A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 1 (Part 1 of 3)

Chapter 1

Imlon

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Imlon Held, Astronomer Royal, found it difficult to pray with a jailor at either shoulder.

            “We pray to thee, our one and truest hope,

            Who rescued us from evil's iron bonds,

            Who vanquished idols, threw down heathen gods;

            Look down upon our hearts and judge our souls.”

The old priest’s solemn plainchant, hoarse and tremulous, echoed around the wooden beams of the chapel.  A few prayerful souls sat in the stalls on either side, some hunched over clasping their hands, others staring straight ahead, lost in thought.  Evening sunlight, filtered through latticed glass, cast claret shades onto the opposite wall.  Behind thin wisps of incense a pair of silver wings glinted on the altar.

            “Root out our low iniquities and sin,

            And purify our souls with mercy's fire.

            Defend us from the perils of this night,

            That day may bring us closer to your light.           

            Commend this to the wings.”

The last quivering note lingered overlong; Imlon shuddered when it finally faded.  After a moment of silence the tower bell was rung and most of the scattered worshippers stood to leave.  Two officers took back their swords left in reverence by the porch, an armourer in a blackened apron shared a word with a clerk, and then the people were gone.

Imlon could not raise himself from his dark stall, though at any moment he expected a firm hand on his shoulder or a terse whisper from one of the legionaries sitting beside him.  An evening breeze fluttered in, brushing against the legionary standards slung from the walls and around the hem of the priest's cassock.  Imlon could hear the poor man’s labouring footsteps as he took the precious silverware back to the sacristy, piece by piece.  The astronomer could not pray.  He would have to ask others to do so.

“May I ask the priest for a blessing?” he said, keeping his head down. 

One of his guards sighed.  “One minute.”

Imlon hurried from the stall, bowing as he went, and approached the altar.  He was of slender, subtle build, once strong, now stooped.  A short tangle of dark hair and an ill-suited black beard framed his haggard face, but a permanent hint of inquisitiveness lay in his darting blue eyes and the small creases on his brow, despite his pallor.  The embroidery on his grey doublet was charming, if simple, but the rest of his outfit – dull belt, dark breeches, rugged boots – was strictly functional, and not altogether clean. 

The priest was removing the thurible from the altar, tiny strands of fragrant smoke still seeping from within, when Imlon approached.  The old man’s milky eyes flicked toward the two watching legionaries.

“Father, will you bless me?” said Imlon.

“Yes.  Of course.”

Imlon bowed his head, and the priest’s hands settled on his hair.

“May the God who brought your fathers out of chains, bring you closer to his throne.  May he aid you and keep you, and...”

And all those you love – those were the words.