Symphonica: Movement III

It had been strange weather lately, the most beautiful and warming weather being followed up by hard rain and thunderstorms, before going back to warmth. Still, this was turning out to be a pleasant evening, the setting sun igniting the fields of clouds above, turning them into molten red, crimson and purple; a skyward garden only lasting a few minutes, but perhaps a conformation of heaven.
The old stone church kept silent, though, and only the top of the wooden bell tower was hit by the dying colours of the empyrean. It was a moss-covered building, its huge and coarse stones hacked from the by now disappeared quarries, from the earth itself. It stood at a crossroads and on a slight hill, a ring of grass around the foundation. Narrow windows were placed along side the wooden and red-painted doors, peeling softly unto the soil.

On the stone step leading to the side door, in all probability the door used by the priest, lay a black cat. It was studiously staring into the darkness with flickering yellow eyes, always restless. No one was around, not even the sound of cicadas could be heard, so what was that cat seeing? Perhaps it was a stray cat, simply waiting for nourishment to come by. Superstitious people might even have called it an evil creature, a demon, a dark angel; envoy to the Devil!
What was this iniquitous Hermes, this messenger of knavery, doing on the stone step leading to the side door? Or better yet: why is there surprise? Unjust and nefarious threads are woven all throughout the Church’s history, dark patches upon its self-written tale. The Crusades come to mind; witch burning, the holy wars against the Hugenots, the Cathars. Perhaps this cat belongs to the priest, guarding the church and its secrets.

Even today, the Church still works grievous errors, feeding us tablespoons of codeine to silently blind us, for us not to see. Distorting faith and religion. Distorting truth and our perception of it. Guiding us to their particular image of heaven and eternal paradise. Does it not make one long for the olden days, when there hardly was doctrine and dogma? Does one not long for religious freedom?! Does one not….

Suddenly, the black cat jumps into the kindred night, lines and contours blurring into one, the only sounds the soft scratching of nails across the stone steps. Huh. Maybe it was just a stray cat, after all.