29. Scotland
794 Words
Angel Mel and Bessie reappear just outside a charming village church somewhere in the Scottish Lowlands. Ivy covers the ancient brickwork almost completely. On a small wooden panel, decorated with a Celtic cross, the name: “St. Ivan’s Church” is followed by the announcement of a funeral service for one Mr. Sweeney Fiddler.
Bessie glances around at the lovely, lush hedges surrounding the neighboring graveyard, where markers that look as old as the hills they stand on, scatter the neatly trimmed grass. By the stone nearest her, a small bouquet leans against the pitted marble. A scruffy dog takes a leak against another. Wild roses climb the distant rock wall where a hunched-over elderly man in a sweater and cap watches the proceedings, leaning on a hand-whittled walking stick.
An organ begins to play from inside. “Come on then.” Angel Mel directs her, patting her shoulder. They pass through the heavy doors to take a place at the rear of the church.
A strangely long and wide coffin covered in white roses lies on a simple wooden cart before the altar. In the front row, Bessie can see the back of a slight woman and a series of skinny children ranging in age from about four to ten. A small boy, two children down from his mother, fusses. She reaches over a gloved hand to give him a swat on the ear. The rest of the seats hold what appears to be a scattering of kinfolk and friends.
At the front, the minister, a frail, elderly man wearing frilly robes, is surprisingly robust in his voice. “We are gathered here today to celebrate Sweeney Fiddler, whose life, although unexpectedly cut short in his prime, was filled with …”
Bessie whispers to Angel Mel, “Filled with lots of bacon and pies, by the look of his coffin.”
He shushes her good naturedly. “Pay attention.”
After a weeping eulogy by the deceased’s brother, also of imposing size, a rousing hymn and a series of Bible readings follow. The minister pipes up, “Let us pray.”
Angel Mel gives Bessie a firm elbow poke. “Now listen up. This is why we’re here.” She looks up at him, confused, before turning her focus on the little man at the front, not wanting to miss the point.
The minister’s voice booms in the well-known prayer, with stragglers from the congregation joining in. “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”
Bessie finds herself whispering the well-known words along with them. Angel Mel’s index finger taps her shoulder insistently. He tells her firmly, “Here it comes, here it comes.”
“Here comes what?” she asks him, bewildered.
“Listen! Listen!” His voice is filled with a rare forcefulness as the sound of the congregation continues.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …” murmur the voices in the pews.
Angel Mel is all business now. He says, “See? See? That’s the part they never get! It’s the shadow of death.” He’s all animated, enunciating to her. “Sha-dow. Sha-dow. It’s not a death. It’s merely a shadow. And before you can produce a shadow, you have to have a …?”
shadowBessie looks into his face, hopeful. “Light?”
Angel Mel grins delightedly from ear-to-ear. He confirms, “Light! Yes! Light! A bright, shining, glorious light! And the light is …?” He gazes down at her in nervous anticipation as her features change from confusion to concentration, and finally, to comprehension.
She smiles as she replies with confidence, “God. The light is God.”
He tips up her chin with his palm, gushing, “My wonderfully brilliant girl. The light is indeed God. Or Allah, or Mohammed, or Jehovah, or Apotamkin, or Azna, or whatever name you know the essence of God by.” He can barely contain his pleasure. “And there is no death. There is only …”
Bessie is sure of her answer this time. She tells him, “The shadow of death.”
He swoops her into a bear hug, almost crushing her in his enthusiasm, booming, “The shadow of death. Not a death, only a shadow. Created by the Light of God.” He pulls her back to arm’s length. “Now if we hurry, we can catch that new Steve McQueen movie.”
He wraps her up in his wings and they vanish in a flurry of feathers.
- Writer
