Heaven

A Church

As the days passed, the gold leaf that coated the paradise around me began to peel away and its paint started to chip. It wasn’t really Paradise, anyway, but that turned out to be a good thing: It meant there was still a chance to find Ania, to save her, to build a new home for both of us far away from Osada, away from danger. 

I would need to escape from the Azara and then make my way—somehow—hundreds of miles northwest back to Osada. But how would I find Ania? She could be anywhere—after all, look where I was. But without any other leads, I’d have to start in Osada. I pledged to survey every last field and scour the entire forest, to devote my life to searching for her if I had to. It was better than sitting idly. I knew I could find her. But I also knew I couldn’t do it alone. 

“Amen,” I said, and the body of Christ melted in my mouth, joining in communion with my own body. I had begun attending Mass each Sunday with hopes that God might show me the way out of the Azara, and I thought a sign of earnest toward God was necessary now that I knew I was serving devout pagans. I was glad that, despite our subjugation, we Christians were free to worship in our church, provided our worship did not interfere with our duties. Fortunately, Abualjafna allowed me to attend Mass whenever I wanted. 

The services were held in a small room nestled in the main floor of what I assumed to be someone’s home, far from the center of the city. It reminded me of Jesus and his disciples, the first Christians, who had to meet in secret places to celebrate Mass. The churchroom was adorned only with the same types of fanciful curls and geometric patterns that decorated all buildings in the Azara; there was nothing particularly special about it. There were no paintings on the walls—part of the priest’s agreement with the caliph—and the altar was an unpretentious slab of wood covered in a white cloth. It was clear that our church was allotted much less prestige than the Moslem buildings; with a quick glance at the mosjid, for example, anyone would feel the glory of Islam, but there was no such glory to be seen here. 

In a way it was a welcome break from the ostentatiousness of the other buildings in the Azara—a symbol that we cherished piousness over luxury, that the beauty lie in the truth of our worship and the purity of our souls rather than in material embellishments. Even so, the irony was not lost on me that I spent my days aiding in the construction of decorations for buildings that facilitated devil-worship, whereas the building that I knew to be the true House of God went on neglected.

“Dear Lord,” I said to myself in silent prayer, “I pray that you will show me a way out of this prison, one day soon—though at your own pace—and that you’ll protect Ania from harm, if it be so according to your plan. For my only purpose is and ever has been to please you in my thoughts, in my actions and in my words. Amen.”

It was difficult to say how many attended Mass, because not everyone was able to come every week. On average there were perhaps fifty of us; though the room was consistently full, it was always possible for one or two more people to find a spot. Anyone who wished to worship was welcome, and God saw to it that there was room for everyone. Before I went the first time, I expected the congregation to be made up entirely of servants like myself—perhaps because I learned about the church from another servant—and so I was surprised to see that, in addition to slaves, there were many who seemed well-to-do. 

Most curiously, there were some people who came wrapped head-to-toe in cloth so that only the slits of their eyes were exposed, as if they wanted to mask their true identities. These people came and went; most of them only came once. But there was one—a man, I think—dressed in all black, though the robe didn’t do much to mask his fatness, who always sat in the back corner. He never said a word. I glanced at him every now and then; I wasn’t sure why, but something about him seemed familiar.

Once everybody in the congregation had received Communion, the priest gave his final blessing, telling us to be vigilant in these difficult times, to stay true to the Lord. 

Vigilant, I thought, was exactly the right word. You don’t hear words like “vigilant” very often, but when you do, they really stick out in your mind.