Mia Lasic-Ellis

Far above the quilted covers of the artisan markets and the terracotta roofs of the merchant houses, beyond the skyward sprawl of the noble towers and the king’s gleaming penthouse, and higher still than the church’s iron steeples which reach like grasping hands to the sky, there shines a central spire whose crown is a golden cross. Each day, as the sun makes its great leap across the sky, its blinding image is reflected in the gold and its radiance is cast on the many people of the city below. This perfectly polished cross is a grand mirror for God himself, gifted to the heavens by the many priests that call this tower home.

The metal does not polish itself, of course, as the rain makes it rust, high-flying motes of dust settle on its wide beam, and the passage of time leaves its sour touch on the gold plating. There must be men to take care of such grand and holy things. In the profession of decorative maintenance do I find myself, the tools of my trade most frequently rags and holy water, though occasionally a stone hammer and copper nails. Such tools hang in bags and holsters from my belt, which itself was fashioned for me by a kindly leatherworker named Mr. Bell in my hometown many years ago.

The trade of decorative maintenance, I must admit, is far easier for those employed by the church, as we have the freedom to complete our tasks over a six day period, rather than the two- or three-day period of most other professions, whilst on Sundays we attend mass and leave our lives open for the Lord to perform his most wonderful and incomprehensible works upon us. This ample time allows the more experienced members of our group, of whom I humbly count Mr. Dredge and Mr. Grant and myself, to not only assist with the simpler cleaning tasks within the churches, but also to climb the tall spires and clean high up windows, roofs and, of course, the golden cross.

While I already owe an immense gratitude to God for the divine honor (and the frequent humble joys) of the profession I hold, it is frequently that Mr. Dredge, Mr. Grant and I offer additional thanks to the Lord purely for the lack of maintenance that the golden cross requires. The journeys up to the glorious monolith are lengthy and trying, often beginning on the ground early in the morning and not returning our feet to the blessed earth until the sun has set. Scaling the central church is normally only required twice a year, but this year an additional wash was mandated. His holiness, the high priest Polaris, required that we give it an extra coat of polish, to make certain its grandeur and beauty during the upcoming parade, when our church would welcome none other than the pope to our great city. I was, I admit with some shame, initially somewhat bothered by this request, as I have previously explained my distaste for this particular task, but this feeling was immediately overtaken, as a holy flood through a valley of sin, by a heavenly excitement. Quickly after the rushing waters of jubilation settled the heavy sediment of honor, sitting in my soul like gleaming river stones. Honor it was, to be part of something as great as the presentation of our church to his holiness, the pope. It was for these feelings, after my nerves had settled slightly (and I had made certain the mental erasure of my shameful aversion to the task), that I told both Mr. Dredge and Mr. Grant that I would gladly perform the polishing, and that they could arrange for the less tiresome beautification of the inside of the church where the pope would be spending the majority of his visiting weekend. How providential, I thought, that we were to have the pope in our church on the Lord’s day!

On the Thursday before his arrival, as the sun began its radiant climb up out of the hills, I began my own climb up the side of the church. This comparison is thin, of course, as my crude implements shared none of the daylight’s glory, but man must contend with his own modesty. With a ladder up to the first roof, the initial challenge of the journey was the slippery terracotta tiles which guard the lower rooms from rain. With the Lord on my side (as he always is, blessed be), I would not have to deal with the rain today, but even so the hardened clay beneath my feet did not offer much purchase. The rest of the climb, of course, was even more trying, contending with a profound lack of infrastructure for ascension. The thin cracks between the stone, the slim ledges beneath the windows, the increased slope of the higher roofs and other such challenges brought me frequent frustrations. I, at points, had the thought of comparing my meager labors to those twelve of the divine Hercules, but I quickly abandoned my self-aggrandizing after frequent reminders of my own mortality.

