And now I’m standing on the grave of a soldier that died in 1799
And the day he died it was a birthday
And I noticed it was mine.
And my head didn’t know just who I was
And I went spinning back in time.
And I am high upon the altar
High upon the altar, high.
It is one of those nights, the wind is singing songs I can never quite recall the lyrics to, and the rain is soaking me to the very core of my being – cleansing me of every sin I have ever committed. It is the kind of night that I live for, though I use that term loosely. I will do, tonight, as I have done for eons – I will walk among the living along the paths left by the dead and dying. It is the only pleasure I have in this sad, chaotic world.
On this night I have found myself upon an unmarked grave. Whom it belongs to, I have yet to discover. I headily await that familiar sensation to lead to the one who now occupies this smidgen of earth.
The night grows incessantly darker as the stars die out one by one. The silence is intoxicating, the pain exquisite, as my very soul is torn from the nether reaches of my body to be taken through passages of time. It flies and swoops and dances along the fragile fabric of all that is past, and all that is yet to be glimpsed. My soul seeks the one this grave belongs to, and suddenly I am where I must be. A place that I do not recognise, but know instinctively it is where I now belong. For how long, I cannot say.
My soul seeks the heat of a living thing, and soon finds what it is searching for. The body of a man who wears the distinct robes of one in the service of God. It plummets towards the shaved, bronzed pate of a middle aged man and enters with ferocity. Soon I am settled within, comfortable. I am now all that this priest is, and all he has ever been. I walk, in awe, among the rosewood pews – stroking them lightly and feeling the warmth of bodies which once graced them. My footsteps echo eerily upon the variegated flag stone floor. I am absorbed in the beauty of this cathedral, for that is what this majestic piece of stone and wood and glass is. I admire the colours of the glass, and the patterns they send swaying with sunlight and suffering. I glean knowledge of this man, little by little. He is Father Juan Ignacios, in the service of his God but devoted to the wine and women. It also appears that Father Ignacios is afraid. Afraid for his very soul. He is deep in regret, and lust. He has angered someone very powerful, mortal though this someone is, he is under the impression that this someone will decide Ignacios’ mortality today. A groaning of rusty hinge, and wood upon flagstone breaks my reverie.
Sunlight streams across my face as a hail of bullets riddle the body with my soul inside. With Ignacios’ final, tortured breath I glean one last fact. He is bound for the searing clutches of my Father. It pleases me to no end when my soul inhabits one whose sins are greater in number than mine own.
To be continued…