Heaven’s Cane: I always thought the sacred bell-tower was aptly named. Standing at its base, I always feel in awe of the magnitude of the stone construction. It is the most sacred space in the world – not only did God construct it to keep the sky separate from the earth, but the chimes of the bells themselves sing His words and ward off evil.

It stands in the exact centre of the village, surrounded by a sprawl of wooden houses. Dirt-trodden paths criss-cross around Heaven’s Cane, connecting various roads and cut-throughs between houses. During the day the local area is saturated with a variety of stalls and performers, people going about their daily lives, smiling and greeting each other as they pass. Of course, if they were to pass before the wooden doors of the Cane, anyone would pause to nod in reverence before continuing. I take every opportunity I can to visit during the day – there’s something soothing about the background hum of merry conversation that doesn’t quite reach the Church proper.

The structure itself consists of an extremely long spiral staircase; the stairs, walls and central pillar all stone, in stark contrast against the surrounding light brown sea of wooden buildings. Despite the time and energy required to get to the top, I’ve never once felt frustration over my daily chore to ring the bell at the end of the day. The walls have periodic slits, so as I climb I admire the calm, serene beauty of the world bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. The gentle waving of the field crops in the breeze, the vibrant colours of the sky reflected in the smooth, fast-flowing streams and the milling about of the village people as they get ready to close up shop: all of these never fail to take my breath away, and each day I thank the Lord for the precious world He has allowed us to be a part of.

Even as the temperatures plummet in the rainy seasons and I can barely keep from shivering, the natural world below me always holds me in such awe that my spirits never fall. When it rains, the pitter-patter of the drops against the thick walls make me feel calm and relaxed, and during the extremely windy seasons the swaying of the trees in the far-off forests and the low shrieking of the gales entrance me. Irrespective of the weather, I would climb to the top without fail, and watch as the sun sets over the horizon. The instant it is gone, I bring the Lord’s speech into being as I pull upon the rope and pray:

Lord, I am thine servant,

Loyal, now and forever.

Let thine magnificence manifest within myself,

Such that I may enact thine will.

Permit thine power to guide my hand,

For the salvation of mankind.

Amen.

For 10 years this has been my duty, and not once have I ever thought it was anything but the highest of honours. It is my favourite part of the day; ringing the bell connects me to both the Lord and the hearts of all below. In that moment I can sense the shift in commotion on the ground as the stalls begin to be packed up, and that they all know that the priest’s daughter is continuing her due diligence high in the bell tower.

Following the minute of repeated prayer and ringing, I carefully descend the tower. In the absence of the sun’s direct light, the steps below me become ever harder to perceive, so I keep each arm against a wall to keep steady. I look forward to the dinner father will have lovingly prepared, and together mother, father, granny and I will discuss our day. It always follows the same script: they’d talk about where they had lunch and with whom, and outlined the various requests they satisfied or visits they’d made. There was a certain rigidity with which they’d discuss some of the people, as to maintain discretion when it came to personal matters or confessions. Granny, on the other hand, would make me laugh as she regales me with her highly exaggerated version of the day: she’d always work herself up and get flustered, but stay good-natured and witty throughout.

And then I would describe my day. A morning of scripture reading, followed by assisting anyone who had written a request on the Church board. Today, for example, I laid out Miss Glare’s stall and wares, as due to a fall the previous day she found it difficult to lift much herself. She tried to offer me a small cake as thanks, but I resisted and affirmed it was my duty to help without payment. Then I went to the school for the rest of the day, as Mr Ember was feeling ill. As one of the few in the world who practices writing every day, I used the opportunity to help the small children with their calligraphy. Before lunch I was surprised that some of them were not 100% confident with the prayers of thanks, so we rehearsed that for the rest of the day. Mr Ember probably utters the thanks each day, but I ought to suggest he let the kids join in so this mistake doesn’t continue.

Overall, it was a relatively tame day. Sometimes mother or father requires my assistance on a medical matter, or a cook would enlist my help and I could spend the day surrounded by pleasant culinary aromas. Other days, there would be no requests, so I would help the cleaners tend to brushing the floors, cleaning the pews, and stacking firewood.

