Vespers
Day Twelve of A Dozen Days of Magical Realism
This is it, folks! Last prompt of the party. You can still mingle while everyone leaves, though, because I’m not closing the doors for another week. So go ahead, pour one last piña colada… I’ll be busy picking up red Solo cups off the grass, or maybe working on my novel.
If you haven’t written anything yet, you still have a whole week! I do hope you join in, even if you’ve been sitting on the fence this whole time. Storytelling is a human birthright.
Keep an eye on The Wood Between the Worlds, too, because that’s where party favors will be handed out after the doors close next weekend, and favorite stories will get a special feature.
It’s also where you can read some more of my writing this week, wherein I play with my “critical voice” as well as my “creative voice,” in a piece called Sacred Geometry and the Realm of the Elderlings.
Vespers
My best friend’s brother is a self-proclaimed psychonaut. Personally, I think he’s mid, but he’s harmless, I guess. I probably shouldn’t let him get my goat, acting like he knows everything. I ate those mushrooms he waved in my face mostly just to prove a point.
They were gross, too. Tasted like dogwater. I had a Ghost with me, though, which I chugged even though it was getting warm. “Total level up, bruh!” that kid cackled as I rolled my eyes and ran out the back door. I was already a little late, and I didn’t want to be left behind and have to drive myself.
I got a little carsick on the way to church, weird, but I didn’t think anything of it. Then I was double-stepping the stairs as Ma opened the blue door—that’s when everything went sideways.
First of all, that cloud of incense that wafted out? It reached out, wrapped around me. Pulled me in. It tickled, and I bit my tongue to keep from giggling. I remembered to cross myself and bent gently to kiss a particularly gorgeous-looking icon of Panagia. She was smiling, sadly and sweetly. I loved her so much.
I mean, our church is always beautiful, right? It smells good, like beeswax and metal. The candles make the icons glow, the chanting makes you zen. It’s everything, already.
But now? There were only a dozen people in church, plus us, but I heard these whispers, sighs singing songs that tasted like honey. The flames in the lamps danced, pulsing the raindrop rhythm of the protopsaltes, flickering flowers that bloomed and fell like waterfalls. The walls hummed the ison, shimmered in jewel tones as the robes on the figures rustled. It was crowded.
Then Father opened the doors, for Gladsome Light, and no cap— a river of fire poured out, smelled like harmony, washed over all of us and tasted like honeysuckle. I choked up, man; I had to sit down. The flames splashed over us with feathers gold and blue, like kisses of candy birdsong. I sang there for days.
That’s when St. Isaac, that Syrian, swooped down from his place near the relics, and grabbed me by the nose. I yelped. Ma shot me a look. I stood up. Eyebrows beetling, lightning flashing in his eyes, St. Isaac harrumphed like a bell growling and shoved his scroll right up in my face. I gulped, crossed myself. He shook that scroll two or three times, made sure I read it. I nodded and gave him a tentative half smile. Bro rolled his eyes.
This life is given to you for repentance. Do not waste it in vain pursuits.
That’s it for me, folks! That’s the dozen dishes I’m bringing to this potluck. But you know what? I’m already thinking we need another one of these parties come fall— make sure you subscribe so that you get the next invite, and watch for it in September or October. The weather will be changing, so will the mood— maybe instead of piña coladass, we’ll do chocolate stouts at a bonfire…
Post your stories below!
Old aching fingers fumble momentarily with matches, struggling to light one. Eventually the hiss of a match being struck flares in the silence. Coals begin to glow red and incense smokes, rising to the rafters and enveloping the space with the sweet scent of ascendant prayer.
“O Lord, I have cried out unto Thee, hear me… Let my prayer arise in Thy sight as incense and let the lifting up of my hands be an evening sacrifice..”
The chanter’s voice fills the nave with its deep resonance, wrapping the worshipers with the familiar words, imprinting their deepest meaning onto the hearts of those present.
The deacon moves slowly, censing each icon carefully, trying not to lose his balance as he descends the solea and makes his way down the center of the church. The censer feels heavier than it used to and his rheumatic joints find it more difficult to hold it well these days. As he finishes censing and shuffles back into the altar he stumbles slightly, but recovers himself and continues in his angelic duties, flitting in and out of the altar, calling the people to prayer and leading them in their part of the worship.
As the service continues the deacon sits heavily in a chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes momentarily. With eyes closed his other sense sharpen their perception and the sounds and smells wash over him, joining in sync with the pulse of his heart which has learned over the years to follow the rhythm of prayer:
Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy on me
Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy on me
Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy on me…
He knows intuitively when to rise again and continue his work. As he opens his eyes he notices how bright the light seems to have become in the altar. His hands seem to have loosed themselves and are blessedly painless. He notices how easily his feet move and how energetic he feels.
“O Gladsome Light of the holy glory of the Immortal Father; heavenly, holy, blessed Jesus Christ. Lo, now that we have come to the setting of the sun, and behold the light of evening…”
More light, growing ever brighter, fills his vision until the old deacon’s entire being becomes radiant, full of light.
“Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace… for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation…”
"Now that we have come to the setting of the sun," they sang, voices the only music ringing forth. Incense curled upwards, spreading the scent of roses through the room. The crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, some of the children wandering amidst the adults' feet. A baby cried, and an elderly woman helped the mother sooth it. Candles and oil lamps glowed golden-orange, flickering and shining against the gold of the colorfully painted icons on the walls.
Tired feet shifted, but no one sat except a few older people and a quiet girl whose health teetered daily. The deacon glanced across the mass of parishioners as he raised his stole and intoned the prayers. There were so many here tonight, every family in the parish and then some, ones he had not seen since last Pascha or ever before. He was not surprised. When things like this happen, where do you go but to God?
Outside the wind howled and shrieked as the darkness grew. Lights across the land went out one by one like the pinprick light of stars snuffed out by clouds. The sound of hooves trampled lightning fast across roads, and screams followed in their wake. Wrought-iron gates shattered. Brittle laughter floated through the air, the echo of elf-song. A tsunami of terror broke across the earth, inexorable, unstoppable by any earthly weapon.
Inside the little parish, a bulwark of warriors stood, shields of prayer holding firm. The candlelight glowed steadily around them as the wind howled against the windows. "For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation," the soldiers cried out alongside the wails of the youngest, and the wind battered the wooden doors.
And the smoke of incense rose higher.