out just enough to see a man in a pair of slate-gray coveralls dancing, having made his own Grace Kelly out of a decrepit Eureka. He was breathing heavily, white earbuds in his ears, and murmuring to himself as moved. “One two three four, one two three four....”
His back was to us. I beckoned to the other two and we twinkle-toed across the open space to the adjoining hallway. From there it was only a few steps to the nave itself. The coast was clear, so we walked right in and stood in front of the altar, looking up at the giant golden-brown effigy of the Christ Himself. I felt a vague dismay at the sight of such an agonized figure, pinned up there on a huge cross made of what looked like old railroad ties. What a condition to be immortalized in.
I heard a sigh and turned to see Sawyer pointing the camera up at the representation of the Son of God. “We found Him. Now what?”
“Now you’re It,” I said, examining the nave around me. I noticed a small gray metal box lying on a nearby pew. I tested the key on it and was relieved when it didn’t work, since it looked like a cash box and felt empty. Other than that, I didn’t see anything else to use the key on.
Noreen broke off and went to the other side of the room, strolling casually through the darkness under an overhanging part of the far flank wall. I could see the shadowy shapes of hymnal shelves and paintings there. Sawyer went to the opposite side, where I could just make out his blue sweater and pale face against the brown-black. I heard a clatter as he kicked something and swore to himself.
Since there was nothing in the middle of the room to inspect, I went straight to the narthex, where two huge wooden doors served as the front entrance to Walker Memorial. Smaller doors to either side led into areas flanking this small space.
I chose the one to the right and tried the key on it. It didn’t fit, but when I turned the knob the door opened and I was bathed in a soft light from above.
I leaned inside and saw a very steep staircase leading through a hole in the ceiling. Closing the door behind me, I climbed it and found myself in another, smaller space. A ladder in front of me led through another hole in the ceiling full of daylight.
At the top of that I pulled myself up out of the hole and discovered that I’d climbed into the apex of the bell tower. A pigeon was startled at my presence and flapped squealing into the canopy.
I surveyed the town of Blackfield around me, watching traffic motor by through the branches of the oaks and maples that dotted the grass median running up and down Main Street. Of course, there was a bell here, a grand and thunderous-looking thing that had obviously not been rung in many years. Instead, there was a pair of loudspeakers bolted to a nearby wall, the crotch between the two horns crammed with a handful of pine-straw and hair.
Finding nothing of interest, I began the dirty and laborious descent back down the rickety ladder and the nearly vertical staircase. As I made to open the door, I could hear talking from the other side.
I strained to hear it over the noise of the traffic on the street. “—Very nice to receive visitors here—as always, of course—but I must say that this is awfully late in the day to crave salvation. To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?” said a voice I recognized to be that of Moses Atterberry.
Sawyer: “After hearing you talk about E. R. Brigham growing up here at the church, we wanted to see it for ourselves. Maybe absorb a little of one of the places that must have inspired Mr. Brigham so much.”
Noreen: “Yes! This church reminds me so much of one of the castles in his books. A man named Seymour lived in an old monastery damaged by the war. He raised crocodiles in the moat and let the villain in book six feed political prisoners to them in exchange for letting him stay there.”
Atterberry: “That’s certainly a macabre reason to visit a church. But I’m glad
His back was to us. I beckoned to the other two and we twinkle-toed across the open space to the adjoining hallway. From there it was only a few steps to the nave itself. The coast was clear, so we walked right in and stood in front of the altar, looking up at the giant golden-brown effigy of the Christ Himself. I felt a vague dismay at the sight of such an agonized figure, pinned up there on a huge cross made of what looked like old railroad ties. What a condition to be immortalized in.
I heard a sigh and turned to see Sawyer pointing the camera up at the representation of the Son of God. “We found Him. Now what?”
“Now you’re It,” I said, examining the nave around me. I noticed a small gray metal box lying on a nearby pew. I tested the key on it and was relieved when it didn’t work, since it looked like a cash box and felt empty. Other than that, I didn’t see anything else to use the key on.
Noreen broke off and went to the other side of the room, strolling casually through the darkness under an overhanging part of the far flank wall. I could see the shadowy shapes of hymnal shelves and paintings there. Sawyer went to the opposite side, where I could just make out his blue sweater and pale face against the brown-black. I heard a clatter as he kicked something and swore to himself.
Since there was nothing in the middle of the room to inspect, I went straight to the narthex, where two huge wooden doors served as the front entrance to Walker Memorial. Smaller doors to either side led into areas flanking this small space.
I chose the one to the right and tried the key on it. It didn’t fit, but when I turned the knob the door opened and I was bathed in a soft light from above.
I leaned inside and saw a very steep staircase leading through a hole in the ceiling. Closing the door behind me, I climbed it and found myself in another, smaller space. A ladder in front of me led through another hole in the ceiling full of daylight.
At the top of that I pulled myself up out of the hole and discovered that I’d climbed into the apex of the bell tower. A pigeon was startled at my presence and flapped squealing into the canopy.
I surveyed the town of Blackfield around me, watching traffic motor by through the branches of the oaks and maples that dotted the grass median running up and down Main Street. Of course, there was a bell here, a grand and thunderous-looking thing that had obviously not been rung in many years. Instead, there was a pair of loudspeakers bolted to a nearby wall, the crotch between the two horns crammed with a handful of pine-straw and hair.
Finding nothing of interest, I began the dirty and laborious descent back down the rickety ladder and the nearly vertical staircase. As I made to open the door, I could hear talking from the other side.
I strained to hear it over the noise of the traffic on the street. “—Very nice to receive visitors here—as always, of course—but I must say that this is awfully late in the day to crave salvation. To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?” said a voice I recognized to be that of Moses Atterberry.
Sawyer: “After hearing you talk about E. R. Brigham growing up here at the church, we wanted to see it for ourselves. Maybe absorb a little of one of the places that must have inspired Mr. Brigham so much.”
Noreen: “Yes! This church reminds me so much of one of the castles in his books. A man named Seymour lived in an old monastery damaged by the war. He raised crocodiles in the moat and let the villain in book six feed political prisoners to them in exchange for letting him stay there.”
Atterberry: “That’s certainly a macabre reason to visit a church. But I’m glad
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