The Third World

‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned.’

‘Tell me of your problems my child, and I will do all I can to absolve you.’ It was the air. No patron could describe it, no passer by or wandering tourist could explain it. Just something about the air.

The church of Father Alfred Mortait was a place of peace. A place of simple grandeur, of elegant chaos. A monument that without fail managed to draw the attention of so many who dazed by its relatively demur and eroded outer shell. For whatever reason a person may venture into the church of Alfred Mortait, they left as they had entered. No encounter he had would enrich or alter the feelings of those he came into contact with. His personage was of no avail, no influence. He spoke as passionately about his church and his love as he had always done, and somehow they drifted in and out of his reach, forgetting who he was from the moment they left his sight.

Mortait had spent most of his adult life in this church, protecting it, admiring it, he loved every inch of it and believed he felt that love in return. Descended from a long history of priests, Mortait upheld his family’s beliefs. His days were rhythmic and strict, a prayer routine, a time to eat and a time to read, he never strayed from his schedule nor did he make any attempt at changing any aspect of his life. Alfred James Mortait was a priest, and so he shall remain one until the lord may see fit to take him.

Mortait peered through the meshed metal to his left, not staring at what he could make out of her face, just seeing the blonde of her hair flow down across her shoulder. So far no one had come to him tonight, the designated time to listen to the bereft and guilty talk of absolution, Mortait knew better then to indulge their fantasies of a merciful and forgiving god. He guessed she was no older than nineteen, how could a girl of this age comprehend what she had done, or what she would do? How could a child see herself for what she was, a no good waste of space that contributed nothing to society.

‘My dear, it is not I who can forgive you.’ A deep musk tone, his voice rang with resonance, sounding throughout the church, he tried hard to keep it to a whisper, but found it hard not to raise his voice slightly.

‘I know, I know that. I guess I was just hoping…’ The girl trailed off, she knew not what she wanted. A confused and misguided young woman, like so many Mortait came across. He counselled the young on many issues, all of them filial. The lack of money that their families had, the unhappiness they bore for themselves and the way people viewed them, the hope that one day they could be someone special, someone who everyone knew the name of. All of them considering that that would make oneself more special.

‘Your life is your choice my dear, that’s the beauty of it. If you want my advice, ask for forgiveness. He will hear you.’

‘No Father….I don’t think he will.’ The young woman took a deep and remorseful breath, preparing herself for the world outside of the protective box. The light hit her eyes fiercely and she squinted as they adjusted. The hall of the church lay before her, what she had spoken to the priest lay behind her, for no one but a man of faith to know. She wept silently as she walked alone through this place where she believed she would find help, resolution. Instead she would leave exactly as she had entered, just a woman, her life in her own hands.

Mortait sat solemnly and listened as the woman left his wayward protection. He tried so hard to hold on to them. Placing his head against the back wall and resting his eyes for a brief moment, it was there that Father Alfred Mortait fell asleep. A slumber filled with fears, with images, with roving lights and shadows and colour. And then nothing.

His eyes opened in an instant. There was no brief moment of question as to whether he was awake or asleep, he was most certainly awake. He had expected to be somewhere else perhaps.

His breath caught in the back of his throat, his body snatching at copious amounts of unattainable air. Thoughts clearing, his mind came into focus, images of dreams washing away in the recesses of his deepest memories.

He persuaded his aging and broken body to sit up and rest on the edge of the bed. His lucid skin clung tight to his frail and slender frame. The inner workings of his machine almost visible to all. Alfidius Goring knew he would not survive much longer, but now was not the time to die, now would be an inconvenient time to die.

Something had awoken him, it was not the gentle arising as the senses came into clarity, nor was it the harsh pull of some loud outer force. So what was it?

Alfidius draped his robe over his shoulders, with no one to conceal his naked splendour from, he did not bother to tie it. He moved through his simple home. A two story wooden shack that consisted of two rooms downstairs and two upstairs. Its walls a single width of wood, its furnishings barren and dilapidated. Alfidius had no use for luxury’s or unnecessary objects. This rotting structure lay in the middle of a field, high grown grass surrounding its broken fence, and further a field lay the outlines of thick woodland.

Alfidius boiled a pan of water, poured some into a mug with no handle, placed a spoonful of dried green leaves into it and stirred. The smell of the earth, of soil and greenery rising up into his nostrils. Sitting on the doorstep of his home bathing himself in the early morning sunlight, all was pristine, all was silence.

He thought of his past, a blur of nothing washing through his mind. He plucked pieces of grass with one hand and toyed with them casually, letting them fall to the soil when his fingers were sufficiently amused. He thought of his days, how they had been, how they were now. A man of great importance, a man of no importance.

