When I get to heaven I could point down and say, see there, that is what I built. And they would have to let me
in!’ He took her by the arm. ‘A church is built to be a parable of our life. Did you know that?’
He was interrupted by the yapping of a dog that some yokel had brought in with him while he gaped at the tapestries. Nearby, two burghers argued heatedly with each other over the price of a wool
bale. He frowned, and led her away from them, to the other end of the aisle.
Dust motes drifted in a shaft of sunlight. He pointed to the rows of pillars that crowded the nave. ‘These pillars and arches, they are the darkness of the forest from which we have all
fled. And up there, just above the altar; imagine one day a great rose window. It will be like the sun, showing us the way forward. And what is the way? He is!’
Jesus hung suffering on his cross, head bowed and bleeding. ‘Our Lord suffers for each one of us, leading us towards the path of our redemption. The aisle here is the path of our life and
he is there at the end of it, waiting to lead the faithful to resurrection.’
He pointed to the vault. ‘And finally when we arrive here, at the end of our lives, we look up, we see the light of heaven pouring through the windows in the clerestory, and we are
reminded of the great and heavenly Jerusalem that awaits us. This is what your father does for his daily bread, Fabricia. A humble stonemason, yet I show each person who comes here his purpose in
life and God’s mercy in it.’
She smiled. She had heard this tale before, of course, but she never grew tired of the passion in his face as he told it, for he seemed never to grow weary of telling it.
She looked up again, saw Pèire preparing to come down from the scaffold. She knew at once what was going to happen and looked to the lady in blue, there in her niche in the wall. Please, no.
Pèire screamed as he lost his grip on the wooden scaffold. His arms cartwheeled at the air in that piercing moment when he realized he was lost and he yelled out once more, this time a
groan of despair. The sound he made as he hit the stone flagging sickened her. She thought she felt the floor shake but that was just her imagination, the horror of it.
Anselm did not see him fall. He turned around only at the last moment to see Pèire crumpled in the nave, his skull split like an over-ripe tomato, his limbs splayed at an unnatural angle
from his body.
He ran over and cradled the young man in his arms; oblivious to the gore on his hands and in his lap. ‘Pèire! Pèire, my son. What have you done?’
His brains were everywhere. She thought she might vomit. Anselm stared at her, his mouth open and she could read the question in his eyes.
I cannot marry Pèire. He will die soon .
‘How did you know?’
Fabricia could not answer. She looked around at the lady in blue, who only smiled back at her, kindly as a mother. A form of madness it might be, but not one she could just wish away.
She sank to her knees beside her father, placed a white hand on the big, lifeless body in his arms, as if she was herself responsible for his death, just by foreseeing it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
VI
T HERE WERE DAYS when Anselm did not utter a word. He started work in the church soon after the angelus bell at dawn, was
still there long after vespers. He took both his dinner and supper there, and with the days growing shorter, often worked by candlelight. Without his journeyman apprentice, there was twice the
workload, for now Anselm was the only mason to do the work.
But Fabricia knew that was not the reason he worked himself so; what was it that he cried out in the cathedral the day that Pèire died? Pèire, my son. His grief was hard for
her to watch, and she felt herself somehow accountable.
One afternoon she brought him his supper in the church. Winter was drawing in, the feast of St Simon and St Jude had passed, and the mornings were cold. The new stone laid
in!’ He took her by the arm. ‘A church is built to be a parable of our life. Did you know that?’
He was interrupted by the yapping of a dog that some yokel had brought in with him while he gaped at the tapestries. Nearby, two burghers argued heatedly with each other over the price of a wool
bale. He frowned, and led her away from them, to the other end of the aisle.
Dust motes drifted in a shaft of sunlight. He pointed to the rows of pillars that crowded the nave. ‘These pillars and arches, they are the darkness of the forest from which we have all
fled. And up there, just above the altar; imagine one day a great rose window. It will be like the sun, showing us the way forward. And what is the way? He is!’
Jesus hung suffering on his cross, head bowed and bleeding. ‘Our Lord suffers for each one of us, leading us towards the path of our redemption. The aisle here is the path of our life and
he is there at the end of it, waiting to lead the faithful to resurrection.’
He pointed to the vault. ‘And finally when we arrive here, at the end of our lives, we look up, we see the light of heaven pouring through the windows in the clerestory, and we are
reminded of the great and heavenly Jerusalem that awaits us. This is what your father does for his daily bread, Fabricia. A humble stonemason, yet I show each person who comes here his purpose in
life and God’s mercy in it.’
She smiled. She had heard this tale before, of course, but she never grew tired of the passion in his face as he told it, for he seemed never to grow weary of telling it.
She looked up again, saw Pèire preparing to come down from the scaffold. She knew at once what was going to happen and looked to the lady in blue, there in her niche in the wall. Please, no.
Pèire screamed as he lost his grip on the wooden scaffold. His arms cartwheeled at the air in that piercing moment when he realized he was lost and he yelled out once more, this time a
groan of despair. The sound he made as he hit the stone flagging sickened her. She thought she felt the floor shake but that was just her imagination, the horror of it.
Anselm did not see him fall. He turned around only at the last moment to see Pèire crumpled in the nave, his skull split like an over-ripe tomato, his limbs splayed at an unnatural angle
from his body.
He ran over and cradled the young man in his arms; oblivious to the gore on his hands and in his lap. ‘Pèire! Pèire, my son. What have you done?’
His brains were everywhere. She thought she might vomit. Anselm stared at her, his mouth open and she could read the question in his eyes.
I cannot marry Pèire. He will die soon .
‘How did you know?’
Fabricia could not answer. She looked around at the lady in blue, who only smiled back at her, kindly as a mother. A form of madness it might be, but not one she could just wish away.
She sank to her knees beside her father, placed a white hand on the big, lifeless body in his arms, as if she was herself responsible for his death, just by foreseeing it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
VI
T HERE WERE DAYS when Anselm did not utter a word. He started work in the church soon after the angelus bell at dawn, was
still there long after vespers. He took both his dinner and supper there, and with the days growing shorter, often worked by candlelight. Without his journeyman apprentice, there was twice the
workload, for now Anselm was the only mason to do the work.
But Fabricia knew that was not the reason he worked himself so; what was it that he cried out in the cathedral the day that Pèire died? Pèire, my son. His grief was hard for
her to watch, and she felt herself somehow accountable.
One afternoon she brought him his supper in the church. Winter was drawing in, the feast of St Simon and St Jude had passed, and the mornings were cold. The new stone laid
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