Stranded In A Foreign City [FICTOID]

Oddly enough, as a Baptist he didn’t feel out of place in the vast gothic cathedral.

As with all cathedrals, it proved a showcase of art and iconography.  Tall, thin pillars stretched up to the ceiling, supporting the roof on arches that from floor level almost looked like cupcakes.

The ceiling itself represented the firmament, filled with arcane astronomical symbols.  It loomed as high over the workaday worries of the ground floor as the real heaven loomed over the earth,  

A beautiful sight, and one that tempted him to stay and look longer, but night crept closer and he needed to make some crucial decisions.

No money, no ticket, no passport.  His assets?  Meager; the clothes on his back, a cell phone with a dead battery, a cheap watch that wouldn’t even buy him a cup of coffee.

The assistant sacristan pushed a mop and bucket past him, paused, looked back, then shrugged.

The lonely Baptist couldn’t tell if he felt relieved or not.  Certainly he didn’t know the local language, so any unease at trying to communicate was alleviated, but on the other hand it solved none of his pressing needs of food, drink, and a warm, dry place to sleep.

The Baptist sighed and stared at the painted firmament again.  He pined for his own home, his own bed, but he knew those remained lost to him forever.  He wondered if his own peculiar neurology made such a loss inevitable.

He felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see the smiling assistant sacristan holding the mop out to him, gesturing for him to clean the cathedral floor, pantomiming eating and sleeping.

How did he know? the Baptist wondered, then shrugged and took the mop.

In a cathedral, you need to expect and accept miracles.

© Buzz Dixon