Author: C. Sean McGee

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heard through the walls, out in the crowded streets and down the hill where it could make its own passage into the hearts and souls of those who had yet to taste true sweetness in their lives so that their souls too could grieve as every awoken soul did, inside of the church.

The Bishop stood beside Mother and beside him and inconsolable, was Charity. Mother took The Bishop’s hand and looked around the church seeing the hundreds of people all begging upon a kind and meaningful word, for some solution to their grief that submerged their conscious minds and had them confounded and bargaining with god.

At the front of the room stood The Nazi, though Joao might have missed him were it not for the tattoo on his head. He was dressed in subtlety, devoid of his colours and badges and his symbols of regret; a plaid black suit and black loafers with a shiny silver buckle over the toes and beside him stood The Nervous Lady; alone, as she had always been, staring downwards for a certain pair of shoes, nervously picking at the palm of her hand.

Feeling her shiver against his resting arm, The Nazi took her hand and pulled her close with his other, shushing her worry.

The Nazi smiled.

The Nervous Lady smiled.

“There are so many people here” said Mother, squeezing The Bishop’s hand, for the first time, pride swelling the tip of her tongue so that she lisped her way through the words.

The Bishop stepped away from his blame for a moment and opened his eyes to what stood before him and she was right. What everyone had said was impossible, even what he had believed could be but quickly; as he lost his way, learned to himself negate, had been made true.

Everyone had said that nobody would ever enter through these doors, that not even god himself would pay any mind, that hope and kindness; upon this hill, would never be.

“I knew you would be a success” said Mother, looking The Bishop lovingly in the eyes.

“They are your people” said The 13th Apostle. “Address them.”

The Bishop’s first word was louder than any that had followed and it was all anyone heard, for the second he said Joao’s name, hysteria beckoned at the hearts of one and all; from the foot of his coffin, through the church and out the door onto the crowded streets, people of all denominations, of all creeds, of all colours, of all sexes, of all differentiations, of all strangeness and opposition held each other in their arms with storms building in their eyes.

The Bishop canted his voice loud and availing but nothing could be heard over the wailing of strangers, locked in considerate and liberating embraces.

As he spoke, Charity leaned in to the coffin and kissed Joao on his cold lips. She took from her bag a lottery ticket, folded it neatly and placed it in the pocket of his pants.

“What did you see when you were there?” she asked, kissing him one more time before turning away and leaving the church; in her hands a bag with nothing more than a clean shirt, a pair of sunglasses and a bus ticket.

Charity left the church, catching the cold air against her skin and drawing it into her soul, feeling her passage calling her to lift her anchor.

She stood watching an old lady slowly shuffling her feet and clenching in her frail hands, a tiny slither of paper. The Nice Old Lady had a look like a child at the turn of a handle, waiting on the edge of their patience for their father to come home. She had a look of radiating expectancy and though the wrinkles on her face were worn from a life of grimace and groans, it looked; in the little tremors on her cheeks, as if she were brandishing every muscle in her body to garnish a welcoming and finding smile and The Nice Old Lady shuffled up and towards an old wooden shack at the top of the hill and she nervously and eagerly rattled on an old rusted chain that hanged from the door and Charity watched in still wonder as a lock turned.

The old chain unlocked and slid from its binds and the old wooden door slowly creaked opened and then the piece of paper divorced from her fingers and drifted like a dead leaf through the air as The Nice Old Lady cast her arms open and wide in a forgiving embrace and walked into the darkness.

As Charity walked down the hill, carrying the small bag and with her reflection stretched out beneath her skin, she thought about the open sea and she thought no words at all, just a feeling of the wonder of returning to where she belonged.

At the end of the service, after the bishop had spoken, the scores of hundreds of consoling strangers all passed by Joao’s coffin one by one; touching his hand, giving their thanks and saying goodbye.

They turned to The Bishop, overwhelmed by his compassion and his deliverance and shook his hand offering their condolences and vowing to return, to quench their thirsting hope within these walls.

The Bishop smiled in humble pride.

So accosted was he that he didn’t even notice Mother, with one hand on Joao’s coffin, shaking the devil’s hand.