Stained Glass

"I didn’t ask to be their guardian. And they didn’t ask to be lost. The pack ushers into the church, and I bolt the door behind us"

This is an ongoing series. You can start reading it here:

*CW: scene about pet loss, blood

Chapter Three - Stained Glass

I didn’t ask to be their guardian. And they didn’t ask to be lost. The pack ushers into the church, and I bolt the door behind us. Shiloh’s sticky, drying blood momentarily glues my thumb to the clanky iron latch.

“Who are you,” I imagine God asks of me, “to lock my door?”

“I am Lady, Guardian of these Hounds.”

No occupants stir at our entry. Still, I fear someone could be waiting in the shadows of this outlying hideaway. Even so, if they didn’t rush to defend their position, they’re probably as scared as I am to meet others.

The sanctuary, I’m sure, is empty save the pews which have carried the weight of many and will carry more. To the right and left of the main entrance are arches opening into corridors that encircle the place of worship. More rooms for discreet prayer, I figure. I must investigate them, but not yet.

The collective relief at cool shelter takes over, and the hounds settle, most with bellies on the creaky wood food that is worn in the aisle between the pews. I lay Shiloh by the podium with the crucifix of Jesus watching over him, both gouged and clinging to life.

Breath barely lingers on the beagle’s body. I don’t know if his bleeding has completely stopped. The bandages seem wine stained and, in their drying state, cling to his form as if a cast. There is nothing else I can do for him unless I find clean bandages and water.

Before I turn from the stained glass window with dawn’s rays peeking through the mosaic panels, I think of praying. How strange and foreign the idea feels now, after all these years, everything we’ve lost. Instead, I turn to Empress, who stands patiently, despite her exhaustion, waiting for me to relieve her of the fragile cargo.

With bandaged, shaky hands, I gently lift Itty Bitty and the pups out of her saddle and lay them beside Twix, who has already settled beneath a pew and is chewing his wooden frog. The smallest pup curls in my arm, looking at me with those hungry eyes, once full of stars. “Milk?” she asks.

“No milk here,” I remind her.

I tuck her between her sleeping sisters. If I pray for anything, it’s that the warmth of her pack will guide her into tomorrow. I crave rest. My body needs it. But I still don’t know if we are safe here.

I plod down the aisle toward the left archway. Some hounds stir at my retreat — ears perked, tails raised, rising from their much needed rest. Others are too weary to move. Beau has already fallen asleep.

“Settle,” I ask them.

Rockstar is the only who disobeys. He comes to my side, as loyal as he has been since the night I saved him from the worst day of our lives. I take to the hall, ready but not wanting to encounter wayfarers like us. My bandaged hands are bulky and swollen. I don’t know how well I will be able to defend an attack. Rockstar will do his best, despite his weariness. But will it always be enough?

“Hello?” I ask the lonely air.

My voice feels like a stranger coming from my body, so loud and echoing like it holds a place here in this world. On hound’s time, it becomes easier to say things without words. No one answers. If they’re here, they don’t want to be found. I wish I could settle with knowing that, but I have to be sure.

The linoleum of the corridor cracks under my sneakers that have been worn holey. The door of the first room is ajar. I nudge it open with my toe and wait anxiously for sudden movement. First we were on the road, I hated the stillness of our world. Now, I embrace it with relief. The unoccupied room awaits eager students with plastic chairs arranged in a circle, casebound Bibles sitting on each.

I gather an armful of the hefty books, not for tedious reading, but because I am paranoid like Amber. I wish it could have saved her. With awkwardly sore fingers that are unwilling to bend, I tuck the back cover of a Bible between the door and its handle, letting the rest hang over. To my benefit, the bulk of the holy book isn’t too heavy to weigh the handle crooked. But when I turn the handle, the book begins to slide off the skewed metal.

Perfect. I return the handle quickly before the book falls to the floor. When I close the door and hear the latch click, the alarm is set. Still unfamiliar with the layout, I need to know if someone is slinking into rooms I’ve already checked. I’m almost sure the pack would make it known if they hear something. But in their weary state, I have learned, tragically, that we can never be too careful.

The door across from the first is closed. The hinges creak when I open it. No windows, it is as dark as my sense of humor these days. My heart gives a panicked start when I see the form of a hooded cloak in the corner. Rockstar growls. The muffled woofs of the tired pack answer.

In the old horror movies, this is usually the part where the petite woman is chased by a knife wielding maniac. I unpocket my flashlight and shine it into the room instead. It is the cloak of a wise man draped over an upturned bench.

I sigh, give a little laugh of relief.

“Fine,” I say to the pack because I'm sure some are still alert.

The storage closet is full of props and costumes for plays. Someone has taken the baby Jesus from his manger. I imagine a little family came through, a young child who clings to the doll even now because baby Jesus can understand the weight of this world for someone so young. I think of the pups, they carry it all. I set up the Bible and move on.

Down the hall is one more door and then a right turn down a narrow corridor. The last room is the first piece of comfort I have known in weeks. It is a little apartment.

There are neat bundles of bed rolls and pillows as if awaiting guests. In the corner of the room is a plastic tub full of folded clothes and a few pairs of shoes. We will sleep here eventually. The sanctuary is too close to the door to feel undisturbed.

Across from the sleeper sofa with eroded cushions is a dinette — two chairs, one for me and my imaginary friend. I laugh at the thought then stop suddenly as my gaze is drawn to the kitchenette with a little stovetop and cabinets overhead. Cabinets. My heart thumps from the pressure of awaited disappointment. Most likely the storage is barren, but I have to check.

I reach a tremulous hand to open the cabinet door with a moaning hinge. I stumble backward into the sofa, relieved. Food. Not just food: water, medicine, a first aid kit. Formula.

I am exhausted, but the sudden hope spurs me into action again. I reach for the bottled water, Similac, the first aid kit and hurry down the creaky hall back toward the pack. Rockstar follows. He always will.

Shiloh is still and barely breathing beside the pulpit. Jesus watches him sleep. If there are clean bandages and antibiotics in the first aid kit, there may be more I can do to help him.

But there is someone else I have to save first. I rummage awkwardly through my bag and find the puppies’ bottle. I dump a scoop of formula at the bottom and pour in clean water, shaking it until it’s dissolved.

The smallest pup wakes slowly when I lift her to feed. She is weak. Yet, I still have hope that this little miracle has saved her. When she is finished, the other two stir eagerly looking up at me with those hungry eyes. “Milk? Milk?” they ask. “Yes, finally.”

When they are snuggled back into the sheltered circle of Itty Bitty and Twix’s bodies, I turn to Shiloh. Pulling back the edge of his bloody wrap carefully, another wave of relief washes over me. The bleeding has stopped. He may survive this night. And if he does, I need to prevent infection.

I anticipated he would stir and protest when I unwrapped him, started flushing his wounds with clean water. Yet, he is so taken by the pain and weariness that he remains unconscious. I hope he is dreaming of the meadow. If I am dying, it would be the first place I’d want to go.

Dry. Clean wounds. Clean bandages. I try to wake him so that he will take water. He does not stir. Jesus still watches him sleep. “Lady, your hands are bleeding,” he tells me. I look at him, he looks at me — palms gouged.

I will not leave Shiloh’s side. I unwrap my hands and toss the bloody bandages in the pile beneath the window. Rockstar settles beside me while I clean the punctures and tears in my skin. I think of Talon. How carefully he once held my wrist, his thumbprint forever burned in memory. I will heal from this too.

I dream of mallards dotting the churchyard, single file. By the road, Banksy is waiting to help the ducklings cross. One of the pups slips through a crack in the door that I am sure I latched shut. She chases the ducklings through the wildflower yard toward Banksy. Her mother is waiting too, nothing like the only ghostly remnant I knew of her. Tails wagging, the three are ready for an adventure.

“No, it’s too hot!” I yell.

I reach out, ready to chase the pup, but someone brushes by my leg. It is Shiloh. He looks up at me with doleful eyes and asks, “Can I play?”

“No, you need your rest. I need you here,” I tell him, rubbing my thumb on his forehead.

Together, Shiloh and I sit in the overgrown grass, watching the pup and the ducklings catch up to her mother and Banksy in the distance. I have always hoped to see the pups grow strong enough for this world.

I wake crying Shiloh’s name, desperately searching for him in the dimness of twilight. I hold my achy hand by his nose to feel his delicate breaths. I exhale with him. He is still with me.

Yet, I don’t believe dreams mean nothing. I rise from my place by the pulpit and rush to the door. The bloody latch is still in place, the door bolted shut. After all the time on the road, am I manifesting the fear that we will never really leave it?

But why Banksy? Why the pups’ mother? The pups.

I rush to kneel beside Itty Bitty and Twix, who are still curled around them. The bigger sisters stir at my jostling. The other hounds grow alert at my sounds of wakefulness. Yet, the littlest pup, with eyes once full of the constellations, is at ease in her deepest slumber.

“I tried … I promise,” I cry, turning away from the uneasy pack to unlatch the door.

***

Hello wanderer!

Wow ... that was a tragic chapter. If you want to read something a little more uplifting, you might like my new, ongoing series Happiness Nationwide:

xoxo,

for now,

-your friend, lost in thought