1 Just a single step

Stability. This little church, lost on the side of the busy street, always seemed to watch over wanderers without ever ageing. Its white stones, eaten away by rain and pollution, still stood despite the centuries. Despite the deliquescence of the religion that had, once, reigned over the western part of the world. Despite the fact that men had stopped believing in HIM and his principles, wreaking havoc in the world without ever realising how far they’d strayed from the path of righteousness. Had generosity, grace, love becomes a foreign concept? Had money replaced honour? Possession crushed fairness of the mind?

How did they survive, the people that still chose this religious path, in such a world?

Frances watched, eyes squinted against the sunlight, the tall building that so often caught her gaze when she went to the city centre. There, like a rock, but invisible to the world. She wasn’t a religious woman; far from it. At home, she’d heard more antireligious pamphlets that she could have found in leftist newspapers. Daughter of a communist and a socialist, granddaughter of a man who’s forbidden the clergy to lay hand on his son – her father – under the pretext that he had brains. He would be an engineer, not a scholar in an institution of lies! Vade Retro, Catholic Church!

But today… Today her feet carried her over the threshold of the gothic structure. Her grandmother’s plea, echoing in the back of her brain, begging to share the joy she had once felt whenever she set foot in the small parish church. A way to honour this side of the family; unknown people only mentioned in yearly gatherings.

Music greeted her ears, a pure sound of male voices echoing against the walls – just a recording. There was no coldness, and Frances slowly walked forward, surprised to feel at ease. The house of God had been so often castigated in her parents’ house… Multicoloured lights filtered through the simple stained glasses, landing every fifteen feet; her path was clear. The voices accompanied her on the way, coaxing softly, gliding around her like little fairies, intertwined in a lament that touched her so deeply that her eyes tingled. Was it the strength of their faith that gave so much power to those people, even when they were not present?

Her shoes were silent on the stones polished by hundreds of faithful in a not so distant past. Today remained only a handful, sitting or kneeling under the arches of the transept. Frances eventually found an icon of the Virgin Mary, a marble statue of no great beauty. At her feet shone dozens of candles; prayers from believers. What had they been thinking whenever they alighted one?

Without hesitation, Frances dropped her bag on the wooden bench to fish out a coin that she slid into the slit. The metal clanged in the empty box that received the donations, echoing against the empty walls. The young woman stilled her hand, peeking around her to make sure she’d not disturbed the peace. No one in sight. Phew.

Her hand trembled as she chose a candle, the flame flickering slightly when she tipped it to light the wick. Just a second before it caught, barely a moment for her to ponder on her wish. Why had she lit that candle? Grandma was dead, and despite the fact that Frances didn’t believe in any God, her ancestor did. Sitting on the bench, the young woman watched the flame burn amongst dozens of others, their tiny light flickering with the barest of drafts.

Tears of longing came to her eyes. How she missed her, that woman who had been so important in her life. Just a presence, with funny stories to count, and faith in a God that no one believed in. A weird accent that could have sent her worst teachers into peals of laughter, perhaps Kant himself. What was the difference, really, between followers that blindly looked up to God and philosophers that intended to teach the world to others without ever setting a foot out of their garden?

Who was right? Who was wrong? Grandma never pondered on those things, living her life modestly, never prone to gossip. No car, one house – her own grandmother’s – a few rabbits and a set of relatives that had slimed over the years. A woman born in 1921, who had seen war and death, life and simple village gatherings. A woman who bought her meat from the butcher that rounded the village, and her bread likewise. Not even wondering if the goods were better in another place. Again, a simple life that made her happy.

Happy, really? Well, she wasn’t unhappy. Her only fear; to be admitted in the hospice where she’d worked during the war. For many years, she never set a foot there. And on the day that the doctor sent her there … she never came back. Like a prophecy. Grandma knew her demise rested beyond those blasted swishing doors. Was it wisdom, or old women’s tales?

The truth was that Frances would never know. But she missed her all the same. Society had changed, the world became crazier by the year. The young woman was rather glad her grandmother wasn’t here to witness it all. But here, five years after her death, she still missed her. Tears leaked slid down her cheeks, unhindered; if she didn’t shed them here, she never would. The lights mingled into stars through the veil of wetness, and for a moment, it almost felt like watching a clear sky.

— “Are you all right?”

The hushed tone didn’t prevent Frances from starting on the bench, her heart racing. The accented voice came from her right, but she had trouble distinguishing anything through her tears.

— “Forgive me, I thought you had seen me.”

Smooth, with a gentle lilt, his voice was strangely soothing. Had she not been so ashamed of her tears, Frances might have leant over to ask for more. Blinking them away, she titled her head to face the stranger. Clad in the traditional robes adorned with a white collar, a tall man had detached from the shadows of the pillars to approach her. He seemed hesitant, his posture laid-back. From his face, she could only distinguish the high cheekbones and beard that hid his chin.

