The coffee's set on the potting bench that's been wheeled out to the Midnight Garden, an internal courtyard on the third sublayer. Here only various nightshades, herbs, and fungi grow here, tended no less diligently than the roses that see the light of day in the Mortal Levels of the cathedral and her grounds. Down here, only the celestial pass, a space unknown even to the mortals who live, unmolested, in the known areas above.
     Etienne stands near a wood rack, stacked with shelves that roll out. Each tray has dirt and living occupants, and it is a set of small green shoots he carefully examines right now.
     "Did you want to try these?" Etienne asks, in his customary blue smock. His pockets are stuffed with gloves, tiny trowels and spades, along with a water bottle for spraying. "You have to be very careful,' he notes, "...to feed without damaging the half-exposed roots. But," he turns to smile, "I think you can do this now. Here, come try," he offers, lifting the spray bottle and offering it. "Spray ever so lightly. I do it at an angle, so the hairs are not damaged."
     His weeks of counseling have not gone unnoticed. A quiet has settled in the lowest levels of Notre Dame, seeing that St. Etienne - a joke amongst the Malakim and Cherubim who walk the halls - has withstood the drama flamed by the latest arrival.
     A claimed 'redemption' no less.
     But the humor and arguments did not bother the angel of flowers. He continued his ministering with a smile and an open hand of covered in dirt. And as the arguments and planning became more serious, and the shock wore away, Etienne argued, in closed meetings, on the Truth of his new friend's situation. What it meant. What obligations the Cathedral had to him and to others like him. How everyone was responsible, not just his Superior.
     Whether or not his words had an effect is still questioned. But it has been enough to have the cathedral's inhabitants thinking, instead of speaking ill or disdainfully into the world.

     I still feel out of place here...
     And I do not know what all this waiting means...
     I woke out of a fog of colors and images, feeling as if I had just stepped out upon the heavenly plain and looked with despair upon those who were no more, the ruined scape, the beauty torn asunder and myriad hearts broken. I woke to find that I had been living all the while, all the while in the most insidious, depraved manner, not thinking of myself, of anyone, not thinking...in fact...not thinking at all. Oh, I know despair. But will I ever know joy and forgiveness?
     Pharzuph, in his holy days before The War, was a golden, studious, measured creature. One who was steady in his Love for all, who Loved a few, while no more than others, with more outward signs of affection. It is not lost to him that those he loved as well as Loved are the ones in peril, while they, sacrificing themselves, made sure ...always made sure...that he had refuge. He knows Love. Love is a heavy thing to bear.
     He understands the lesson here: even the dark things, the low things, perhaps even the base things, need tending and care if they are to thrive, and if we all are to thrive we must tend to one another. The fungus as well as the rose.
     I am the fungus here...
     It seems heretical to say that in order to care for those who are caring for you, you must first tend to the self. That does not seem right. Yet, if you are not whole, how can you help those who need it so badly?
     Pharzuph within the body of a zookeeper, bookish scientist, reaches for the spray bottle. "They are more tender," he wonders, his voice coming out strangely English to his ears (that's not how he hears himself), "...because they ....cannot be in the sun? Or is it... just their newness," he murmurs, his own gloved hand gently reaching forward while the other holds the bottle and tips it at an angle. "There are little fish that swim in the darkest waters who are empirically blind yet they have whole manners in which they live, out of the light. Mole rates and moles, bats. So... these are merely nocturnal creatures... Like this?" he says suddenly, looking to you for approval at the angle before his finger hugs the trigger of the bottle.

     Etienne nods and smiles, stepping back. "They are tender because they are delicate, as their feeding needs assistance. The nutrients they receive are scant. Not because of a lack of sun," he smiles. "They would never grow in the sunlight. This is their home, is all, and they must be cared for. sificalus nocturnis," he explains, "...the Night Wither, they are called. But they are good for stomach ailments and other medicines. Rarely seen in the world now days. But still grown here," Etienne smiles proudly. "Sometimes, Goodfroot will come and try to replant them in the dark areas of forests, in underbrush, to make sure they do not disappear from the world altogether," he nods affirmatively. A good goal that he supports.
     Many of those down below walk in their celestial splendor. Elohim, smooth and glowing. A few tiny-winged snakes of Truth. Malakim dusky and large, their spans taking up corridors.
     Etienne wears his blue smock.
     "You are learning so much," Etienne smiles, deciding to reach for another drawer. "Soon, I will have an apprentice to help take care of all of the gardens of the cathedral," he smiles, knowing well that you are destined for greater things. His lot, is this.