Each day I conformed to my role, and each day my parents would express pride in my behaviour. Recently they have been discussing that I may be qualified to help out on minor consultations and therapies, such that I learn more of my craft. Each time they bring it up, by heart skips a beat in anticipation; the sooner I can do this, the sooner I can understand more of God’s world.

So I make my way down the stairs, knowing full well what’s to come, and looking forward to it. I go a bit slower than I have recently – it’s getting darker earlier and earlier at this time of year, and the sun is set so far that I can’t even make out the steps properly. It’s no problem; I’m used to this, all the steps are evenly spaced and flat, and I’m holding onto the wall tighter for good measure.

Somehow, I trip.

It takes me a moment to realise what’s happening. How could I possibly be falling? Tripping, after years of this ceremony, in the divine security of the Lord’s own construction? How could it possibly be so? There was no ice build-up, it’s too warm this time of year. So, why-

CHK!

That was my forehead, smacking on the corner of a stone step. I feel no pain from it. How could this be? Had I done something wrong? Had I made a mistake in my prayer? Could it be… had I been distracted by the thoughts of returning home to mother and father? Had I been insincere in my prayer because I was looking forward to going home?

My heart sinks. No, no, this can’t be right. I am devoted, I am faithful. So, why-

CRACK

That was my arm. I recognise the sound from when a young boy fell out from a tree while I passed by. Pain shoots through my body, and I realise that I need to stop myself. I can’t feel the blow to my head – I’m probably concussed. Therefore, I need to get to help as soon as possible. If I shouted, would anyone hear me? It is unlikely – not only am I too high, but they are still probably packing up, the clatter of which will drown out anything else.

I throw out my hands to steady my fall, but I have no sense of my orientation. My palms scrape and bleed against stone, but I’m still rolling down the steps. I had never appreciated just how steep the staircase was before, and terror begins to bloom in my chest.

No! I mustn’t be scared. The Lord is with me, and I with Him. As long as I act to save myself, I will be saved. He helps those who act.

I push out my arms and legs: this ought to slow me down as they provide friction around the sloped stairwell. But-

CHK

A sharp pain in my lower back, then… nothing. No. No wait this isn’t good. Mrs Glowmoss cannot walk, due to spinal damage she took when she fell off her ladder. What if... The damage I could feel in my legs, it’s gone. I feel sick. There’s something wrong. I can’t… I don’t...

I’m still tumbling down, but a warm wave of numbness is spreading up through my body. Is. Is? Concussion? Maybe.

There’s not much left. My limbs flail uselessly, I can’t think straight. Time seems to slow as my blurring eyesight sees another step rush towards my face.

Is this it? Is this the time you have allocated me, Lord? Then I walk into your embrace. But… please, comfort me. This feeling, I cannot control it. I’m scared.

The step comes closer and closer. No… No… No. No. No no no nono.

…

I don’t want to die.

And then, everything goes black.

I open my eyes: I’m lying face-up across some steps, and I can see my body up the staircase.

My breathing turns ragged. Am I okay? Tears brim my eyes and I begin to weep. It doesn’t matter if I’m okay. I’m alive, and the relief is unbearable. Praise God, praise God!

Thank you God for protecting me. Thank you for forgiving my disgusting lapse in faith as I fell. Was this a test? I repent from the bottom of my heart if I have let you down.

Carefully, I bring my hand to my forehead. I can’t feel anything. I check my hand. No blood. A miracle! Praise God! Praise –

Wait. No, I need to be careful. I did hit my head. It’s possible… no, I definitely need to get help. I slowly test each of my limbs – I can’t feel any pain. Wait, I was certain I lost feeling in my legs? Or was that part of the head injury.

How long have I… why is there sunlight streaming in through a window slit? Based on the angle and that rich golden colour, it suggests… early morning? That cannot be right. There’s no way I would have been left here overnight, right?

Slowly, tentatively, I push myself up, and rotate myself so I’m sitting on a step. I look at my hands again. I distinctly remember the scraping of my palms against the wall, but my grass-green palms are completely unblemished.

