The Resurrection of the Cathedral

A short story for All Saints' Day

(Today I share with you a short story I wrote six years ago about the ruins of the Cathedral in St Andrews Scotland, whose grounds I walked often during my studies. It is a place rich in troubled history, and rife for the imagination. The story has only become more important to me over the years, having lost friends. I look more forward than ever to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. Happy All Saints’ day!).

It was All Saints’ day, and not at all the time for new seeds to grow in the garden.

The rain dropped gently on the ruins, running down the old cathedral wall, soaking the many coloured branches and aiding their journey from crisp, crackly autumn leaves to the soggy brown mulch that would help the grass spring green again next year. This is how it is in the world: things grow, they bloom, they die, and in their dying, they help new things to grow. It is a beautiful dance, this growing and blooming and dying and living again. But death is woven into the whole fabric, inextricable, a permanent and unwelcome guest. 

Once upon a time, this was one of the greatest cathedrals in Europe. But bickering bishops and impatient reformers conspired to smash its windows, and then, undecided in their fervour, left it to decay with the passing years. Eventually, the town started to use the cathedral stones to build cottages. Just like the trees shed their leaves to fertilise the ground where new life will grow, the cathedral shed its stones so that fishermen and bakers and scholars could be warm in the winter. And then, when the cathedral had shed nearly all its stones, it became a graveyard. Where worshippers used to walk and worship, they were now buried. The gravestones have always reminded me of the little tabs in a spring garden that say things like “carrots” or “lettuce,” proclaiming, rather remarkably, that from the ash black soil, tender life will soon shoot up. It is remarkable, really. Every year, come Eastertide, from seeds locked in their little death chambers, deep in the cold dark ground, green shoots peek out of the earth, tender and small, and very, very alive.

But these markers are not for carrots, they are for people.

Hamish. Elspeth. Alasdair. And a thousand other names… a garden variety! Some of the names had begun to fade, washed away by a thousand autumn rains. Some, recently carved, are clearly legible, unforgiving. It’s odd, really. Usually, when things in nature die, they feed the earth and new life springs up in its stead. It’s this way with the autumn leaves and spring seeds. Even the great stone cathedral gave new life with its dying. But humans keep dying, being planted in the earth, and staying there. The world is full of graveyards full of people. Every year, I’d watched the rector plant new people, mark their graves (like carrot seeds) in hopes that next year they might emerge. But each year, they stayed stubbornly planted. Stubbornly dead. Unwilling to yield new life from their own death. And so, it seemed, it would be for ten thousand more. 

But in the blink of an eye, it all changed.

It was All Saints’ Day. I walked into the side gate of the ruins, near the back. A dense haar hung over the town that morning, but all at once, a burst of warm, fragrant air breathed over cathedral grounds, dispersing the gloomy cloak of fog. The grass quivered under its touch, and as it quivered, the whole earth began to rattle. The grass was green, but from some unknown core, a greater vividness began to spread over the earthen carpet. The green took on a deeper more pungent hue, as though it had actually been grey all along. For a moment, I had forgotten to breathe, but as the earth began to shake more violently, I couldn’t help but gasp in fear. Golden light streamed from the cracks in the cathedral wall. The unsettled earth had torn the green grass, and the rich brown earth lay in clumps around the graves.

Then, the most frightening thing of all began to happen. From the unsettled earth, bright white bones began to emerge. Hands, legs, skulls, spines began to assemble themselves and stand, clumps of earth falling through the empty frames of the skeletons as they stretched to their full height. There were tall skeletons, short skeletons, sturdy ones and frail, adults and children. I stood, terrified, could they see me? Should I run? Again, a warm breath, cast itself over the ruins, tossing my hair into my eyes. When I cleared it away, what I saw caught the scream in my throat, paralysed as I was with terror and wonder. 

Where skeletons once stood, I began to see human bodies. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a terrible light. There, a skeleton stood, almost patiently, as ribbons of light twirled around it, carefully spinning layers of sinew and skin back onto its barren frame. In the course of a few moments, the skeleton became a body, a discernible human figure: a stout young man with dark curly hair and a noble nose. Was he naked or clothed? I could not tell. He gazed down at his hands, turning them back and forth from their palms. As he did so, a great delight spread across his face. A long weariness suddenly gone. He began to shout with joy.

