Star Harbor Nights

"...parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
Remember me to one who lives there.
He once was a true love of mine."

The whole bar, which seemed to have held its breath during the song, remained as still as a grave when the singer finished... as if the patrons were afraid that the slightest noise, the smallest exhalation, would break something fragile and precious. Each listener became aware that he or she was actually clapping only at the same instant they realized the entire house was applauding, as well.

Matthew Cross, who'd served drinks at the Whitecross Hall since he'd been old enough to pour without spilling, was among the most energetic in his approval. He knew the enchanting songstress as much as anybody in the bar could claim to, but when she was up on stage, it was as though she was an angel come to earth.

She certainly looked the part, in her deceptively simple white clothes, including full-length gloves and a white stole, and her hair tied back in a gauzy white cloth. Those who'd never seen her except with the house dim and the glare of the hot lamps upon her might assume that hair was really bottle blonde if you saw it in good light, but they would be wrong.

The lights came up. The singer rose, laid aside her harp, gave a small bow and a few words of humble thanks, then headed for the bar. The crowd parted before her like a field being threshed.

"You never cease to amaze, M.," Matt said as she slid onto the stool.

"Ah, Matt, I'm only just okay," she insisted, dismissing the compliment with a wave of her hand. "There are so many truly gifted souls out there. Me, I just... abide."

"Look, M., every folk singer under the sun ends up playing here sooner or later, and the first thing they all drag out is Scarborough Fair," he said. "I've heard it literally hundreds of times, by hundreds of singers. I mean, it's like the standard, isn't it?"

"See what I mean?" she said with a shrug. "Strictly middle of the road."

"M., I've heard it hundreds of times," he said earnestly, looking right into her pale eyes as he did so, his hand reaching sliding across the bar to clasp hers, "but after the first dozen I just stopped listening. When you got up and sang it, I listened... from the first halting note until the last refrain. That's a song for remembering, it is."

"That just means you're a little sweet on me," she said, pulling her hand back gently.

He looked away sheepishly, putting both his hands beneath the counter.

"Am not," he mumbled. He cleared his throat, and looked for another subject... but with M., there was only one subject, music aside. "Uh... you up for the game?"

"Always," she said, a twinkle in her eye.

"Same rules as usual?" he asked, anticipating the answer. She rarely deviated.

"Well, how about I give you an extra guess... and half the usual price," she said. "I'm feeling strangely generous tonight."

"That is generous," Matt agreed.

"Strangely so," she repeated.

"Okay, then," Matt said, turning around and pulling a wine glass down from the rack. "Will you be having your usual... Marina?"

"I can't speak for Marina, but yes, I will," M. said. "That's strike one."

He poured her a glass of the rich red wine that she favored, which she accepted gratefully.

"Marigold?" he guessed.'

"That's out of left field," she said. "And strike two."

"Where else'd you think to find a flower?" Matt said. "Muh... mah... Mitsuki?"

"Strike three, and do I look Japanese?"

"Well, we've covered most of Europe," Matt said. "Why not go some place new?"

"Your dime," she said with a grin, holding out a hand into which he dutifully placed a ten note. "Thanks for the drink," she said, rising to her feet.

"Cutting out so early?" he asked, trying not to sound too disappointed.

"I have another engagement," she said.

"Here, now, you're not singing in another man's bar, are you?" he asked, a mock hurt expression on his face... an expression which broke down completely at the joyous sound of her laughter.

"No, no... my needs are a bit more spiritual than that," she said. "I actually... well, I feel like attending services, if you must know."

"What... you mean like, church?" Matt asked, confused.

"Yeah, I mean, like, church," she repeated in a bad bassy imitation. "Don't worry, I'll be back."

"When?"

"When you're lonely and I'm thirsty," she laughed, gliding away.

"Hey... it isn't Matt, is it?" he called after her.

"Next time," she called back.
 

White boots crunched on gravel as she made her way up to the doors of the little old country church. It had probably once been quite picturesque, but now the churchyard was overgrown with weeds and the building itself showed signs of neglect and disrepair. In places, it seemed almost ready to fall apart. The double doors were still in working order, if just barely... the right one groaned in protest as she pushed it open.

Her footsteps echoed softly in the darkness as she made her way down to the foremost pew, where she sat in quiet contemplation as the remaining few minutes ticked past. Then, at a little bit before midnight, an old priest entered the sanctuary and crossed to the lectern, where he began absent-mindedly thumbing through the Bible, murmuring to himself as he did so. There was a sense of great melancholy about him.

She didn't so much make a sound as change her expression as she looked upon him, and he noticed her.

"Goodness! You... you startled me," the priest said, smiling at her. "I... I really wasn't expecting anybody to show up today. It's... it's been so long. So... long."

His smile became sad, and a sense of weight fell upon his kind, old features. She guessed he was in his mid to late fifties, though he'd looked younger for a moment when he'd smiled... and much older now.

"Well, I'm here, now," she said, gently.

