The Deacon’s Dilemma

Reverend Deacon Floyd Henry Andrews Jr. was having a truly distressing day.

At scarcely four in the morning in October of 1916, a bright orange yo-yo crashed through the dusty glass of his window, splintering the panel, the resulting crack effectively jarring Floyd awake. Shouting rang out from the cobblestone street, and the yo-yo receded quickly, only momentarily getting caught on the remnants of the glass.

Floyd groaned, and bit back some words probably not appropriate for the Deacon of South St. Martin’s Restoration. His heartbeat thudded in his navy nightshirt, calming now that the supposed danger had passed. Floyd allowed himself a moment to fully awaken, during which time he skillfully avoided such questions as to why one would be playing yo-yo with friends at four in the morning. Children were to the deacon a nuisance at the best of times, a catastrophe at the worst, and an altogether mystery.

Sleep being unattainable after his early-morning adrenaline rush, Floyd reluctantly freed himself from his cocoon of blankets and stepped out of bed. His feet landed squarely on top of the shattered glass. The deacon briefly entertained the idea of bars- thick, iron bars- to cover his windows, before deciding that they were an example of the phrase “more trouble than it’s worth.”

After applying his somewhat lacking knowledge of first aid and sweeping the glass from the floor, Floyd sat down at his kitchen table and sipped from a mug of bitter tea as he applied margarine to a slice of burnt toast. He read from the Bible, and really tried his best to absorb the familiar story rather than just letting his eyes wander across the page until the words took on a hazy quality.

Floyd was discomforted by the jarring change in his day’s atmosphere. Normally, things couldn’t seem to help going his way, and his mood was considerably more optimistic. For instance, Floyd could normally at least pretend to tolerate ragamuffins of the juvenile variety. Today seemed to have an itchy feel to it, and the deacon didn’t like it.

The young deacon waited in a corner as the prayers of thanksgiving slowly filtered out, then began to sweep the church for Tuesday’s mass. The time passed without incident, as it had for the last year he’d been working there, not to mention his four years of training.

Floyd was comparatively very new to his job. A person had to be thirty-five or older to be a deacon, while Floyd was barely thirty-six. His father, although long dead in the Boer War, had obtained during his time a significant reputation as a Priest and Holyman. Priest Baldwin was a friend of his father’s, and was able to boost Floyd up significantly the instant he expressed an interest in working with the Catholic church.

Floyd liked his job, if you didn’t count the inexpressibly annoying twelve year old Sian Kent and his gang. He didn’t mind the lack of a salary, or his surplus of spare time- his inheritance more than covered every expense Floyd could dream of for the rest of his life, and he needed the extra time to work on his studies anyway. Floyd went to Aberystwyth University as soon as he’d graduated high school, with a major in philosophy, but he had a hunger for knowledge and would still read and study any old Greek theories and works he could get his hands on.

Floyd’s mother had shared this love of learning, but passed away from pneumonia when Floyd was thirteen. She and his father were very religious, and he held tribute to them through his own beliefs.

Floyd thought about this as he put the broom away, and removed his polishing cloth from it’s tin. Now to shine the silver cross at the front of the church, on the stage, right below the Priest’s note stand. Floyd walked up the stairs, and crossed the platform.

The wooden floorboards creaked with age under his steady, purposeful footsteps, and the light from the gas lamps flickered. It was a strange feeling to stand at the head of such a large building, elevated from the floor but with the ceiling still seeming miles away. The dusty air felt almost imperceptibly thinner, and Floyd was slightly lightheaded at being completely alone in such a large place.

Looking down, Floyd was unable to help lingering a moment, letting the gas lamps wash their steady white light over the stained glass windows, which reflected their own patterns onto the stage and Floyd. They turned his mousy blond hair purple and green. The still air hummed, and the holiness of the place was almost tangible.

The shrill screech of a blackbird outside awakened Floyd to reality, and, shaking his head, he bent down to press the thin cloth to the cross. He reached forward. The moment his fingers touched the silver, he gasped. It was searing, burning, warm to the point of cold, cutting heat. His fingers moved away of their own volition, and Floyd stumbled back, nearly falling off the stage. The deacon hissed in pain, looking down at his palm. Burned. It burned him.

Floyd’s head spun. He felt dizzy, and sat down for a moment, as the words “burned me, it burned me, it burned me” bounced around in his head. The holy cross of Jesus Christ burned him. A deacon!

“I-I’m not evil, I’m not a heathen, it d-didn’t- b-burn me, did it?” He whispered this to himself. Everything he’d been taught, everything he’d learned, been raised on- and the silver cross glinted at him, and his hand was pink with the heat, rapidly swelling.

Tentatively, Floyd reached out once more, wanting confirmation, and once more he felt the sear. He yanked his hand back, took deep breaths, and shakily began to pray. The words were pleading, scared, and somewhat angry, but he stayed for fifteen minutes imploring, begging for answers. After he’d said what he could, and collected himself, he began to walk home.