotic, scattered: the restless pacing of a waiting crowd he could not see but could feel pressing in from all sides.
The rectory door groaned shut behind him.
He sat in the living room, exhaustion washing over him, as it always did. Why did he always lose so much strength after Mass? A hollow feeling in his stomach called for his attention. He quite couldn't remember his last proper meal, his stomach missing the chef, the feel of the weight. The two weights of exhaustion were like oil and water, clear and distinct from each other; the second one was likely his body, starved of glucose. He looked up at the wall clock: 3:37. Then he noticed his hands were shaking.
He rushed to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out half a loaf of sliced bread. He shoved two slices into his mouth before turning to cook something proper.
The grains in the plastic, the white rice between his fingers, the water running over them. The stew sizzled. The hot kitchen finally cooled as he was forced by habit to the dining table.
Prayer before meal. Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.
He started eating. Tears rolled down his eyes. He was not an emotional man what was going on? It was as if his body was thanking him. He was soaked in satisfaction, his stomach grounded in comfort.
He headed to bed after the meal, whispering, Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...
As he slowly drifted to sleep and into the land of screams probably used to it by now he was disturbed enough to decide to open his eyes.
His eyes cracked open.
He was standing upright in an endless void of pearlescent white-silver.
Or was it transparent fire?