Something else seems wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it. Clearly I’m confused. I hit my head. I need to get home.

I gingerly stand up, and slowly – slower than I ever have before – I descend the staircase. Each step echoes loudly through the Cane, unsettling me somewhat. But why? I suppose normally when I come up and down during the day, the echoes are drowned out by the clamour downstairs.

I stop. That’s it! It’s far too quiet! I press my ear against the nearest slit in the wall, and I’m only met by a howling wind. No daily greeting and exchanging of wares. No children laughing in their free time. Nothing.

I shuffle down the Cane a bit faster. What has happened? Hang on, it’s entirely possible this is a dream… but it’s all too real. The cool wind through the windows flutters my tunic, the end flapping about my knees. I feel the roughness of the stone wall on my fingertips. This cannot be a dream, can it? Lord, what is happening to me? With each reverberating step, a nightmarish sense of dread builds in my chest. Father, give me strength…

Finally I reach the bottom, facing the wooden doors. I push to open, and a CRACK rings out. I flinch, but I can’t see the source… until I note the splintered wood around the door lock. The metal wedge of the lock mechanism stands exposed – had the door been locked? Why? And, how was it that the door broke? Perhaps it has rotted after all this time. I shall bring it up with father when I see him.

I push the door open fully, and the land is almost unrecognisable. I haven’t ever seen such a clear, sunny morning shine upon a completely desolate marketplace. I have frequently walked through the area when it was empty as night, but in the day the world just seems hollow.

The panic in my chest rises, and I start walking, then jogging, then sprinting to the Church. I look around quickly as I cross houses and streets – where is everyone? There are clear signs of life – some chimneys exude smoke, and I recognise a few signs of early morning chores having been completed. So, where has everybody gone? Why would the entire world of people disappear? The only time that everyone would shift their schedule is if there’s a wedding, or a

Oh, no.

I sprint harder. I feel a tightness throughout my body. Who? Who could it have been? There are so many elders that have been holding on for a while, and I love them all dearly. Mrs Glimmer hasn’t been able to get out of bed for weeks. Mr Rainbow has been found a few times unconscious, and Mother and I had tended him back to health each time. Granny?

My vision blurs and I rub away the tears. Please no, please God no. I’m not ready.

As I tear around a corner and the Church appears before me, I’m struck by a sudden memory. Mother and father talking as I started to take myself off to bed, just a few weeks ago.

“You know, dear,” father says, a sense of incredulity in his voice. “I think you’re right. How miraculous. Yes… we haven’t lost a member of the congregation in 10 years!”

And then another memory, on the day of grandfather’s funeral 10 years ago. How I was unable to control myself, crying constantly as mother, father and granny took turns holding my hand. No matter how they reassured me that I’d see him again someday, the pain was too hard to bear. It still is, at times, even now. And the thought of granny going too… Even though she would be in eternal happiness with you, Lord, I would miss her for the remainder of my life.

As I reach the doors, something catches my eye. I stop abruptly, and whirl around to the cemetery along the side of the church. A place I walk past many times per day, every day of my life. Even though I find myself unconsciously looking away, there’s no way I wouldn’t pick up on the change before me. This doesn’t make sense. I wrack my brain to spot the differences between my memory and what I see before me. 1, 2… 5, 10… 20! How on earth can there be there be 20 more gravestones?! The land beneath each forms a gradient of grass length, indicating the time over which each had been filled.

I turn to the door, erratically, when something catches my eye in the other direction. I’m stunned. But… Since when were there graves on this side too?! At least a dozen, with even barer soil on each grave than the other side. And at the end of the row spanning away from me lies freshly dug hole.

I tear my eyes back to the door, and push as hard as possible. I don’t want to read the names. I need to find out what’s going on, ask mother and father how this has all happened. I am familiar enough with all the traditions of our society – it is forbidden to have more than one funeral per day. This could all only have been done over many weeks. How is this possible?