     There is a small spray, a fine mist of moisture, and as the moisture descends Pharzuph leans back, his other hand moving from its slight brush upon the foliage. "Sificalus nocturnis," Pharzuph softly echoes, and with that it is placed in his memory. What would my plant name be? Difficilis Returnis? The plain, bookish man blinks in his thoughts and then he looks to you, not surrendering the bottle, but waiting to see what he will tend to next. "Tending the garden is a virtue," he murmurs. "I am... happy to help if I can."
     Those who most need tending are out of my reach. I will do more good for these plants than for them. I have failed them, haven't I?
     His eyes are watery for a moment before he blinks them away. "There's so much I want to do, Etienne," Pharzuph confides, his softest voice given to that. "So much that I need to do. I don't know where to begin. I should take care of these drawers, learn to tend the roses, the earth, the heart and the soul. I ... must learn that. But I feel it will take me so long, too long, to learn these things to be of any use at all. It is only God's ... perfection and the fear of heresy that keeps me from calling myself a failed creature. I am... I am not even a fungus," he laughs a little. "A fungus is perfect," Pharzuph continues in a whisper, looking to you. "It has a role upon this earth, within the universe. It provides something to the entire system, the ecosystem. It has sentience and understanding on a frequency most cannot hear, a low registered note that the soil can respond to. I couldn't even do that much...I just stood there and I did nothing. I didn't even fulfill my one purpose that I was given. When mushrooms do not do this, they wither and die. When angels do not do this, heaven withers and dies..."

     "You are an angel of Love," Etienne says matter-of-factly. He's never been one to sink into melancholy. "That has not changed. It never changed," he comments softly, peering on his tiptoes into the drawer he's pulled out. "You will remember what it means and everyone else will too," he smiles, turning his head to see you. 'And you will know what to do then, when you can. But that time is not quite yet, and that's okay too, Captain."
     "You will be a fungus again," he smirks.
     "Love is still with us," Etienne assures, winking at you.

     You have never been to Hell, you do not know the silence that is the absence from God. Hell is remarkably quiet. The din is just our way of ... banging pots and pans to keep from thinking that we are utterly alone. It's sound...and fury...signifying nothing. His own emotional din passes over him and he stills himself with a swallow. "I spray the fungus," he motions to the drawers, then he smiles a little, "...it is the same as your words to me. Thank you, Etienne..."
     But, Captain, will it be enough? Will it be fast enough? Or must you only make the sacrifice... worth the sacrifice in order to help them? Is it merely that? To find Love again? To remember what it was like to have a role, a good role, a note within the universe, to restore that part of the ecosystem?
     Pharzuph looks to you, gathering himself again, rolling the body-skin like shrugging on an old jacket. A brush of a hand through his hair is the same as straightening a tie.
     Love is still with us...
     Pharzuph glances to you again and then looks to the drawer and what it holds. "I hope so, Etienne," he murmurs. "I hope so. Do you... do you think I will ... it is not your question to answer," he softly chides. But he is curious. "I am ...honored to be able to do these small things. I just... I do not know what I am doing. I am ... trying to do the right thing," he peers at that choice of words, into his own soul. "I am trying to do what I should have done in the beginning... but... did not. Is it.. just a matter of faith? I feel that there is something i have to be doing, there is something that...someone wants to see, but I don't know who... or what... I feel like I am not doing enough..."

     Etienne stops and leaves his drawer. "You are not like the fungus," he smiles. A metaphor easily taken too far. "You are you. And my words are how I feel for you. That is all, Captain. You will find your place. As for the rest, I do not think this is about faith. For me, it is a little more practical. We are going to prepare you for what is to come next. Your dissonance, your discord?" Etienne asks. "What of those things? Are they no longer with you?" He suspects they are, though he not looked to find what physical manifestations are present along with the non-visible ones.
     "What is it you would like to do, then?" Etienne asks, exhaling a little. "What...would you wish, Pharzuph?"

     "Oh no," Pharzuph says softly, "...they are still there. Every time I hate what I have done, it is there. Every time I think about those I love suffering on my behalf, as if I were worthy of it, it is there. It is there when I think of Love. It is there when I say... that I don't want to be away from God, that I cannot bear it. That I want to Love again, that I love those who have given their compassion and their love back to me. As an angel's only solace can come from the faith that they are acting as God would have them act and in the honor of, support of and spirit of their note in the chord, so mine is to the opposite. I am only not in pain when my soul turns to cowardice. It is there in my helplessness. It is there in my ignorance. But I ... refuse to turn away, and I refuse to run. I refuse to go into the soft shelter of sin, I refuse to take refuge in Lust, however warm it is reminding me that it can be. Such a comfort, it promises," Pharzuph whispers, and tears roll across the plain man's ruddied cheek (it's not a face that looks good when crying), "...but I would rather be in pain and discomfort than to lose myself again..."
     He is quiet for a long time, staring at the plants and at nothing and at the entire panoply of time and events that have unfolded. He wipes his eyes, he smells the earth that is on his cheeks. "I want to feel Him again. I want to Love again. I want to sing again. I want to be whole. I want to go home. I want those who are trying to get there too... I want to help them. I'm not the only one," he whispers. "I want to be able to embrace them in Heaven, and I want to put our hearts in the basilica. I want to ... put things back together, not ruin them. I want to be able to ... forgive myself. I want to be able to... explain..."
     Finally, Pharzuph looks to you. "I want to be able to exist, Etienne. And not off of the corpses of misdeeds and the ... silence of separation. I lived ... too many years... in dumb silence. I don't want to be dumb..."

