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Non-Fiction
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| Shadows | |
| By Crayfish | ||||||||||||||
| 17 May 2006 | ||||||||||||||
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This has resulted from developing some of my thoughts I had while enjoying the atmosphere of Salisbury Cathedral in England. I hope it makes some sense and captures some of what I was feeling. I remember being swept centuries away, bridging the gap between plaques above ancient tombs and what it was really like. Nothing else had ever brought me that close to something so far away in time and imagination. The solid, stubborn, slate-grey, stone structure sat where it had always sat in the middle of England on a field of soft grass. A single steeple stretched into the clouds, an expression of devotion to God. Clumps of tourists – camera-bearing, back-pack-carrying, foreign-speaking strangers to the rolling hills and fairytale forests craned their necks to visually climb the spire and point at various effigies embedded in the walls. My brother laughed at one whose nose had crumbled off. It wore flowing, majestic robes that seemed to defy the stone they were made of and stood as it had for ages in a regal pose. There was a story behind every statue. Someone had carved them hundreds of years ago and each figure stood for something. What a monument! – that it should battle time, weather, abuse, neglect, and ultimately bear no known reason for standing there. That night, we came back to see the cathedral. The tip of the spire could barely be made out against the inky indigo sky. The cloisters were drowned in shadow and night, and the tourists had all escaped to their hotel rooms. Whatever magic they had gleaned from gazing at the cathedral would be thoroughly washed off in a shower. It was hard enough to grasp the concept of the middle ages without a bar of soap in one hand and a folded pile of clean, fitted clothes outside the shower door. The massive wooden doors were still open so we slipped inside. Exquisite vaulted ceilings were lost in a mysterious blackness, the soaring arches disappearing as if there was an eerie lake above us. The stained glass windows didn’t sparkle or shatter sunlight into the cathedral, but they still stood proud and colourful, boasting panes of original medieval glass. Lost in a trance, being tugged back in time, we barely noticed that a large group had congregated at one end of the cathedral. Some carried violins, violas, and cellos, but most had black leather choir books tucked under their arms. My dad asked a guide what was happening. “The cathedral’s about to close and they’re rehearsing for the Easter service,” he explained as he shut off the lights at the opposite end of the grand building. The back end of the majestic expanse was flooded with black. “You can stay and listen if you want,” he offered. We sat to one side of the semi-circle of chairs and risers set up to host the ensemble. The seats were modern, light and airy, made of pale, glossy wood and sleek metal. The contrast to the weathered medieval floor was sharp. Medieval friezes decorated the wall behind us and encircled a marble column that reached into the veil of darkness above us. Bible scenes were carved out in rough, but careful execution. The intricacy was amazing for the equipment, or rather lack of equipment, available in the middle ages. The whole structure was, to me, not an offering to God, but a testimony to medieval craftsmen. It was a time capsule from 13th century BC. I tried to imagine that the very air I was breathing was the dense, musty air I’ve always thought to be a part of medieval England. The choir filled the air with conversation and I caught the odd English lilt here and there. They had filled the risers and the strings were settling into their seats, rubbing their bows with rosin, and setting up metal stands with sheets of music. As I was absorbing the atmosphere, they began to play. The strings cut into the air with the sweetness of sugar, spilling into the hall, and dissolving into the lake above us. Then the choir began. It was a large group with a lot of power, but they restrained their intensity, achieving a soft and quiet, yet strong sound. United as one in the magnificent cathedral, they stretched their voices down the hall and wrapped them around columns, tombs, and into a spiral up the dizzying spire. The men filled the grand cathedral with a thick layer of dark-chocolate-sound: rich, sophisticated, and delicious. The women’s voices seemed to dance into the infinite unknown above. It was amazing how the voices soared about the gothic edifice. I looked down at the dark end of the cathedral and felt my neck tingle. This was why these glorious churches were built: not for God, but for man – to celebrate human ability and surrounding beauty. What else did they live for eight hundred years ago? They prayed here and sought refuge within the fortuitous walls. They knelt on the very floors I walked over, set candles in the corner beside where a lady’s leather purse now sat, and listened to the sermons. I could almost hear a Latin tongue preaching from the Bible. All of the thousands of lives in the far past have been lost. As a whole, they have brought us to where we are today, but as individuals…what did they do? Our lives are so precious to us, yet no one will know about them when we have died. It is a sad thing that only very few get documented and even then their lives are only statistics and possibly altered or even wrong at that. If only the walls could talk, and the stones tell us of who knelt and prayed on them, and what for. I strained to feel the darkness, the hardship, of the Middle Ages. Looking back down the hall, I could imagine a priest pacing in the deep shadows, perhaps with a candle, unaware that hundreds of years later, people would flock from all over the world to where he was standing. For the moment, the choir was drowning out any outside noise, the deep warm sound resonating throughout the cathedral, arching into the vaulted ceilings, and reverberating down the cross-shaped structure. I could almost see the priest in humble robes, blowing out the candles before retiring for the night. I thought of Thomas Becket and pilgrimages – hundreds of thousands of devoted men and women travelled a lifetime away just to pray in a spot they deemed the holiest. Sometime later that evening, we decided to leave. I remember looking back at the cathedral from the field. I could still hear the choir faintly singing in the crisp breeze and I could still see the priest walking in the shadows.
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