The doors swing open, and I hurry through the antechamber. It is of course forbidden to run in the Church, but may God please forgive my hurry. I reach the other end, and now I can hear a familiar droning tone – father! The sound of his sermon lifts a weight from my chest – had I been worried that he was occupying one of the graves outside?

I reach for the handle, aiming to be as quiet as possible despite the violent shaking in my hands. What am I to see? If this is what I think it is, then behind father will be a table, upon which will be the mortal shell of a person I had known. I try my best to centre myself, to calm my ragged breathing. The last thing I want to do is bring undue attention to myself and distract from the ceremony. Give me strength, Lord.

Silently, I turn the handle and swing the door open a crack. I quickly pass through and gently shut it behind me.

The Church layout is a large, open rectangle, with the pews oriented along the width to face a pulpit at the front. As the largest building in the world, it is easily capable of seating all the people in the world, even though some may need to stand if isolated pockets form in the middle of aisles. Alongside the pulpit was a raised platforms where members of the choir would sit, or where newly-weds would exchange vows. Columns line the edge of the room at the end of some of the pews. The door opens out towards the back along the side-wall, behind all of the pews. Anyone who enters is partially hidden from the sight of the sermon-giver by a nearby pillar, to allow the new person to pick out a place to sit without having to worry about being seen.

Therefore, as I enter the room I am able to see the backs of everyone in the world. The atmosphere is unlike any I have ever experienced. When grandfather passed the air was heavy with sorrow, with the sniffling of mourners and my own crying.

But here the air is… dry. As though there are no more tears to shed. A dark cloud of despair, not sadness. The open weeping of a lone mourner rings out.

“Lord, in Your divine reckoning we pray for comfort and forgiveness,” my father intonates sombrely.

This flicks a mental switch. That wasn’t right, in a variety of ways. First, father has never droned in such a way in any sermon. Even during his father’s funeral he commanded a bold, enthusiastic presence as he addressed the congregation, but here he seems unable to emote. And even stranger – this line is incorrect. Why did he add ‘and forgiveness’ at the end? Scripture is clear on the procedures, and father has never deviated from scripture.

I carefully peak around the pillar, slowly such that he doesn’t see me. Why have I closed my eyes? Come on Light, look. You’re the priest’s daughter, you mustn’t allow yourself to be conquered by fear. I open my eyes.

Mother once mentioned in passing that a body devoid of its spirit often does not resemble the person as they were in life. The lack of personality, emotion and soul may even render relatives unable to initially recognise the deceased. But I had never imagined the effect could be so great. Who is this girl?

Father’s sermon tunes out as I look upon the body. A girl, lying with her arms crossed in a casket tilted upwards such that the hundreds in the congregation can get a good view of her from the front. Long brown hair cascades over her shoulders, while her face is an unusual shade of light green. Very unusual, as though make-up had been applied to hide markings along her grass-green skin. She wears a pure white tunic that descends to her knees, with polished black shoes on her feet.

Recognition flashes through my mind for a moment. That tunic… the pattern along the collar looks familiar. A particular set of hand-sewn symbols… hang on, that’s mine! Granny had fixed my collar once when I ripped it whilst helping pick fruit from the orchards. Despite knowing that my uniform ought to remain plain, I loved it too much to say anything. But why would father have given this tunic to her?

Stop it, Light. Don’t let your greed consume you. If father felt the need to donate this, it must be because it was the only one that could be found of good enough quality. But that still begs the question – who is this girl? I know everyone in the world, and I’m fairly certain I’d know another girl my height, my clothes size, and, based on her figure, my relative age. So, who?

Realisations don’t always hit you all in one go. Sometimes your mind makes connections behind your back, and you find yourself knowing something without ever having had to think about it. What tipped me off? Was it the complete devastation I saw in father’s face as his glazed eyes looked into the middle distance as he talked? Was it mother’s heaving shoulders as she sobbed in the front row, granny’s arm firmly wrapped around her? Or could it have been the subtle familiarity instilled by seeing that face, albeit with her eyes open, every time I glanced in the mirror?

Without having a specific moment of figuring it out, I know the corpse upon the table is none other than myself.