— “Can I help you?” he eventually said, taking a step forward.

— “Ah … no. I’m afraid not.”

The candles flickered wildly as if spooked by his approach, but they shed some light on the stranger. Frances took in his tall stature, and the surprising proud posture on a man of cloth before her eyes settled on his brown hair neatly combed to the side. Frances’ thoughts returned to her grandmother, her eyes settling upon her hands.

— “I just … miss her.”

And the tears started leaking again. The man approached then sat beside her, giving her space as he watched the candles burn people’s wishes and prayers away. Trying to rein her sobs, Frances bit her lip. He didn’t move for a long time, a gentle presence, a friend watching over her in grief until she found her voice.

— “I should go,” she eventually hiccoughed.

How pitiful she sounded, but the priest by her side only offered her a pristine handkerchief of white cotton. Frances took it shyly, her eyes meeting his for the first time. In the uneven light of the church, they seemed almost grey.

— “If my presence unsettles you, I can leave you in peace.”

There was no judgement nor dismissal in his tone – not even a touch of reproach – but red rose to her cheeks nonetheless. Fearing she had hurt his feelings – priest were human beings after all, right? —Frances rushed to explain herself. Her voice felt rough, her words even harsher.

— “No, don’t. I just … I never believed in God, nor did my family.”

There, it seemed even worse said like that but Frances was never one to lie. And, hidden in the shadows of the pillars, she felt too exhausted to tiptoe around the truth.

— “So you feel this is not your place?”

The priest watched her now, his eyes curious. Open. Devoid of hurt, or anger, or even indignation. There was such wisdom in his gaze, even though he didn’t look more than thirty. Something in the way he voiced his thoughts, without an ounce of threat or ego. With the certainty of the truth. As if his soul was thousands of years old.

— “Yeah, maybe,” she sighed.

— “God doesn’t care much about who believes, or who doesn’t. We are all his children.”

Silence met his statement, and for a moment neither of them talked. Until she blurted out:

— “But do you?”

A genuine smile quirked the man’s lips, hidden by his beard … a goatee, actually, now that she paid attention.

— “I would be quite presumptuous to override God’s will,” was his smooth reply.

Frances chuckled then, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief. For a priest, he certainly had a sense of humour.

— “Your logic do you honour, father…”

— “Tristan. I am father Tristan”

An ancient name, for an ancient soul, she thought.

— “Frances”

The priest only nodded to acknowledge her presentation, and she wondered at his silence. Shyness? Surely not, for he seemed at ease. Like a man of God, intent on guiding a stray sheep back to the fold. She used to despise those men, accusing them of being short-sighted, finding them blind to the world and the reality of things. But here, surrounded by ethereal voices and flickering candles, her rational mind felt weaker than at the university.

His voice, one more, called her back to the present.

— “So what’s the story of that candle?”

Frances took a heavy breath, willing for her eyes to stop stinging. But the pain was still raw, the wound never closed. Would acceptance come, someday, and the merry moments populate her memories rather than the harshness of her absence?

— "I just miss her. I wanted to be close to her, to understand her faith."

Her voice was barely a whisper; father Tristan only cocked his head aside.

— "Who was she?” he asked gently.

— “My father’s mother… Grandma,” she stuttered.

— “I take it you don’t come often.”

Frances blinked at his attempt at conversation. His smooth voice acted like a balm on her pain, as if, no matter what he said, solace seeped into her bones. For a moment, she wondered if the man was human and not a mystical being, an angel hiding under the frock. One quick glance with her blurry eyes, and she realised he was expecting an answer. Uh.

— “I … Yeah. The last time I set foot in a church was to bury her. Five years ago”

Another silence settled, neither awkward nor long enough for them to feel like breaking it. But Frances wanted to know; why her grandma always chastised her for swearing in the name of God.

— “Why do people come to church, Father?”

The priest’s eyebrows rose high, and Frances realised they barely existed. As if they’d been drawn, and blurred afterwards. He wasn’t expecting her question, and seemed to think for a while. Good; he wasn’t one to answer with platitudes.

— “People come to pray. To think. To clear their minds or simply rest it from a burdensome life. Sometime they come to address the heavens in hope they will guide us.”

And despite the shudder than ran up her spine, Frances scoffed. What if people interpreted things the way they wanted to?

— “Do they ever answer?” she replied with an ironic smile.

Father Tristan ignored her impertinent tone, his eyes rising to the stained glasses that flooded the nave with light. A wistful expression settled on his features, something … almost mystical. Then his hazel eyes returned to her, a discreet smile quirking his lips.

— “You’d be surprised.”