Vigil

Candlelight gleams on the wooden rafters overhead as the chanting of The Exsultet fills the darkened church. Then the voices of the choir swell in multiple responsorial Psalms, and readings are intoned as flames flicker atop the white wax tapers the congregation hold in their hands. 

A quiet thrill goes through me as I listen to the first chapter of the book of Genesis - “And the earth was void and empty, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the spirit of God moved over the waters.” 

Though I can hardly see it in the sepulchral shadows, I glance to my right, at the stained-glass window depicting The Descent of the Holy Ghost:

Fire pours like water from the haloed and cloud-encircled dove in the top left corner, while individual red flames dance above the heads of Mary and the Apostles. 

Looking at the yellow flame dancing above the candle I hold, my eyes are dazzled. I think of the light that must have been seen in the dark before dawn, over 2,000 years ago, in the garden belonging to Joseph of Arimathea . . . 

Spreading my wings, I drop from the branch I am standing on, and fly. Taking leave of the tree where I have slept through the day, I sweep over the ground, head tilting this way and that, listening for small creatures moving in the grass and shrubs. 

Something rustles, and I pounce; the vole barely has time to look up between my talons puncturing its sides and my beak severing its spinal column. The last thing it sees in this world are the two black eyes staring out of my white face. 

As I carry the now-dead vole to a more sheltered place, my worries are somewhat reassured. Prey was difficult to find yestreen, though I was not much inclined to hunt for it. And the evening before that, nothing moved. The very Sun despaired. 

Perching close to the tree’s trunk, the surrounding foliage gives me some privacy. Wings flared, I hunch over my meal, swallowing it whole and head first. Then I take to the air again, searching for the next unwary morsel.

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Even now, in search of a quiet place in which to eat my third vole of the night, I am haunted by the memory of what happened the evening before last. 

Even now, my heart is darkened. 

Even now, I eat, not because I desire to prolong my life, but because I have been given a Command: to abide, and to multiply, as all living things have been Commanded. 

Even now, I wonder why I continue to breathe and hunt, when the One who breathed Life no longer walks this earth or draws breath.

Again I perch, hunch, swallow. 

Before I can take off, the ground shudders, swaying the tree in which I stand. Shouts reach my ears. Men in the garden, at this hour? Curious, hunger satiated, I drop from my place in search of the din. 

Soaring over the garden, I realize my night’s hunting has brought me to the massive rock, one in which Men have hewn cavities. Circling it, I once more tip my head this way and that, listening.

Many small creatures are scurrying about on the ground, disturbed by the earth tremor, but they no longer interest me; I am searching for the unseen Men. 

Finally, on the Eastern side of the rock, I find them. Three Men, standing outside the largest of the cavities, which has been covered with a large, round stone. The light from their lanterns causes my widened pupils to contract. 

They do not hear my passing; my flight is silent. The night-breeze stirs more than I. 

They do not notice me as I float up into a nearby tree, feathers stretched to capture the air.

They do not see me as I fold my wide wings against my body, hiding the white undersides, and settle in to watch them. 

Soon, four more Men arrive, carrying something with them, one of many things of Men which I do not understand. I waste no thought trying to decipher it.

The Men speak excitedly to each other for a bit - all but one. He stands alone, brow furrowed, deep in thought. 

Eventually, the other six quiet, and take it in turns to sleep, three by three. Morningtide approaches, the night gloom giving way to the first blush of dawn. During the cold damp before sunrise, I ruffle my feathers, trapping pockets of warmth as I begin to doze. In the half-light, spiderwebs materialize, beaded with dew. The grass, the trees, the stone, everything appears a pale gray color, gaining more and more clarity as the light grows. 

The first dazzling rays of the Sun stream over the horizon and strike the rock face.

A n d

t h e

e a r t h

c o n v u l s e s. 

The tree rocks beneath me. 

Birds sing exultantly.

Steam rises in the wash of warmth.

Flowers release their perfumes lavishly, sweet scents infusing the air.

Dewdrops become scintillating jewels.  

But none of this compares to the coruscating radiance blazing from the rock cavity, as the stone which has been covering it is lifted and placed aside. 

The metal door within the cavity is open.   

A Minister of fiery flame perches atop the round stone.

Is this what the Men are here for?

If so, they are missing it. The six have fallen to the ground, becoming as dead Men. 

The one who held himself apart hesitantly advances toward the cavity, enters, and coming out, closes the metal door. Looking about, he seems to be searching for someone, but seeing nothing, he goes off in the direction of the city.

A woman arrives, her veil askew, revealing disheveled hair. Drawing back a moment upon seeing the six, she enters the cavity, and, emerging distraught, hurriedly pursues the same course to the city.

A man appears, robed in white, standing under a palm tree, a large hat on his head and a spade in his hand. I feel drawn to him. Sidling to the end of the branch, so as to see him better, my heart begins to drum. Could it be?

He looks at me. Laughs. Beckons. 

It is. It is Him.

Diving from my perch, I hurtle towards Him, shreeing with joy. He lifts His arm, and I alight, the Sun illuminating my tawny plumage bespeckled with black. He lifts His other arm, and with hardly a stir in the air, another Barn Owl, an exquisite female, settles on it. A mate for me. 

All things are made new.

After the Mass ends, I stand in the vestibule with my Father, waiting for my Mother and siblings to come down from the choir loft. People converse in hushed tones about how beautiful the Vigil was by candlelight. Some laugh, remembering the moment during The Exsultet when the cantor stopped chanting. No one was sure what had happened, until the Deacon's mic caught his whispered exclamation of “It’s dead!” Then everyone knew the cantor had not suffered a heart attack. The battery in his flashlight had died. 

As I ponder the evening's events, a hope for quiet begins to push other thoughts aside.

It can be challenging to write in a house overflowing with family noise.

To write this story, I used imagery from The Dolorous Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, by Anne Catherine Emmerich, which director Mel Gibson used to make his acclaimed movie The Passion of the Christ.