There is one particular frustration which I will mention in greater detail, taking place as I passed the highest of the grand stained glass windows overlooking the central chamber of the church. At this point, I was likely only about one third through the journey, but my early stamina was already beginning to give way to exhaustion. As I carefully positioned my left foot on the rod of metal joining two pieces of glass, itself only providing a quarter inch or so of purchase, my hold on the stonework above the window gave way, and I fell perhaps five feet, only barely catching myself on the stone ledge below the window. As I held on for dear life, I found myself unable to muster the energy to lift my aging body back up onto the ledge and felt my fingers begin to tire. Then, suddenly, I glanced upwards, catching a bright beam on my eye. A ray of light reflected off the image of the holy son’s handsome face depicted before me in glass. I was, for a moment, so awestruck by divine attention that I no longer felt my dangling body at all, nor the tiring of my fingers. I shortly collected myself, and with the Lord’s eye upon me, I gathered all the strength in my body and hoisted myself to safety. I took an appropriate number of deep breaths and continued upwards with renewed conviction.

With the strength of faith at the forefront of my mind, I arrived at the golden cross without any more of Death’s flirtation. As I lifted myself over the last lip, I felt the strong touch of light on my eyes, and keeping my eyelids open, only a sliver to allow my sight to adjust, I saw the circular face of the sun (How holy sometimes pain can be!). It was risen and cast as a halo behind the cross, which was to be my work for the next midday hour. My divine fortitude, already strong from feeling the eyes of God upon me, was inspired to a tenfold strength.

Rising to my feet, I felt for the rag at my hip, as well as the bottle of clear polish, and began my work. The cross itself is slightly less than twice my size, so it always requires some additional climbing to fully clean, and I (smartly, I believe) begin my work at the top and make my way down to the bottom so as to make the best use of the slow-dripping polish. However, as I mounted the golden cross on this particular day, I found something very odd. On the flat top, on the very summit, on the celestial peak of the vertical beam, built of sticks and straw and string, was a bird’s nest. Of what bird, my lack of avian knowledge leaves me with no clue, but the nest was almost perfectly circular, with a slight ovular shape to its outer edge, and some protruding pieces of hay. Tucked neatly among the string and fluff, white and spotted, were three small eggs.

My immediate inclination, being of a mind to clean, was to throw the nest to the wind, letting it land where it may in the streets below, letting the eggs be dashed upon the cobblestone. I next hesitated, however, and paused, my hand already raised and about an inch or two away from the rough edges. I slowly reconsidered, and though I might like to say that I did so due to my worry that the fragile eggs might create further mess landing somewhere on the church’s lower roofs, I cannot say that was the only inhibition I had to tossing this nest skyward. I thought, for but a moment, of the odd placement of this nest. Open to the air, not hidden in a tree or a corner somewhere, perfectly visible for any predator to see. The diminutive size of it alone told me it was certainly not the nest of a large bird, and how strange for a prey bird to leave its nest so vulnerable. Perhaps this bird knew that being close to God would offer its spawn protection. If so, it must be very wise, and it was therefore best not to tamper with this nest. With my considerations made, I left without much further thought.

The climb down, while arduous, was relatively easy. I managed to feel the stalwart pat of the stone on the bottoms of my shoes only an hour or so after sundown. I brought the ladder back inside and left a note for Reverend Polaris regarding my success in the cleaning. In the many reflections I have had regarding that day, I still do not know why I did not mention in the note the nest and eggs I found. As far as I know, they are still up there.

Though my exhaustion brought me a heavy thoughtlessness on that afternoon, one thing did cross my mind as I walked home that night, that brought upon me sour dreams and a sweaty brow in the morning: Perhaps that bird had made its home between the very tip of our church and God’s kingdom not to receive his divine gifts, but rather to bar them from us. Thinking this as I passed back towards my home, I stopped to glance anxiously over my shoulder down the long cobblestone street, toward the church, up its mighty walls and past its stone spires, toward the golden cross. In the black of night, I could not see its shadowed beams against the starless sky.