The Sacred Silence

1 - The Mass

The Priestess turns to face us. The embroidered gold skulls in her vestments catch the small amount of light filtering into the dark, rough-hewn church. She lifts her hands to quiet us, holding a thick wax candle and a stamped tin pot of incense on a chain.

She clears her throat. "Brethren and sistren, we are gathered on a significant day. This winter solstice marks the five hundredth year since the Great Death." She paused for effect. Resinous incense smoke swirled around her middle aged, stern face. "Five hundred years ago, humanity was destroyed by forces beyond our comprehension. The Church of the Great Death was created by the few survivors to carry the message of the Sacred Silence."

I, Humility Goodman, shift uncomfortably in the bare, oak pew. The surface is worn smooth and glossy from the fidgets of generations of church goers. The dark, musky scent of incense wafts over us. I look around the church, all too familiar by now. The walls are bare logs, stacked high with small openings for windows. Glass is precious, and few buildings have it. Outside the small panes, the Montana winter brings small snowflakes down on endless plains.

My father asked me to put on my best clothing today. The rough linen collar, fastened with wooden buttons, digs into my neck. I adjust it for momentary relief. I should be thankful for the shirt, because it keeps my even rougher wool coat away from my skin. My red scarf drapes around my shoulders, as it does on all the others. Red is the color of remembrance. I've always wondered what we were really remembering, because I sure don't know.

The priestess continues. "Our Sacred Silence keeps us in good health and safety. It is not just an idea but a frame of mind. It is a way of life. Let us recite the five precepts of the Sacred SIlence." She sets her candle on the wooden lectern in front of her with a heavy thunk, and hands the incense to a waiting church elder. She bows her head. Curly, sandy blonde hair falls in front of her deeply tanned and ruddy features. She raises her hands, palms upward, and the loose sleeves of her vestments hang down. She starts to recite, and the congregation murmurs along with her.

"The five precepts, handed from generation to generation:

Faith guides and bonds us

Simplicity lives only in the present, with the gifts we are given

Community looks after each other

Family provides for us

Silence preserves our way of life without change"

We raise our heads, and she smiles. A broad, slow smile. The wide, warped planks of the floor creak under her leather shoes as she walks to the side of the low stage. There, a board is covered in a stack of large, loose paper secured with square nails. She flips the paper, tossing the pages over the board to reveal her chosen hymn. "Let us sing together, from 'simple gifts.'"

The congregation squints to see the spidery letters on the hand-pressed paper. We sing together.

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free

'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,

To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed,

To turn, turn will be our delight,

Till by turning, turning we come 'round right.

A short while later, we rise at the end of the service. Creaky knees and elbows stretch and heads roll to release the tension. We walk to the doors of the church, and my father and I retrieve our brimmed, rough wool hats from the rows of pegs by the door. I snug my hat, and prepare for the blast of frigid air when the large, heavy doors open. In the summer, the pegs are lined with straw hats. In the winter, wool. To my right, Prudence Smith fishes the long strings of her bonnet from her narrow shoulders and ties them. She notices my stare, turns, and smiles briefly. Prudence's younger sister, Constance, climbs down from the childrens' loft with the sound of creaking stairs and raucous children.