"Forgive me, I... I used to pride myself on knowing every member of my flock, but it's been... so... long," the priest said. "I'm not entirely certain if I've seen you before."

"I'm not a regular member of your flock, Father," she said. "I'm just in the area on business... but something had to lead me here, right?" She put an encouraging note into her voice.

"Quite right, quite right," he said. "Your business isn't too pressing, is it? Or do you have time to... maybe... hear a sermon?"

"My business is pressing," she said. "But it's not far. I can stay and listen."

"I give a sermon every Sunday, you know," he said. "At midnight, and then at seven o'clock, and nine o'clock, and again at eleven. Every week. There used to be another priest... Father Winslow... but he went away. I think he must have been reassigned. It's a lot of work, but... the Lord doesn't burden us with any more than we can carry, right?"

She simply nodded at him.

"It's the most I can do, to do the readings and give a sermon," he said. "Without any parishioners to participate... imagine carrying out the responsorial without having anybody to respond." He laughed. "And, of course, it isn't a proper Mass without the Rite of Communion. You aren't, by any chance, Catholic, are you?" he asked, a hopeful look on his face.

"No," she said. "I'm very sorry, but I'm not."

"Ah, well," he said, shaking off the weight of disappointment before it could solidify around him. He began flipping through the Bible before him. "No Communion tonight. I'd... er... I'd like to begin with a reading from the... from the book of... of..."

He stopped and looked up, swallowing a few times before he began speaking again.

"You can read the words of the Holy Bible until your throat is dry as dust, and they'll still be only words if you don't find a way to mean them," he said. "And you can speak from the heart and have it be the word of God, if God is in your heart. I've served this little parish ever since I left the seminary. I like to think I've been a good priest. A good priest.. but I could have been better. I always did everything just right... I spoke out from my faith, from what's in the Scriptures, and what's in my head... but never the heart. I always meant to, I always wanted to... but... a priest's life is bound up in so many ways. It just never seemed like the time was right. Now, I've had a long time to think about... about what I would say, if ever I had somebody to listen again... and tonight..."

He closed the book.

"...tonight, I'd like to speak to from the heart," he said. "If that's alright."

"By all means," she said.

He began.

He spoke passionately of the great glory of God, of His power and majesty and the wonders of his kingdom... of flights of angels, a heavenly choir singing God's eternal praises in joyous celebration. His voice was filled with no less power as he described the horrors of Hell and the suffering that the unjust and the unrepentantly evil would face when their day came... but he only spoke of such things as prelude to the stronger theme of redemption, of forgiveness... and of everlasting love. Love strong enough to bring light to a universe of darkness... love powerful enough to call forth Adam from clay for no other reason than love so strong demands an outlet for its expression... love strong enduring enough to withstand any amount of anger and separation... love deep enough to forgive any transgression.

She didn't listen to the words. She listened to the images he created. It was like touching the Kingdom of Heaven. The burden of years flowed away from him like water down a hill as he spoke, as his voice soared up beyond the vaulted ceiling. Tears welled up in his eyes as he spoke with love and pride for the God he had served, and when it was finished, it seemed as though a man of no more than twenty stood before her.

Although it was not the traditional response to a sermon, she clapped her hands softly in appreciation and rose to her feet.

"You... uh... did you like it, then?" he asked eagerly.

"Very much," she said. "You put your heart into it. It sounded like the work of a lifetime."

"The work of a lifetime," he agreed. A thought seemed to strike him then. "Completed..."

"It is," she said. "The thing is, Father...?"

"Samuel," he supplied for her. "Lord be merciful, I feel like a kid again."

"The thing is, Samuel," she said, her tone very respectful even without the honorific, "your life's work is completed."

"Yes, it's... strange, but also a bit of a relief," he said. "Except now I'm wondering... what will come next?"

"Next," she began. "Next... you move on, and rejoin your flock."

"I... I don't really understand."

"You have died," she said firmly. "Years ago. The people of your parish didn't desert you, Samuel. They simply went on ahead of you. You've remained here as a spirit because there was one thing left that you needed to do, before you could rest."

"I... I think I would know if I had died," Samuel said. "I'm supposed to be something of an authority on matters of the spirit."

"You said you always wanted to give a sermon like that, but that it was never the time," she reminded him. "Would you have wanted to know that you had died without ever having taken the chance?"

"No," he said. "No... I really suppose I wouldn't."

"It's time, Samuel," she said. "Take my hand."

"So, now you take me on to Heaven?" he asked, as he did so.

"I take you on to the next step," she said, leading him down the nave towards the doors. Although sunrise was still far off, there was a distinct lightening from outside the church's windows. "I don't know what really lays beyond that... but it sounded to me like you know the way from there."

"Tell me, are you an angel, then? Do you have a name?" he asked, as white light flooded the inside the church, streaming impossibly pure through the many-colored stained glass windows.

"I'm not an angel," she told him, the light flooding out the world around them "But since you asked, my name is..."

Then the light was gone from inside the old stone church, and with it, all trace of Father Samuel and the lady in white.