"Esther M. Friesner - Hallowmass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

affairs of spinsters--" He patted the spiked wheel of her martyrdom. "That would
turn nectar to vinegar, my lord, given the temperament of some of her
congregation."

The bishop squinted up at the saint. "That face...Do I know it?" And weeks
later, when his processional happened to pass Margaret in the street, the way he
stared at her became her shame and the talk of the town for days.

Saint Catherine was Master Giles's eleventh saint. There was now only one niche
below the great rose window of the south porch that wanted its tenant.

How strangely it all turned out! One day the boy who could not see to swing a
hammer against a chisel's head came across a lump of raw clay on his father's
workbench. It was Master Giles's habit to mold his creatures out of clay before
giving them their bodies of stone. Benedict felt the cool, pliable earth beneath
his fingers and began to work it. As he worked, he sang one of his alien songs.
His voice had mellowed with the years, learned steadiness, could hold to a tune
the way a good hound held to a trail. It was a pleasure to hear him so
melodiously praising all things holy, even if the music that fell from his lips
was like nothing that ever rang out beneath the church rafters nor in the
taverns nor in the distant fields.

"What's this?" cried Master Giles, coming up behind his boy and seeing the red
mass under his hands. He reached over Benedict's shoulder and plucked the nearly
finished figure from its creator's grasp. The stonecutter sucked in his breath
in awe. The face of an infant angel dimpled up at him.

It was perfection. He had never seen the like. That cherub's countenance
contained just enough of the earthly child's essence to give a man hope that
even his stained soul might someday soar with the hosts of heaven.

"Is it good, Father?" Benedict asked softly.

"Is it good...." Master Giles could only stare at his son's handmade marvel
while tears of wonder brimmed his eyes. "I will copy it out in stone, my boy,
and lay it before my lord bishop himself."

So he did. The bishop was a canny man who knew the work of each of his cathedral
worker's hands the way a falconer knows each of his birds by flight, when they
are no more than specks against the sun. The bishop knew this angel was not
Master Giles's work.

Master Giles said, "It was made by my apprentice, who is blind. He worked it in
clay. All I did was give it a body of stone."

"The Lord closes only the eyes of the body," the bishop replied. "In His mercy,
He has opened for this lad the eyes of the soul. Bring him to me. I am minded to
see this miracle."

Master Giles did as he was bidden, his heart light. He knew, you see, that soon