Cruci Fixus

The church stood apart from the rest of the town, standing on a solitary hill that overlooked the fields beyond. With a steep roof and walls of stone, the building looked solid, more real than anything around it. It stood above the rest of the world; the spires growing from the roof seemed to reach for the heavens. The arched windows were slender and showed nothing, making the building look dark, as if beyond the walls lay something pure and untouched by the outside world. The door was heavy and built as solidly as the stone walls. They stood as resolute guards. To enter was to cross the threshold between the ordinary and the holy. 

The pilgrim had reached the town by noon. He was cold. The sky was thick with grey, and the winds lashed pink marks on his cheeks and nose. His hood was pulled forward, closely fitting around his face and neck. His hands were numb. White knuckles had begun to turn blue, and they quaked as they kept the edges of the cloak close to his body. The hem of his bundled cloak flapped as his footsteps began to grow unsteady. The pilgrim staggered down the thoroughfare of the town and out the other end, finding himself at the base of the church hill. 

Looking up at the building standing vigil upon the hilltop, he began to force himself up the steep path. Halfway up, his foot gave way and his hands flung out to break his fall. As his hands slid against the rough of the road, his cloak billowed out and he was met with a violent rush of cold that caused his whole body to shake. He stood and swayed on the spot. A glint of red met his eye, and he saw the scratch upon the palm of his hand. He stared at it, for though his hand shook with the cold, he could not feel it. 

The sky darkened as the storm grew closer. Desperately snatching the cloak back around his person, he persisted, considering each step before he took it. Soon, he found himself face to face with the dark grain of the church door. He reached out a hand—the one he did not graze—and pressed against the cold wood. A groan seeped from the edges of the door, itself too tired and cold to move. He leant his weight against it, his legs shaking as he pushed them into the ground, until finally, the door swung open to reveal the gaping entrance. 

***

Walking through the doors of the church, the pilgrim was met with a small and dimly lit antechamber. He turned and pulled the door behind him. It creaked in protest. As the door crunched shut, the sound of the wind dropped to a distant whisper. The only light coming into the narthex was from the main chamber. The pilgrim’s breath was ragged, and the sudden lack of wind made his skin buzz. He stepped forward, a tentative look on his face. 

Emerging from the narthex, the rest of the church came into view. What little light remained outside, forcing its way through the cloud cover, was fast fading. The interior of the church was thus cast in shadow, the edges of the room disappearing into blackness. 

Of what the pilgrim could see, it was a large space, with tiled floors and whitewashed walls. The open room stretched the length of the church, segmented by arches. Two thirds of the way down were two small sections leading off to the left and right, causing the entire room to take the shape of a cross. At the other end of the church lay an altar on a raised dais. Beside this altar was a light. Blocking this light from view was a silhouette. 

Entering the nave, the whistling of the wind grew louder as it scratched at the windows and pawed at the walls. Beneath the sound of the gale was another quieter sound. A furtive, muttering voice, sombre in tone yet steady in strength. These two sounds intertwined in the air, weaving a tapestry that blanketed the space with a mournful, echoing stillness. 

The pilgrim began to walk forwards. The pat pat of his shoes on the ground reverberated, sounding thrice as loud as they ought to. The voice continued its chant, undisturbed by the footfalls. The pilgrim came to the front of the church and saw the figure kneeling at the base of the altar. A priest, praying with his head bowed and a candle lit in front of him. His chanting did not break, and now the pilgrim was close enough to hear snatches of it. 

“…qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum….” 

He didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded important, and he did not wish to interrupt. He bowed his head, made the sign of the cross, and then moved towards a spot behind the priest and stooped to light his own candle. It was a fiddly process, he couldn’t properly see what he was doing, and his hand had warmed up enough that the graze on his palm had begun to throb uncomfortably. 

Gently clutching the now lit candle, mindful of the dripping wax, the pilgrim stepped away from the priest and back towards the nave. The flame cast a warm glow against the walls, pushing the corners into starker shadow. The heat began to seep into his fingers and cheeks, creating a pleasurable tingle. The pilgrim peered through one of the thin windows, the candlelight making the outside world seem pitch black. 

As he gazed up into the inky expanse beyond the walls, his eyes were drawn to the wall beside it. Colours, unseen in the dark, now came swimming into his vision. Colours sweeping across the white of the wall behind them, colours that pulled his eyes closer and cloaked him in wonder and awe. 

A large field of green. Swaying grass and the odd flower adding a splash of difference to the green mass. People upon the field, their faces twisted and agonised, their arms held aloft in lamentation. The pilgrim stared in horror as their faces seemed to cry out to him, begging for mercy. The candle flickered and he felt a twinge in his fingers. 

The people were surrounded by thistle and weed, caught in a tangled mass of growth, held down by the earth. The pilgrim’s dirt-stained clothes began to feel heavy on his shoulders, the grit in his shoes dug into his toes and the soles of his feet. Above the crowd, the sky was painted in stark blue and streaming with clouds. Clouds that looked down and drifted on, ever present and ever distant. He glanced out the window at the clouds that blackened the sky and shivered. 

The priest continued. “Adveniat regnum tuum…”. 

Between the suffering masses and the distant sky was a small flitting thing, a brief dash upon a solid mass of colour. The pilgrim took a reluctant step forward. It seemed to be almost a blot, a mistaken dripping of paint. Another step closer. No, not a mistake, there was something distinct about its shape. The pilgrim, now almost against the wall, pointedly tried to keep his eyes away from the screaming people who were now at eye level. 

He then noticed something he hadn’t before: their arms were not sporadically raised. They all seemed to unnaturally stretch up towards this odd thing that hovered above them. Desperately reaching for it, though it was hopelessly out of reach. It was then that the pilgrim realised what this shape was. What everyone so desperately reached for but could not touch. It was a dove, flying carefree above their heads. 

Shaking his head, the pilgrim turned and began to hobble back towards the front. He forced his head downwards, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor, but the light splashing onto the walls and their sweeping patterns bridled his head and swung his gaze towards them each in turn. 

“…sed libera nos a malo…”

The candle flared against the image of a large and beastly creature. It was in the process of being skewered by a figure in armour. Saint George and the dragon. The pilgrim seemed to mumble under his breath. A reminder of the triumph of good over evil. But the dragon’s teeth were long, and his eyes were fierce. The light caught its furious look, and the eyes seemed to glow red and glare into the pilgrim’s. St George had a lance; he had a candle. His hand quivered and the flame began to feel unpleasantly warm. 

The pilgrim kept walking as its glow shifted towards a visage that made him stumble. A skeleton: thin, pale and ghostly. A reminder of the imminence of death. The pilgrim shuddered and looked over his shoulder. The entrance to the church was shrouded in shadow. He could not see beyond the threshold. Anything could be there. He kept walking. 

“Requiem aeternam dona eis…” 

A grotesque creature loomed above, tormenting a woman depicted in haunting distress. Illustrating the presence of demons. But the pilgrim was now hurrying. Paying no mind to disturb the prayers of the priest, his footsteps slapped against the tiles as he sped towards the only human presence he could find in this place. 

But as the pilgrim came to the side of the priest, he paused and looked upwards. There, high above the altar, in terrifying majesty, was an image that bore into the pilgrim’s soul. A figure, arms outstretched, emaciated and bleeding. A gaunt face, crowned in thorns, bowed and sagged in misery. 

“In nomine Patris…”.

The candleflame curled and the pilgrim’s face grew hot, sweat beginning to dampen his brow. The hanging figure’s side was pierced and dripping crimson. 

Dripping. 

Like the wax from the candle, sliding down and searing his hand. 

“…et Filii…”.

Feet pierced. Feet shaking. Head bowed. Head tilted back. Hands pierced and bleeding. The pilgrim’s hand began to pulse with pain. He clenched it into a fist and the scratch on his palm began to grow wetter, bleeding through his fingers. 

“…et Spiritus Sancti…”.

Christ’s hand bled. His hand bled. His heart tore. His soul cried. Help—oh God, please grant me mercy! 

“Amen”

A loud crash. The door had swung open. The candle flickered. A gust of wind, strong and cold, drove through the church and the flame shivered and went out. The church was left in darkness, and the pilgrim shut his eyes. 

***

The breeze fluttered, cool against his face, tousling his hair and ruffling his cloak. His eyelids twitched. He opened them as tears began to drip from the corners. He breathed in and lifted his arms to let the breeze pass through him. His palm prickled. The field around him was awash with swaying grass of deep green and spots of colour dotting the expanse. 

He tilted his head back and looked at the sky above. The clouds had broken and the sun lighted upon the pilgrim’s face, warming his skin and fighting the chill that clung to his fingers. A small, flitting thing crested over his head, arcing through the wind and vanishing into the heavens. How far away the sky seemed when one gazed at it from the ground. 

The pilgrim looked back at the church, towering over the surrounding land. How small it looked from this distance. 

by Soren Williamson