Reconsecration

The church stood upon the hill, its weathered stones pale beneath the shifting light of the evening. Green and golden ivy had made its home here, weaving itself over its worn architecture. The narrow windows held simple tracings of colored glass which caught the waning light. Beyond the sanctuary, the courtyard stretched out beneath the open sky, ringed by trees whose spires pointed heavenward.

The village had all gathered in hushed reverence, their faces shadowed and still in quiet congregation. The women watched on, swathed in long gowns of brown and blue, hair covered with simple linen wimples; their hands clasped in prayer while they whispered silent sanctimonies. Men stood beside them, some with their hats held against their chests out of respect for the soul to depart.

They mourned, not in despair, but in duty, for though she was not lost to death, she was lost to them all the same. To take the sacred vow was to abandon one’s name, one’s place, one’s past. No mother would call her child again, no dear friend would once more share laughter with her beneath the branches of the fig tree. She was dead in every manner, aside from the persistence of her pulse.

She lay beneath the open sky, enshrined in pale linen, the soft folds draping over her like the veil of a saint. Her coffin, lined with dried cuttings of foxglove and yarrow, patiently waited to be lowered into the earth. The golden clusters of yarrow, symbols of farewell, were pressed gently against her still form, while the foxglove, a flower she was quite fond of, formed a wreath around her head. Unbeknownst to all but one, the devout soul laying in the box had felt a great guilt coiling within herself like a serpent. In that silent sanctum of her hidden self, she grappled with a truth too bitter to bear; that her heart had never yearned for the cold confines of piety.

Within the mourning circle, a figure watched; ever silent, ever patient. Love had worn her thin with longing, set an ache deep in her bones, made her heart drum a relentless rhythm beneath her ribs. She moved next through the crowd, the scent of pollen and disturbed earth wafting in the air and the weight of eyes pressed against her back, watching but never truly seeing. They witnessed her give blessings and farewell to a long time friend. Pressing a flower along her wreathed head, her fingers lingered as they brushed against the linen of her beloved’s burial shroud; an act of duty.

They could not bear witness to the disquiet of her mind seeing the illusion of her beloved’s final rest. How cruelly her rosy cheeks begged to be held, how vicious the desire was to once again adorn her parted lips with kisses, that she thought to steal her away then and there.

She could not make her move.

Not yet.

She must wait for the torches to burn low, shrinking to embers, then to ash. She must wait for the priest’s attention to turn elsewhere and for the weight of the night to settle over the courtyard like a shroud.

The hours continued to stretch, marked by the sky’s once lavender hues shifting to deep indigo, the slow dimming of flame, and the hush of departing footsteps. Still, she lingered on, apart from the solemn faces, apart from the hands that had lowered her beloved into the earth. Past the fig tree that bore witness to their own whispered vows, past the reach of flickering light, she remained. The night felt endless, each passing moment a fresh torment.

The night deepened, swallowing the last glimmers of warmth, until at last, the final flame died out, leaving only the blackness of the earth.

Once the priest had whispered his final prayer, only when the soft breath of the wind disturbed the stillness of the burial ground; then, and only then, did the shadow slip forward. In this stolen hour, they carried the means to liberate their dearly departed. With her shovel, she struck the damp of the newly turned soil with fervor. She would not leave her beloved to be buried beneath the weight of her vows.

Each drive of the shovel sent a dull, wet sound into the silence. The act of blasphemy was heavy, clinging to her hands, layering viscous soil that clung to her boots. The wind whispered at her back and the chill setting in the air implored her to reconsider her notion of love. Come morning, the village would unearth their lost daughter, and she would rise again in sanctity, her days given to the heavens rather than these treacherous hands. Who would be so cruel as to wrench her from her righteous fate?

The night swallowed her prayers.

Then at last, the coffin’s lid was revealed.

She dropped to her knees and with trembling hands pried open the coffin lid.

The girl inside did not stir. Her eyes remained closed, her breath shallow. The figure beckoned for her beloved, reaching out to them. A sigh escaped her parted lips when her lover pressed a hand to her cold cheek. Her eyes fluttered and she leapt forth, grasping at the figure who had reached for her with hands desperate enough they could claw through stone. They did not speak, there were no words for such a moment.

Together, they embraced.

Together, they pulled the lid back into place.

Together, they pressed the soil back over the hollow space where a body should have been.

When the sun rose and the sky shimmered with purity, the village would wake to an empty grave, to hushed prayers and awe-struck whispers. They would believe what they must, that a saint had ascended, that heaven had called her home.

Let them believe.

“Was she of spirit race, or was she one

Of earth's least earthly daughters, one to whom

A gift of loveliness and soul is given,

Only to make them wretched?”

— Letitia Elizabeth Landon