     Etienne listens, stepping forward only when you have finished. "You are on your way to those things," Etienne smiles. "God is here, with us. He hears us. He is in our conversation and everywhere around us. He hears you, just as I listen. And he has brought you here -- your mind is clearing, and we talk of all sorts of things. Of love. Of missing you and everyone like you, Pharzuph. He has forgiven you, it was always so with Him. I have too," he smiles, "...not for what you may or may not have done - I do not know all of those things. But that we were separated once, you and I, even though we did not know each other directly. And I missed you. And now, it is all changed. We have Hope, you and I, for things to be better and different. And we know it can happen now. Can you not feel Him right now?" Etienne asks, his smile almost beatific.
     "If nothing else happens to me, Pharzuph, I know He is with us now. Right now. And we are together. That is Him with us. This moment is a miracle, yes? That you and I are together, talking of plants, of love, of the future for you...for us. That is how we know God's love and forgiveness is always there -- we stop, see our situation and realize that it was always so..."
     "You are not dumb. You are wise and you see. How lucky you are, Pharzuph! How blessed you are. And that is what our moment now is about. It is about you. We will see to the others soon, yes?" Etienne grins, nodding as he pulls out a second drawer.
     "Let us think about now," Etienne says softly to the plants before him.

     It is there, in the softness of the ordinary moment. The fact that the conversation is happening at all. That those who are here... are here, having the conversation. That words hit air but never dissolve. They hang there like stars, miraculous in their constant coming and going. We will see them soon, you said. Yes, I think we will. Do not worry about time, Pharzuph, for it has no real meaning beyond simple measurement. It is not what is important.
     Pharzuph nods scantly, having held the words upon his features, his consciousness, his tongue as they dissolved in sanctified sugar. Move in this moment, Pharzuph. "I... hear that some plants like music, like to be talked to and sung to," he looks to you. "Is that true? Do any of these like such things?" Maybe it's only the garden flowers, the roses, who like such to-dos. He looks over the second drawer, bottle of water still in his gloved hand.
     I have this dream...
     At Some Time... I do not know when... I will be in the basilica again. I will have flowers draping from every balcony, for have not Love and Flowers always moved together? The one, in fact, feeding the other? What is romance without rose and violet and tulips? They will be there, in every incarnation from every world. I will tend them myself one day...

     "Oh, absolutely!" Etienne nods eagerly. There you are, his open hand seems to say. "Yes, yes. All living things like music...you know this, yes, more than anyone. You should play for them. They will appreciate it," Etienne delights. "Why did I not think of that before?" He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Now, they will all like different things, I should think. But you will know better than I about their musical likes," he nods sternly to himself. Yes, yes. A fine idea.
     "And every else will hear you too," Etienne thinks. "Ah, this is the best idea so far. We should have music all the time. But softly for the tiny plants," he nods to the drawer.
     Etienne looks over and grins. Plants need care too. Of all kinds.

     Angel of the Songs of Love, that is who you are, Pharzuph. You were given a luito by Corabael, an angel of the songs of praise, but from your fingers did not come the hallelujahs of the choirs, but a soft, strain of hope, love and longing (for what is longing without hope and love?). It was a gift from her, she heard you singing. You plucked it and the first song of love was born. Remember, Pharzuph?
     That same luito is in your case...in your room...
     "I have my instrument," Pharzuph notes, "...Andrealphus returned it to be before...before I left for Paris. It is in my room here, I would love to play it." It will bring me joy. Yes, it will bring me joy. Delight is soon contagious. It lights up Pharzuph's borrowed face, along with astonishment. Why did I not think of that before? Because God is wiser than myself, that is certain. "I can play softly," he smiles, "...for the tiny plants. I ... would love to do this..."

     "I would love for the plants and flowers to have nourishment from your music," Etienne agrees. "I will feed and you will feed them too. And in this, we shall both care for our living friends."
     Grinning, Etienne puts his grimy hand out to get the spray bottle back.

     Another look of astonishment. Oh, right, the bottle. Smiling, Pharzuph hands the spray bottle to you. He removes his gloves and he sets them aside. "I'll go get it," Pharzuph says softly. He says it with a smile, with enthusiasm in his eyes, and without fear of the corridors and the celestials it holds. No, he is going to get his instrument. Everything is suddenly righted. He will hold it, he feels, and he will feel better.
     "I'll be right back," he says. "However many rooms there are, however many drawers. The more the better," Pharzuph suddenly grins, "I think I need the practice."

     Etienne's eyes flash and he laughs a little. "I doubt it," whispers to himself, turning to peer into the drawer again. He sighs as he begins to spray again, letting the mist fly about his face.

     Yes, yes, yes.... it is the way back, the way to everything. It is what you are and what you were supposed to be. Not a general on a battlefield, not even a harpist on a battlefield. You, the throat that opens. You, the mouth that parts in sound. You, the singer of the songs of the heart. Put down your weapon and your shield, Pharzuph, for they do not belong to you. Take, instead, the luito and its strings. Hold it to yourself and play it. In that, the way will be found.

Posted by rowan at August 01, 2004 02:26 PM