Chimes of Passion

Joe Mudak CHIMES OF PASSION

It was a dark and stormy night, and the five friends backpacking across northern England scurried to find cover from the rapidly intensifying downpour.

Alyssa was the first to notice the silhouette of the large building, with a dimly flickering set of lights punctuating its shape. “Hey guys, look!” She pointed at the building.

Between the rain battering their heads and shoulders, and the mist that rose from the moors around them, no one was sure exactly how far away it was. But then again, no one cared either. Here was shelter. Sanctuary. A place to dry off and warm up.

The friends shared the unspoken hope that someone would take pity on five poor college students. Five college students who, Irene seemed overly fond of reminding everyone, could be sitting on a beach in Cancun at this very moment, sipping margaritas and wondering where the MTV cameras were.

Soon, the five friends found themselves within shouting distance of the shelter they sought. Following the roughly hewn path into the building, Lynda paused for a moment and inhaled deeply. “I think I smell lilacs.” She’d loved working with flowers since she was a little girl; that’s probably why, she would tell friends and acquaintances, she chose to major in botany.

Her friends had already reached the door into the building and she hastened to join them. The five friends stood in the doorway. Pete asked, “What kind of place is this?”

“A church of some sort, I think,” Ron answered. He let out a deep sigh and continued, “I guess we should knock, huh?” He felt along the door and found a heavy iron knocker, which he used to strike against the metal plate upon which it normally rested, the door opened slightly with a creak that echoed throughout the cavernous halls inside.

The five students shuffled into the building. The large stone walls were lined with thick, heavy candles that, at first glance, resembled torches. The candles sent shadows jumping across the granite floor. The building definitely had the feel of an old church, however there were no icons or religious statues. In fact, with the exception of the candles themselves, there was nothing adorning any of the walls.

As the gang of five surveyed the building, they couldn’t help but notice the large wooden pew-like benches facing what clearly resembled a low-key altar.

The air inside the church was heavy, yet dry. Irene removed her backpack and coat, remarking, “It feels good in here, but I’m chilly.” The other four nodded agreement and followed suit. Irene casually walked to a series of large, thick candles, attempting to dry her skin with the flames. As she rubbed her hands above one candle with two independent flaming wicks, she smiled. “This isn’t fast, but, man it feels good.” Alyssa took her place a few yards away from Irene and started doing the same.

One by one, all five students found a candle and attempted to dry themselves. Ron and Lynda found that they were more comfortable after removing their respective shirts. When Lynda noticed Pete staring at her rain-soaked bra clinging tightly to her skin, she chided him, “This isn’t a wet T-shirt contest, honey.”

Pete quickly looked away. For a long while no one spoke. Most were too thankful or too busy trying to dry off to think about actually communicating with one another. The rain battering the walls outside and the occasional distant crack of thunder was the extent of any real sound.

When Ron figured he was about as dry as he was going to get, he sat down on the floor and stared at the light flickering everywhere around him. He closed his eyes and a slight smile appeared on his face. He spread his arms in what he considered a silent homage to the atmosphere of this place. The sound of the rain, the feeling of the air, the mystery of this whole place.

Alyssa noticed him and asked, “What are you thinking?”

His voice echoed across the church, betraying a sense of revitalization that his companions hadn’t yet experienced. “Do you know the song, ‘Chimes of Freedom,’ by Bob Dylan?”

Pete answered sarcastically, “I try not to think of anything by Bob Dylan.”

Ron scoffed. “It’s just that, well, I can’t help but think that we just walked into that song.”

Alyssa moved closer to him. With a genuine interest in what he had to say, she asked “How does it go, Ron?”

“The first lines of the song go something like this:

Far between sundown’s finish and midnight’s broken toll
We ducked inside a doorway as thunder went crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sound
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing.