Angels in the Architecture Read Free

its fibre.
    Thomas nuzzled into his mother’s shoulder and hair .
    Thy will be done, Lord.
    Alice held her son close and slept.
     
     
    The sound of running water turned Thomas around, smiling and giddy with joy. Light bounced around and ricocheted between objects; it was both still and moving, and alive and inanimate, all at the same time.
    Water had the most special light. It told Thomas stories that delighted and excited him. The stories made him jig and shake about, smiling, laughing, and singing in his way. They were full of silliness, caught him up and made him part of their telling. He didn’t know the light told him more than just stories. He knew only to be joyful from it, and that dancing was a response that also spoke of respect and love for the light.
    Don’t run, Thomas. Go calmly. Listen.
    The light on the water bounced up to Thomas’s face and spoke to him directly. This happened often, and Thomas struggled sometimes to hear, to listen, and to take heed, although he knew he was being compelled to do just that. It was finding what response to give; to come to this was a struggle for his brain such were the obstacles of his senses, so he kept on dancing and spinning and laughing.
    ‘Thomas, ya’ git, sturp ya’ drubble ya’ weed!’
    There was laughter amid heavy work. Things were being lifted to the cart for taking to the village; sacks, baskets, wooden this-and-that, some pots of food, pelts, some wool, and a few vegetables were stacked to keep stable along a potholed journey; every item precious and worth food and strength for its owners. Nothing could be lost or broken, or else some boy would pay and none wanted such, nor to go hungry either.
    Thump. And again Thomas felt the pain, but only fleetingly. These blows came often to him , but he didn’t know that pain could last and so it didn’t. There was no sense of wrong, just less that was right.
    You’re happy today, Thomas. We’ll start soon. Are you ready?
    Thomas smiled at the words and the something of a sound behind them. He liked these voices more than any other.
    ‘Wha’ ya’ starin’ at ya’, moron? Look at ’im, Gree, look a’ the empty-headed stink. Wozee grinnin’ a’?’
    ‘Aye, the turd. Ger’ out, Thom, yer sprayin’ water all over. Ya’ lame pigeon. Ger’ off!’
    ‘ Ay, Thomas, look over ’ere, look over ’ere!’
    Splot ! Mud and tunic meet. Wet and sticky neck! Laughter! Others’ laughter.
    But Thomas laughed with them. He liked the laughter as long as it wasn’t too loud. He sensed when the laughing was callous and when it was just the usual roughness of his brothers.
    Thomas hasn’t heard the message yet. It’s difficult to find a way to both his soul and his mind at the same time. They don’t connect.
    He will find some Faith along the way. We’ll continue until we’re understood. There are few who can achieve what he can, if he tries.
    Thomas felt lights glowing above and around him. It came often now. He liked the lights coming , and he had learnt how to glide with them. They rested on the air. They moved and they stayed still. If you tried to look at one, it wasn’t there. You could catch it only if you moved with it, as if the only way to catch a fish was to swim with it through the water, which is to say it could not be caught at all. You could just be with it for a time, thinking you’d caught it but then having to let it go, unless you wished to drown and lose every sense of the world and that was a frightening thing to do and only for the very skilled. Thomas nestled in its safety and knew the lights were his and that he was one of them. He smiled at the light. The light smiled back, so he smiled even more. He forgot the heavy part of him that had ground to walk on, and unlovely noises to hear, and hard blows on the walls of his Self. But still those things tore at him often, tore him away from the light. And when he couldn’t always keep with the light, he felt this tearing as a real pain,