Solace and Longshire IV
Apr. 30th, 2006 11:37![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mapsedge"Sheep?" Longshire bristled. "What do you mean, sheep?"
"Precisely that. Sheep who need a goat to show them which direction to go to not fall off the cliff." Solace rubbed his hand across his scalp in a wholly unnecessary gesture that on other men would have brushed hair out of eyes. His voice sounded hollow in the empty chapel. "Why else do we refer to Him, " he gestured with his chin at the crucifix over the small altar, "as The Good Shepherd? Why else do you carry a crook at High Mass?"
Longshire stood, supporting himself with a hand on the communion rail. Like most places of worship in the year of Grace, 1535, there was no seating except in the choir. His leg ached, but not badly, not just now though he knew that would soon change. He waved his free hand in the general direction of the entry doors, which were out of sight.
"So I'm a goat, am I? When we call those people sheep, the symbolism is that of a guiding hand and protector..."
Solace shook his head. "That's what you tell the shit sellers in the shadow of the walls on market day, and when they stand in the great space out there on Sundays."
At Solace's profanity, the bishop glanced up at the crucifix and raised his eyebrows in apology, but he didn't react otherwise.
"And that's what you tell yourself to make the ministrations bearable. The rest of the week most are mindless bags of wool who need some other ruminant with a brain to exercise free will to show them where the manger is. You forget, my friend, " Solace went on, "that I stood to take Holy Orders, and spent a good deal of my life in reading, prayer, and contemplation--"
"I don't forget, " muttered the older man, "I just never see any evidence of it."
"--and serving the folk who came to our doors every Tuesday for alms. Not a brain in the lot."
"Solace, with your cynicism, I'm actually grateful you didn't advance beyond your novitiate. One must love the sinner, genuinely and without reservation. Even when it's difficult."
Solace considered that. "I never developed the talent for it," he said at last.
Longshire made a fist and, as he thought out what he would say, knocked his knuckles on the wood of the communion rail, stained almost black from decades of many, many hands. "That's not entirely accurate."
Solace raised an eyebrow.
"One can hear confession and still love the sinner. One must love the sinner to give him the Host. One can love the sinner, and see to the disposition of his remains." When Solace didn't reply, Longshire continued, "It's all service, all to the Glory of God. Like it or not, gravemaker, you might have made a bad priest, but you make a good sexton. I've seen others of your occupation for whom humanity stops when the coin does, but not you. Each one is human until Judgement, and even their bones receive your respect."
For a long while, neither man spoke. With an uneasy clearing of his throat, Solace said, quietly, "Thank you for that." It was a rare thing that anyone noticed the care he took, and Longshire's observation moved him.
Longshire nodded, beginning to notice the increasing ache in his leg. "Do you mind if we get to business?"
"I am yours to command."
With a good natured harrumph, Longshire looked squarely in his friend's eyes.
"That," he said, enunciating each word, "would be the first time."
Solace held his gaze and grinned, the mood lightened. Longshire extended his arm and pointed at a point on the floor a few feet away. "There."
"No."
Longshire took his gaze away from the gravemaker's face, and looked at the spot. "Why not?"
"Margarite, Lady de Tourney." He pronouced it in the French fashion, "duh-tourNAY".
"Blast it. I forgot about her."
"Practically everyone did, until the building settled around her and she pushed the flagstones up." Solace strode the two paces to the spot, and rubbed a toe at the mortar between two of the stones. "Made it beastly dangerous to walk about in here if you didn't watch your footing."
He stamped his foot on the stone. "The masons were grateful for the work, though." Solace snapped his fingers, "That's right. You were away that summer. You missed all the excitement. The priest who performed the offices in your absence was quite the little banty, strutting about and supervising." He chuckled. "It took some little convincing to keep the stonemasons from arranging for him to have an accident."
The bishop shook his head, a rueful little smile on his face. "It would have made the last five years more pleasant if you'd not succeeded." He squinted at the floor. "Come to that," Longshire stepped away from the rail, limping a little, "you can see the difference in the mortar if you look closely enough."
"Well...damn," he said finally. "I don't suppose there's any room to either side?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.
"I'm afraid, your Grace," Solace pointed at each flagstone in turn as he spoke, "that there is not room enough to bury even a cat, and even dead every person under this floor outranks you."
There was silence for a few moments. After a while, they became aware of other sounds, the life of the town around them and the church in which they stood, regarding the floor. Longshire shifted again, grimacing. Solace cleared his throat.
"Your Grace, it's plain to see that you're in pain just now. Let us away to the yard, to sit. I know you want to rest before the altar of this little chapel, but as that's not an option, let us look at other alternatives."