I looked about me. Nearly all the skeletons had been reclothed in skin, and waves of pleasure seemed to sweep over the graveyard, as the skeletons realised they were no longer skeletons. They greeted each other with laughter and embraces. Amongst all this hilarity, I saw a tall, lean woman with cascades of curly red hair awaken and look calmly about her, a furrow on her brow. She looked down and her eyes widened. Beside her a small skeleton was being wrapped about with the golden light. Out of the blinding glow, a child, with wild red curls like her own emerged. He looked at her and laughed, reaching out his arms to her with familiar trust. Relief from a long spent grief spread across her face as she scooped him into her arms and held him tightly. In their embrace, they seemed to both grow and shrink, until, when they regarded one another again, they were the same size. She had grown somewhat younger and he somewhat older. They looked to one another, joined hands and set out, it seemed, to find someone else. 

Behind me, I heard a loud metallic crack; the main gate had snapped in two, and lay lopsided on the path to the ruins. A crowd of the luminous bodies poured down South street, I presumed from some other burial ground. Amidst their company, I saw someone I almost recognised. A man with white wispy hair and pale blue eyes. He engaged his fellow traveler in conversation, his whole countenance bent in attention. There was something ponderous in his expression, a brewing objection which quickly dissipated into mirth as a smile stretched wide and straight across his face at the sight of all he witnessed. It was a smile which seemed to say “Look, friend! It is what we have talked about all these years.” In a moment of joyous recognition, the whole crowd of travellers cheered and began to climb in waves over the broken gates of the graveyard.

All around me I saw such scenes of reunion and transformation. Sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, a whole family with the same chestnut wavy hair. They all came to life, embraced, and laughed. They all seemed to be the same age. They were neither young nor old, but they were certainly not middle aged. They seemed to be the age toward which youth strives, and which old age only remembers as if it was a dream. And when they greeted each other, they began to sing as if it was the most natural thing to do. A cacophony of melodies echoed through the graveyard, but somehow they were all in tune. They bounced off the walls of the cathedral, and as my eyes followed the sound, I realised that I had nearly missed another miracle: the resurrection of the cathedral. 

In their midst, and yet towering over them, there was a woman made of the dark grey stones of the ruin. She was sleepy, and the strands of her hair, made of moss and grass and tree branches hung down past her waist. As she lifted her hands to rub her sleepy eyes, pigeons flew in every direction, off to tell the good news: the Cathedral is finally awake! Her eyes glistened a transparent blue, and as she surveyed her surroundings she began to laugh. Her whole stoney body shook with delight, pebbles and stones came tumbling off her fortified figure, but posed no danger to anyone. Her throaty joy echoed through the town, a glorious crescendo to the already magnificent chorus of voices. She laughed until she cried, and her tears, turning to diamonds and sapphires and rubies as they streamed down her face, fell unceremoniously on the ground around her. She shook her mighty head. Strand by strand, the grass fell from her hair, revealing streams of radiant light that floated in the air as though she were suspended in water. 

And then Cathedral spoke:

“All my friends are awake! You known, you unknown saints!”

Her voice washed over the cathedral grounds like a powerful  wave. All the souls turned toward her and cheered. 

“Let us go to see the King! For it is my wedding day.”

She turned away from them, toward the sea and the east. As she did, her gown of light, laced with beams of radiant colours spread over the graveyard. Without instruction, the Saints climbed upon her train, helping each other. The Cathedral raised her arms to greet the morning, as the sun crested the sea’s horizon and glistened through what would have been the altar window.

Had it been night all along?

With her Saints in tow, the cathedral began to walk. Over the cliff, onto the beach, and finally onto the waves of the old North Sea. She glided on the waves toward the sun, walking on the water as lightly as a feather. The Saints, still riding on her train, were bent on their knees staring into the waves with amazement and delight. They began to reach their arms into the lapping water, wet up to their shoulders. All at once, men emerged from the waves, and some women too, sailors and seafarers who had drowned. The were pulled up on the cathedral’s trail, embraced, and met with laughter and song. Some ran to find their loved ones, some simply took in the glory of all the saints and the cathedral, and knelt to pray with thanksgiving.

They began to pass out of my sight, and into the sun. 

I longed to be with them! Had they gone where I could not go? I fell to my knees, my face to the ground, and prayed, “Oh, Lord! I want to join their company! To worship you forever!” When I raised my eyes, all was as it had been. 

The Cathedral was still there, it’s stones grey and wet with rain. The sun was setting. The graves were untouched, patient, un-sprouted. My heart was seized by a great sadness. Was I left behind? Was it still to come? Did I, too, need to be planted before I could rise? Seemingly in answer to my heart’s aching question, the bells of All Saints street tolled, and I took myself to church. As I hurried down North Castle Street, the voice of the cathedral rang in my ears: “I look forward to the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.”

O ALMIGHTY God, who hast knit together thine elect in one communion and fellowship, in the mystical body of thy Son Christ our Lord: Grant us grace so to follow thy blessed Saints in all virtuous and godly living, that we may come to those unspeakable joys, which thou hast prepared for them that unfeignedly love thee; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen