GENESIS (GODS CHAIN) (73 page)

Something unspeakabl
y evil
moved silently away....

**********

It didn’t seem to matter that it was Christmas
Eve!
Where the Prophet monument stood was
always
a solitary place
,
and
the monument offered
a most gloomy welcome to anyone
who entered
the village on the northern approach road from
Crookedholm
.
It appeared as a tall block-work of red sandstone with a grained column and
,
for weeks now
,
the surfaces were
of the building were
covered by ice and wind
-
scored snow lines.
Like the white swirling countryside
,
this tall building was dulled by a cold
,
opaque grey mist that seemed to linger everywhere and appear
ed
to thicken as one progressed down towards the village cross.

Sitting quietly
,
the frozen gargoyles perched on their stone pillars
on
either side of the iron-gates entrance to the ancient monument
, t
heir glacial faces disguising any sign of idiom.
Long icicles hung over their expressionless faces
,
gr
o
w
ing
downwards and off from their overhanging stone hoods
, c
urving down and inwards
to
form sculptured and sharp
-
looking iced teeth.
Grotesque
ly
frosted tongues licked across frozen lips and managed to protrude out through sharp canines.

Snow was falling with little letup
,
even though the met
eo
rological office stated that
i
t was going to be another mild winter
.
H
ow wrong they were, it was going to be a white Christmas!

Older buildings of the village stood bold with solid character
—
they had been built to last
.
T
he church
,
constructed
of
thick red sandstone,
had for
its architecture many stone ledges and
a
slated roof and
a
gothic tower
, which were all
laden with snow and ice.
Scotland was not alone in this extreme weather
, of course—
Europe was braving itself for the hardest winter conditions
on historical record
!
The c
old would seep quickly into anyone who was brave enough to battle the extreme bitterness
,
and the government
was
struggling to contain some bleak news.

It always took ages for the gritting trucks to reach the village
,
and today was no exception.
A large Christmas tree was erected at the village cross with only
a
few coloured light bulbs flash
ing
in the dimming evening
.
S
ome of the bulbs were removed
—
the bottom ones
—
“for a laugh”
by the youngsters, which was
disrespectful
,
to say the least.
Villagers were furious
about the missing ornaments,
and al
though no one could prove
his
own suspicions
,
everyone knew who the culprits were.
The local constabulary “was on the case” and
,
this year
,
like every other, the missing light bulbs were on their top list of complaints.
The
villagers did not see that this situation would ever change!

Many people were preparing for the festivities
that were
now only hours away. Tuneful choruses of Christmas carols could be heard from the choirs inside the old parish church
; the choirs
had been practicing faithfully together every evening for the past week with invited visitors from Germany and Wales. Over the past thirty years
,
the village
had
host
ed
a special service at Christmas time
,
inviting choir singers from other churches
to share
.
Tonight was their penultimate evening!

High above the altar
,
a large series of
lighted,
stained glass windows
showed
the story of “Christ and the Centurion”.

The
v
ery Reverend Dr Lintel Lewis Graham, Minister of the Parish
,
looked out from his
v
estry window.
His collar
was as
white as the snow outside.
Dr Graham was
a
tall
,
cheery man
,
although
a little rounded with
badly-combed
,
sparse grey hair
.

Through the
v
estry window
,
the old gravestones seemed to stare back at
the Reverend
,
their
frozen
faces
etched with many sad words.
It had stopped snowing a little while ago and the mist lift
ed
as grey clouds headed eastwards
,
opening up to reveal a clear and cold
and clear
night sky
.

The temperature outside was plummeting with the receding cloud cover
,
al
though it was a perfect winter
’
s evening!
Ten last chimes could be heard from the clock tower above
before its
mechanical hands stopped moving
—
completely frozen.

Barren and lifeless trees stood in the graveyard grounds as they had for hundreds of years, stretching up high into this crisp clear night and almost reaching the heights of the clock faces on the Gothic Church Tower.

Long tree branches stretched up loftily into the air with iced
,
twig
-
like fingers trying to grasp at the stellar heavens as the minister looked through them an
d
up to the full moonlight.
The lunar light reflect
ed
off the white snow surface with dazzling luminosity and
,
like a photographic negative
,
this weird
light
cast a blend of black and white shadows off the dead stones and lifeless barks
of
these hal
l
o
w
ed grounds.

Concealed underneath this gothic construction was a large private hall with high
-
arched ceiling
s
held up by immovable pillars. An old green barometer hung high on the far wall
,
the gauge needle dropping well below freezing.
Inside
showed
much evidence of past conflicts
,
and on one wall hung a battle
-
worn and ancient Covenanters flag
,
yellowing with age
,
once held solemn
ly
and in strong hands with
the
pride of reformation.

Refo
rmation had been accepted in Mauc
hline and the rest of Scotland in the mid
-
sixteenth
century and after the Scottish Parliament adopted the “Confession of the Faith”.
Disguised behind this once proud “Standard”, a secret message was chiselled into the stone long ago
—
an enigmatic Masonic scripture and a code-work of strange symbols with some unknown significance
.
.
..

Above this closed hall, up in the vestry, two men of the cloth stood. This was going to be an
extra special
celebration
,
because this evening he w
ould
join together to praise the Lord with Father Poletti and his most welcome catholic congregation.

‘If you could lead the
s
ervice please, Father’,
he
smil
ed
with genuine friendship and
a
passionate
tone.
C
ontented
,
they both walked slowly together with clasped hands towards the lecture-hall as their flocks gathered and waited with murmuring anticipation, listening eagerly to their approaching footsteps.

The Papal Father was wearing a silk white Mitre Simplex on top of his head and in keeping with the rest of his attire, a holy crucifix hanging on his robes.
The Father had gathered here with his Catholic Community this evening for a joint
s
ervice.
Both religious men had discussed the procedures and protocols earlier and agreed to keep their sermons light and open, with lots of carol singing and few prayers.
It would be up to individual, famil
y
and religious beliefs to
outline
what the
parishioners
would accept.