By Jade Carreau

Looking on the outside as I take in the full site of the well-hand-crafted façade, stones carved with so much attention to detail and finesse, I could picture the barren land that this monumental structure laid upon not so long ago. The aromatic breeze carries the vague smell of churros from a local vendor on the first steps towards the arch. The sun, on the horizon, sets across the spire very slowly. Wisps of smoky clouds cover the radiant blue above. The slightest sound of movement echoes while I step cautiously past the immense wooden doors and quarried stone that would have been carried by hundreds of men. This college, this Roman Catholic chapel stands tall in the centre of the city, gothic compared to all the surrounding buildings, with not one loom or anything like manufacturing beyond bread and butter in the whole region. The gothic doors give the entrance a personality and enhance the atmosphere. Only in the quietest of places can I hear myself think and feel, as if I’m an outcast to this serene and beautiful environment. Only in the quietest of places can I feel like the tiniest creature under the skylight of a dome covered with murals and connecting ribbed vaults filled with paintings of the smallest strokes. Dipping my index finger in the stoup, I lightly place it on my forehead, my torso, my left and then right shoulder, always, always in order.

The hall seems never-ending.

Large stained-glass windows of various colours stand out all around and pointed arches tower over me as far as the eye can see. The ornate decoration, whether scary or elegant, gives the room a unique flare. My finger traces the lines of the limestone bricks as I continue prudently walking, leaving white chalk-like dust in the crease of my nail. Each step I take is multiplied and bounced off the impenetrable walls. Endless rows of benches lay in front of me, all so neatly placed in an area filled with so much character. It’s not a place you’d find empty on a Sunday morning, but nevertheless, you’d be lucky to find it like this; a peaceful, contemplative, and musing setting. As I lift my finger and look up, quietly blowing whatever particles are left, I come to find myself unable to look away. With eyes unlike mine, they stare at me with such intensity, yet I feel mesmerized by the grotesque statue. With pointed ears, barbaric hands, and colossal wings, I wonder if this mental image will disappear before I fall asleep tonight. The narthex echoes as one of the cathedral doors open only slightly. Woosh! An abrupt gust of wind travels across the room and up my spine, making me feel every goosebump across my skin. I slowly turn my head to find a man in his mid-30’s holding a young girl on his shoulders. He gently lifts her up from her position to the granite floors, creating resonance. The girl, more animated than her father, sprints over to the south transept while he tries to catch up to her. “Daddy, can you put a coin in the tin box? I want to light a candle,” the child says as she hangs from the ledge of the Votive Candle section. He swiftly sets her to the ground once more, whispering to his daughter to be more careful, but decides to put a coin in to appease her anyway.

The cathedral is always dark no matter what time of day; it makes a colder and more callous environment. The large, prodigious statue of the Redeemer hangs above the altar in all its glory, looking down on the empty benches that lay in front of it. As night falls, rays of sunlight shimmer through the colourful casements from the west, producing a myriad of patterns along the floor of the nave. Beautiful. Each one of them seems to have been created by an artisan of the highest competence. I walk through the morose alley, with a plethora of sconces lined up one after the other, to be met with the final shimmers of the sun, now just a sliver, yet so enthralling. As time passes, the rays pass as well, leaving only the cold of the crepuscule with me. I see the crystal raindrops fall behind the translucent window frames. An orchestra of bubbles with every splash, slowly running down the ridges on the outside of the shelter. I breathe out and the fog of the tiny droplets from my mouth blur my vision, as I wrap my arms around me, harshly rubbing the leather material of my jacket against my skin. By now, the father and daughter must have left—the wings of a pigeon by the steps of the confessional flutter on in the background. The rain continues to tick monotonously against the glass, as I stand still.  

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Jade Carreau is a young writer and aspiring foreign relations student based in the UK and originally from West Africa. Her favourite authors include Harlan Coben, Chimamanda Adichie, and playwright Lorraine Hansberry. She enjoys racket sports, political affairs analysis, and lyrical analysis.