Pious Stone

The sun did not set over the Cathedral of Saint Castorius; it bled out. The horizon was a jagged wound of burnt orange and bruised violet, fading rapidly into an inky, suffocating purple. As the light died, the shadows grew long and hungry, stretching from the base of the flying buttresses like reaching fingers. High above, the moon began its ascent—a pale, sightless eye rising to watch the world fall into shadow behind encroaching storm clouds.

Within the cathedral, the air was still and much older. It held the weight of a thousand years of muttered prayers, the cold breath of the crypts, and the lingering scent of beeswax and dust.

Rain began to fall on the roof high above as a curtain of hushed breath draped the church. Father Carter moved around the altar, quietly removing relics and decorations, taking them back behind a heavy curtain before coming out for more.

In the quiet of the nave, a few scattered patrons sat, heads bowed in silent prayer. But a thought, unlike the others, whispered through the cracks and beams.

“A pitter, a patter, a thief on the floor! He’s prying the silver and seeking the door. The balance is shifting, the relics are cold—should I flood out the nave to protect all the gold?”

“The gold is a vapor, a glint in the eye. A mountain of metal for sinners to buy. I care not for trinkets or chests made of wood; I hunger for justice, as all stone things should.”

“But brother of granite, so heavy and deep, the Vessel has secrets it’s bidden to keep! If he takes the martyrs, the altar is bare. We’ll have nothing but shadows and cold, empty air!”

“Then let the air empty, and let the room cry. The Shepherd is poison; the Shepherd must die. His pulse is a drumbeat of hollow deceit—I’ll grind his ambition to dust ‘neath my feet.”

“A howl in the wind and a scream in the throat! I’ll wash him away like a leaf in a moat! If he dies in the sanctuary, think of the stain. Let me scour his sin with a deluge of rain!”

“Stains are but memories, washed by the tide. But shadows of evil have nowhere to hide. You play with the river, you dance with the spray—I am the hammer that ends the delay.”

“I’ll spout and I’ll shout till the town is awake! I’ll save every jewel for the Cathedral’s own sake! He’s a part of the house, though his heart is a mess—let the sky do the work and the water confess!”

“The water is mercy. My mercy is black. Once he has entered, there is no way back. Open your gullet and push from the height; I’ll be the shadow that swallows the light.”

The argument faded into the stone as the patrons departed. A velvet shroud rustled behind the altar as Father Carter emerged from the back room, his shadow cast long and distorted by the single guttering candle he left behind. He moved with a predator’s hunch, clutching a leather sack that sang a dissonant, metallic song. Clink. Chime. Clink.

The rubies of the martyrs and the silver of the saints shifted within the bag, a heavy, stolen weight that seemed to pull at Father Carter’s very soul. He didn’t look up at the vaulted ceiling, where the air began to whistle through hollow stone throats. He didn’t look at the archway, where the shadows seemed to thicken and grow solid.

He reached the great oak doors, his breath coming in ragged stutters. “Just a few more steps,” he whispered to the silence.

The doors groaned as he pulled them open, but he didn’t find the night air. He found a wall of water plummeting down in front of the cathedral as if all of the rain were blocking his exit.

Above the door, a creature of hollow bone and leathery stone leaned so far over the eaves it seemed to be unpeeling itself. Its mouth was a wide, dark abyss, and from it erupted a violent jet of rainwater. It was a liquid pillar, slamming onto the stone steps, a rhythmic, thumping spray that sang a whistling tune as it struck.

Father Carter shrieked, shoved back by the freezing torrent. He scrambled, his boots sliding on the wet marble. He turned to flee back into the nave, but the path was blocked.

The figure that had sat above the inner archway was no longer a decorative relief. It was a squatting shape of solid grey, standing on the floor with a weight that made the foundations tremble. It was a dense, motionless block of granite. It didn’t make a noise; it simply occupied the space between the pews, its stone fingers uncurling into claws.

Father Carter looked up at the winged, whistling siphon outside the door and back at the horrifying creature behind him. They were the two hands of a single, vengeful god.

The struggle ended not with a scream, but with the grinding and cracking sound of stone returning to stone.

The winged one descended, its movements jerky. It ignored the red stain on the floor—the byproduct of a judgment it hadn’t quite agreed with. It hooked its talons into the leather sack Father Carter had dropped.

“A ruby for Mary, a silver for John. I will put them all back before the first dawn. No void in the corner, no gap in the tray. I’ve swept all the dirt and the clutter away!”

It dragged the bag back across the nave to the altar, nudging the gems onto their cushions. Satisfied, it scaled the interior pillars, its claws scraping until it reached the high window. It slipped back out, reclaiming its perch on the roof. It opened its mouth, letting the rain wash the taste of the iron-rich air from its throat.

Inside, the other remained. It looked at the spot where the priest had laid.

“The debt has been measured, the ledger is clear. No breath in the hallway, no sinning to fear. The temple is quiet, the witness is gone—the weight of the mountain remains till the dawn.”

It backed into the shadow of the doorframe. Its limbs folded. The stone softened, knitting itself back into the relief until the cracks disappeared and the creature was once again just a flourish of medieval art.

“A spout for the water, a wing for the sky, I watch from the eaves as the centuries fly. My throat is a whistle, my duty is clear: to wash away filth till the heavens are sheer.”

“A slab for the sinner, a wall for the saint, I harbor no mercy and hear no complaint. My heart is a mountain, my judgment is deep: a promise of stone that the silent must keep.”

“I’ll carry the silver,” “I’ll carry the soul,” “To keep the box empty,” “To keep the faith whole.”

“The roof is my kingdom,” “The floor is my bed,” “The rain for the living,” “The weight for the dead.”

The storm has passed and the moon is high. 

The Shepherd is gone,
but the Shepherd did lie.
He’s been scoured by water,
and crushed by the wall.
The stones are at peace,
As they watch over all.