I.
I have lived in the cathedral rafters for an endless number of bell chimes. At first I thought I’d count them to track the passage of time. It’s an enormous hunk of bronze, the bell, and every time it rings, it roars so loudly I’m amazed I haven’t lost my hearing yet. In fact, though, most of the time I don’t hear it at all; after so long living here I must’ve learnt to ignore it, and only when I was much younger did it used to wake me up on a Sunday.
Sometimes the chime of the bell is so incessant it’s impossible to ignore. When it rings to announce special occasions, so do my ears. I remember, as a child, church bells singing wedding melodies while beautiful women floated like clouds along the aisle. From this close there is nothing melodious about this bell. It only clangs.
II.
Plenty of brides have been paraded down the aisle but I find this one particularly interesting. I think, if I had some way of counting the years I’ve spent here, I’d find she and I are the same age. She sounds young when she recites her vows. She doesn’t believe them. I can’t hear the words exactly, not from this high up, but the vibrato in her voice reaches me all the way from the altar. When she finally finishes, the audience lets out a quiet, relieved sigh, like the cathedral choir when they reach the end of their practice.
III.
I’ve been trying to count the bell chimes again, but when I next see my bride I realise I must’ve stopped at some point, because I don’t know how long it’s been since I last saw her. I know her by the top of her head – I recognise it from when her groom threw her veil back – but I know the shy curve of her shoulders too, the soft click-clacking of her shoes against the tiles. She takes her usual place in her favourite pew, right at the back, and kneels. When she has company she clasps her hands together in silent prayer, but when she is alone, she sobs, wails, like something inside her has torn.
IV.
The cathedral is full. I’ve given up counting but surely that much time can’t have passed since the wedding, not long enough for my bride to be holding the bundle of white in her arms that I think she is. It’s tiny – from this height I can’t really see it at all – but its sound is so piercing I have to grab onto the wooden beam underneath me with both hands to stop myself toppling off it. Just like its mother.
She’s quiet today, though. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard her cry in a while. Not like she used to.
