Be still my soul

[Christine Daye]

If Christine still had a heartbeat, it would have been racing. How deliciously exciting it was, to be let out, shopping, by herself! Normally Maestra never let her go anywhere alone, but tonight, there was too much to do, and so Christine had been released to go and purchase fripperies for the ball.

She wandered through the streets of Aquae Sulis, taking care to be overlooked, to be no one out of the ordinary. She wore a fine, yet unremarkable walking gown, topped with her green top hat and half veil, with the veil pulled down to disguise her features, lest one of her musical admirers see and recognise her in the street.

Maestra had made appointments, of course. Maestra always took care of the details. But as Christine walked through the city centre, she heard a thread of music that pulled her from her path, to the Abbey.

Quietly she slipped into the back of the nave, taking a seat and raising her veil, just in time to catch the final hymn of Evensong.

She lingered there, willing eyes to overlook her, waiting until the murmuring crowds from evensong had dispersed. Then. moving silently, she walked up the length of the nave until she stood in front of the altar. Unconsciously she dipped into a genuflection, and her right hand twitched. No, she reminded herself, she was not in a Catholic church now, despite her upbringing.

She looked around the Abbey, listening to the faintest sounds that she made echo around the walls. Oh, the acoustic! How beautiful! She couldn't resist. She took a deep breath, forcing air into her undead lungs, and sang:

"Be still, my soul: the Lord is always near thee.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to comfort and to cheer thee.
In every change He faithful remains.
Be still, my soul: thy heavenly Friend will steer this
through thorny ways to His own domains.

Be still, my soul: when dearest friends are taken.
And all is dark within the vale of tears.
Then shalt thou know He has not thee forsaken,
but comes to soothe the sorrows and fears.
Be still my soul: thy God will always repay
In His own time, all he takes away.

Be still my soul: the hour is fast approaching.
When we shall be forever with the Lord.
Then will our fears no longer be encroaching,
sorrows forgot and our joys restored.
Be still my soul: when worldly troubles have fled,
All safe and blest, we shall meet at last."


______________________________
Recording at https://soundcloud.com/sorcha_ni/be-still-my-soul

[Revd Tweedy]

As she finished, movement from the North transept caught her eye. The man was not tall, but stockily built, and dressed in the dark garb of a priest.

He took a few steps toward her. He was in his late forties - perhaps older; white hair on his balding pate cut drastically short.

"That's beautiful," he said. The words were not spoken loudly. They carried easily through the space between them, his voice a crackly baritone, a rhotic burr rounding his words.

[Christine Daye]

Christine started, turning towards the man. She took in his clerical garb.

"Forgive me, Fathe... Reverend. I didn't mean to disturb you. Please, forgive my intrusion."

She nervously tangled her gloved fingers together and bit her lip.

[Revd Tweedy]

"Come now," he chuckled, "an I were disturbed by a voice raised in praise o' the Lord, I'd answered the wrong call."

As he approached, he resembled a priest less and less: the crooked nose had been broken more than once; whilst his right eye was dark and clear, the left was clouded. Above it, the eyebrow was cleft in two; beneath it, the barest hint of a scar on his cheek.

"I'd say ruther to not let me intrude." He flicked a glance up, along the length of the church. "He listens. You dun mind that I do too?"

[Christine Daye]

"Of course not."

Christine smiled gently, relaxing her hands.

"The Lord God gave me a heart that delights in music, and a voice to sing His praises - or so Mama always said to me. It is churlish to deny His gifts. And I could easier stop breathing than I could deny the music in my soul!"

Her face clouded slightly.

"But Papa would always remind me that it is only through perfection that we can approach the divine. And that only through constant toil and struggle we can be made worthy of the gifts that the good Lord has given us."

[Revd Tweedy]

"There's wisdom in both o' them, I'd say. It's our lot to struggle. An you been given a gift, it's for a reason. To know what it is, that's a blessing in itsen."

He made a small, open gesture with his hands as he spoke, to emphasise the words. His left hand looked maimed: it was missing two fingers.

"Music might be the clearest o' the Lord's gifts. Speaks to our souls. Are you minded to come share those gifts with us again?" A slight furrowing of his brow, in concentration. "I think I'd recognise your voice, an I'd heard it afore."

[Christine Daye]

Christine looks down, as if embarrassed.

"If... if it would not be an intrusion... yes... I would very much like to sing here again. But you have a choir... others in your congregation whose voices are as precious to the Lord. I could not supplant them... nor would I wish to... nor could I... for I must practice and practice to get ever closer to perfection... Maestra will not like it... my time is not my own... I must practice... my pieces... for the ball..."

Her words trail away, and she softly hums the first line of "Be Still My Soul" once more. Then she looked at the Reverend, more focussed again.

"I would be honoured to sing here again, though I do not know when such a time may come. Still, all as the good Lord wills."

She nods.

"I am new to Bath, my manager and I are recently arrived from London. I gave some performances there - perhaps you came to one?"

[Revd Tweedy]

He shakes his head. "Not been to London since afore you're born, I'd say."

"As to supplanting a voice - I'm nor' askin' you to. You're right eno' - that you won't do."

He glances down, a very brief smile flickering over his face. When he looks up, he's serious again.

"There's many in this congregation you can sing better than... like me. But supplant? No." His voice is gentle, not chiding - or if it is, it's with good humour. "There's room for all a' us.

"If you're singin' for a ball..? Well, we all have to keep body and soul together. No shame in that. An' you'll find us patient. This church's been here for a long time. We'll be here when you need it.

"I'm the curate here," he added, by way of a rather belated introduction. "Name's Tweedy."

[Christine Daye]

She looks down again, accepting his gentle rebuke and hums again.

"No... I did not mean such a thing... I would never..."

She takes a breath and hums another phrase.

"I would be honoured to be part of the congregation, in whatever way the Lord sees fit to have me. Silent or with voice raised in praise, it matters not. It's just... I do not wish to hurt anyone's feelings. I am new here and do not want to... sing across the existing melody through ignorance."

She hums again.

"My name is Christine Daye"

She smiles faintly.

"And the ball - I play harp as well. Maestra has arranged for me to perform for the guests, for their amusement between dances."

[Revd Tweedy]

He nodded at her explanation, accepting it, half-raising a hand in a silent shrug. You'd be welcome.

"Well met, Miss Daye." His eyebrow twitched at that word: amusement.

He paused a moment, seeming to consider whether to speak further. "The world is an imperfect part of a perfect plan, so we're taught. Every beautiful thing is flawed." He gestured around him, his hand taking in the new vaulted ceiling, the gas chandeliers. "But it's no less lovely for that. It is a true miracle, I think, that we can still see - or hear - that beauty."

He looked back at her, a flicker of something (humour? kindness? concern?) in his good eye. "I don't get to write many sermons," he said, "so I hope ye'll forgive me my sermonising. You'll raise your voice in perfect song soon enough. No need to hasten that day.

"In the meanwhile, it's the struggle that matters," he concluded. "Not the - the attainment."