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Sunday morning
May. 8th, 2006 09:05 amThe church has gained an organ since he was last here, or something that reproduces the sound of an organ, more or less. Someone at the keyboard is cranking out an instrumental hymn as Raguel blends in with the others drifting through the front doors. The place doesn’t look much like a church from the street; just another low, concrete building with a faded pastel exterior. Inside, though, it’s crowded. This area gets rather more traffic in religion than Los Angeles proper, but he chose it for the feeling of the place, not for its population.
He edges through the busy sanctuary – lined not with pews but with folding chairs, embroidered cushions softening their rusty seats. Small windows of stained glass cast colorful patches of light onto the faithful, some already congregating in the side room of the chapel, heads bent over clasped hands.
Raguel thinks he gave up on prayer a long time ago, but that isn’t the case at all. It’s the kind of thoughtless, desperate plea that he throws out when his function is close; not this one or what about the kid or once in a while, when things are really bad, how many more times will I have to do this? Sometimes he gets the answer he wants. Rarely, but sometimes; it keeps him coming back.
He steps aside as a line of chattering children winds its slow way past, herded by a gray-haired woman with a ringing voice. He makes slow progress all the way to the front of the church, where a sizeable choir in robes of red and white are taking their places on either side of the pulpit, enthusing about someone’s new haircut. Raguel keeps going, past the altar and through a side door leading to a dim, much quieter hallway. The men’s room is this way, so no one challenges him beyond a curious look and a murmur of “good morning” as he passes.
The low stream of the children’s conversation has just been closed behind a door, but it drifts into the hall as he nears the nursery. “Why doesn’t God just stop the bad things from happening?” asks one young voice, and Raguel silently wishes their teacher good luck in answering that one.
He can hear the opening strains of a gospel standard floating back as he stops before an unremarkable door and opens it onto a small, cluttered office. The single desk has clearly not seen recent use, piled as it is with papers in semi-organized stacks. Raguel hesitates and looks around uncertainly before turning to lift the hinged seat beneath a stained glass window only a foot and a half tall.
The window depicts a single angel in flight (of course), trumpet raised to her lips and a gloriously long dress trailing behind. Hardly an accurate depiction, Raguel thinks absently, but naked angels seem to have gone out of style in the 21st century. He reaches into the cabinet beneath the seat, hauls out a box labeled TAXES 1994 and another, BUILDING FUND 4/89, and then, from a wrapping of yellowed newspaper and dusty bubble wrap, he pulls a sword.
The angel holds it carefully, kneeling amidst the discarded papers and boxes of forgotten obligations. It slides smoothly enough from the scabbard, gleaming and sharp as though it’s never been used. It has, of course, but not often; Raguel has rarely needed anything so clumsy as a weapon. His hands trace along the hilt, then the flat of the blade, and he holds it up to sight along the slim line of it from pommel to point.
At last he stands, watching as his hands move automatically in the patterns of a simple salute. It’s really the only maneuver that will fit into the tiny space, but it’s enough. Out of ancient habit his back straightens, his fingers tighten on the sword and the movements of his hands grow certain and precise. He was never practiced in Lucifer’s complicated aerial drills, but this, at least, he knows well. This comes back without apparent effort. This, he thinks, is what it felt like to be an angel of the City.
When he leaves, the sword is in the canvas bag slung over his back.
From the sanctuary, the murmur of the benediction.
He edges through the busy sanctuary – lined not with pews but with folding chairs, embroidered cushions softening their rusty seats. Small windows of stained glass cast colorful patches of light onto the faithful, some already congregating in the side room of the chapel, heads bent over clasped hands.
Raguel thinks he gave up on prayer a long time ago, but that isn’t the case at all. It’s the kind of thoughtless, desperate plea that he throws out when his function is close; not this one or what about the kid or once in a while, when things are really bad, how many more times will I have to do this? Sometimes he gets the answer he wants. Rarely, but sometimes; it keeps him coming back.
He steps aside as a line of chattering children winds its slow way past, herded by a gray-haired woman with a ringing voice. He makes slow progress all the way to the front of the church, where a sizeable choir in robes of red and white are taking their places on either side of the pulpit, enthusing about someone’s new haircut. Raguel keeps going, past the altar and through a side door leading to a dim, much quieter hallway. The men’s room is this way, so no one challenges him beyond a curious look and a murmur of “good morning” as he passes.
The low stream of the children’s conversation has just been closed behind a door, but it drifts into the hall as he nears the nursery. “Why doesn’t God just stop the bad things from happening?” asks one young voice, and Raguel silently wishes their teacher good luck in answering that one.
He can hear the opening strains of a gospel standard floating back as he stops before an unremarkable door and opens it onto a small, cluttered office. The single desk has clearly not seen recent use, piled as it is with papers in semi-organized stacks. Raguel hesitates and looks around uncertainly before turning to lift the hinged seat beneath a stained glass window only a foot and a half tall.
The window depicts a single angel in flight (of course), trumpet raised to her lips and a gloriously long dress trailing behind. Hardly an accurate depiction, Raguel thinks absently, but naked angels seem to have gone out of style in the 21st century. He reaches into the cabinet beneath the seat, hauls out a box labeled TAXES 1994 and another, BUILDING FUND 4/89, and then, from a wrapping of yellowed newspaper and dusty bubble wrap, he pulls a sword.
The angel holds it carefully, kneeling amidst the discarded papers and boxes of forgotten obligations. It slides smoothly enough from the scabbard, gleaming and sharp as though it’s never been used. It has, of course, but not often; Raguel has rarely needed anything so clumsy as a weapon. His hands trace along the hilt, then the flat of the blade, and he holds it up to sight along the slim line of it from pommel to point.
At last he stands, watching as his hands move automatically in the patterns of a simple salute. It’s really the only maneuver that will fit into the tiny space, but it’s enough. Out of ancient habit his back straightens, his fingers tighten on the sword and the movements of his hands grow certain and precise. He was never practiced in Lucifer’s complicated aerial drills, but this, at least, he knows well. This comes back without apparent effort. This, he thinks, is what it felt like to be an angel of the City.
When he leaves, the sword is in the canvas bag slung over his back.
From the sanctuary, the murmur of the benediction.