Longshire shifted his weight to his other ankle, which didn't help. "If we may talk about it sitting down, then, by all means..."
"Precisely that. Sheep who need a goat to show them which direction to go to not fall off the cliff." Solace rubbed his hand across his scalp in a wholly unnecessary gesture that on other men would have brushed hair out of eyes. His voice sounded hollow in the empty chapel. "Why else do we refer to Him, " he gestured with his chin at the crucifix over the small altar, "as The Good Shepherd? Why else do you carry a crook at High Mass?"
Longshire stood, supporting himself with a hand on the communion rail. Like most places of worship in the year of Grace, 1535, there was no seating except in the choir. His leg ached, but not badly, not just now though he knew that would soon change. He waved his free hand in the general direction of the entry doors, which were out of sight.
"So I'm a goat, am I? When we call those people sheep, the symbolism is that of a guiding hand and protector..."
Solace shook his head. "That's what you tell the shit sellers in the shadow of the walls on market day, and when they stand in the great space out there on Sundays."
At Solace's profanity, the bishop glanced up at the crucifix and raised his eyebrows in apology, but he didn't react otherwise.
"And that's what you tell yourself to make the ministrations bearable. The rest of the week most are mindless bags of wool who need some other ruminant with a brain to exercise free will to show them where the manger is. You forget, my friend, " Solace went on, "that I stood to take Holy Orders, and spent a good deal of my life in reading, prayer, and contemplation--"
"I don't forget, " muttered the older man, "I just never see any evidence of it."
"--and serving the folk who came to our doors every Tuesday for alms. Not a brain in the lot."
"Solace, with your cynicism, I'm actually grateful you didn't advance beyond your novitiate. One must love the sinner, genuinely and without reservation. Even when it's difficult."
Solace considered that. "I never developed the talent for it," he said at last.
Longshire made a fist and, as he thought out what he would say, knocked his knuckles on the wood of the communion rail, stained almost black from decades of many, many hands. "That's not entirely accurate."
Solace raised an eyebrow.
"One can hear confession and still love the sinner. One must love the sinner to give him the Host. One can love the sinner, and see to the disposition of his remains." When Solace didn't reply, Longshire continued, "It's all service, all to the Glory of God. Like it or not, gravemaker, you might have made a bad priest, but you make a good sexton. I've seen others of your occupation for whom humanity stops when the coin does, but not you. Each one is human until Judgement, and even their bones receive your respect."
For a long while, neither man spoke. With an uneasy clearing of his throat, Solace said, quietly, "Thank you for that." It was a rare thing that anyone noticed the care he took, and Longshire's observation moved him.
Longshire nodded, beginning to notice the increasing ache in his leg. "Do you mind if we get to business?"
"I am yours to command."
With a good natured harrumph, Longshire looked squarely in his friend's eyes.
"That," he said, enunciating each word, "would be the first time."
Solace held his gaze and grinned, the mood lightened. Longshire extended his arm and pointed at a point on the floor a few feet away. "There."
"No."
Longshire took his gaze away from the gravemaker's face, and looked at the spot. "Why not?"
"Margarite, Lady de Tourney." He pronouced it in the French fashion, "duh-tourNAY".
"Blast it. I forgot about her."
"Practically everyone did, until the building settled around her and she pushed the flagstones up." Solace strode the two paces to the spot, and rubbed a toe at the mortar between two of the stones. "Made it beastly dangerous to walk about in here if you didn't watch your footing."
He stamped his foot on the stone. "The masons were grateful for the work, though." Solace snapped his fingers, "That's right. You were away that summer. You missed all the excitement. The priest who performed the offices in your absence was quite the little banty, strutting about and supervising." He chuckled. "It took some little convincing to keep the stonemasons from arranging for him to have an accident."
The bishop shook his head, a rueful little smile on his face. "It would have made the last five years more pleasant if you'd not succeeded." He squinted at the floor. "Come to that," Longshire stepped away from the rail, limping a little, "you can see the difference in the mortar if you look closely enough."
"Well...damn," he said finally. "I don't suppose there's any room to either side?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.
"I'm afraid, your Grace," Solace pointed at each flagstone in turn as he spoke, "that there is not room enough to bury even a cat, and even dead every person under this floor outranks you."
There was silence for a few moments. After a while, they became aware of other sounds, the life of the town around them and the church in which they stood, regarding the floor. Longshire shifted again, grimacing. Solace cleared his throat.
"Your Grace, it's plain to see that you're in pain just now. Let us away to the yard, to sit. I know you want to rest before the altar of this little chapel, but as that's not an option, let us look at other alternatives."
Longshire shifted his weight to his other ankle, which didn't help. "If we may talk about it sitting down, then, by all means..."