Only when Alfidius had stopped thinking, had let his mind wander and his eyes stare listlessly at the nature around him, did he hear the screams of a new born child.

Had he slept? If he had he did not feel it.

Confusion bounced around Mortait’s head, then he remembered. He peered at his watch, 3am, had he someone to worry over or hurry home for, Mortait may have been alarmed by the time. Instead he rose calmly, closed the curtain behind him and proceeded up the central isle of the church.

Darkness shrouded the great space now, the delicate feature and pristine detail was lost in the shadow, as everything turned to dark shape and darker space. He moved without noise, gazing upward to the stained glass window that echoed through the church and resided high over its altar. He knew the image well, in the darkness it was barely visible. He could still make out the outline, the depiction of a sacrificial lamb being brought to the slaughter. An image that spoke many words but misunderstood by most who came to admire it.

Alfred Mortait was not an average man, his hair very slightly grey, his features were expressive, carved carefully and delicately out of his face, pronouncing themselves from the fading and aging background that was his skin. Wrinkles were few except for the frown marks on his forehead, an after effect to vast amounts of pondering. No ring, for no particular reason, perhaps because he found it difficult to concentrate on loving another. He rubbed his hands together, standing beneath his altar, resting on one knee, he prayed. What he prayed for is for no one else to know, it was his prayer, and his alone. He noticed how dry and chapped his hands were, rubbing them together the skin was hard and callous.

The wind shifted. He opened his eyes and felt the room around him different. He thought nothing of it, closed his eyes and continued his prayer.

The light changed. In the depth of shadow behind his closed eyes Mortait saw a light. He opened his eyes and saw that one of the votive candles had been lit. A single flame danced under the statue of Mary and caused an eerie expression to dance across her face. He assumed someone had come in from outside while he was asleep, meaning that the door was unlocked. Mortait dragged himself off the floor and moved towards the side door of the church, he cautiously checked outside for any young vandals planning on destroying some piece of his home. No noise, no cars, no people, the world was asleep outside his church, only the graves of people passed were glowing in the moonlight.

Locking the door behind him, Mortait returned to the candle to watch the flame dance in the air, to feel its warmth, its fury. To look at it and know how much damage it could do. He lent forward, inhaling ready to blow it out,

‘Please don’t.’ Mortait spun round rapidly, the force of which almost throwing him off his feet, grabbing onto the bank of candles to hold himself up. He had not had a fright like this in a long time.

‘I lit the candle for you. Let it burn out, it will do you no harm.’ Mortait breathed deeply, saying no words, unable to express anything, he was glued to the spot, the tension in his abdomen forcing his body to go rigid in defence.

Before him, on the first row of pews, was an angel. He knew this particular angel well. He wore nothing of distinction, a simple white v-neck t-shirt and dark trousers. The form beneath the clothes was obviously close to perfection, if not perfection itself. His skin was paler than could be imagined, his eyes white as a sheet, no colour, no pupil, not even a blood vessel, and the only way to consider his hair, was gold. Long golden hair that was tied back in a simple ponytail. The only colour that exuded from him, was his lips, for they ran slightly pink, but only slightly.

As Mortait saw his intruder, relaxing as he knew no threat was being made, his breathing slowed and his heart eased, the shake in his fingers dissipated and he moved slowly to sit next to the figure.

‘Hello Alfred.’ His tone was wise, unquestioning, slow and rhythmic, as if he was reading as he spoke.

‘Hello Isen.’ Mortait could not look the angel in the face, he reminded him so much of the past.

‘How are you Father,’ asked Isen very genuinely.

‘Fine.’ Replied Mortait rather sardonically.

'How are you really father?' Mortait thought about the question, the best way to answer it.

'Everything is changed. Altered.' He could not answer, he could not delve into how he felt, from his answer a door would be opened that could not be shut.

There was a pause between them, a gaping hole that could have been filled by many words, but in the silence they both understood what was happening. By the time Isen spoke Mortait was ready to stand, already knowing how this would end.

'It is happening. In your lifetime will the shores of the three worlds meet.'

Mortait rose from his seat, moved towards the bank of candles, and lit another. Not for the world, not for Isen, but for himself. He watched the two flames dance ceremoniously next to one another, he was more frightened now then he had ever been in his life.

'Will you come with me now?' Isen stood as he spoke the words, a simple command, he was all to aware that the response could be against his favour. Mortait did not speak, he nodded, a single gesture that changed the course of his life. Isen moved close to him, the wind changed and they were gone. The two flames left dancing in the church, their light casting roaming shadows around the hall.