“We can indeed,” he said, and together they went to the chapel.
As they came closer, Balkis gasped in wonder. “How marvelous!”
The chapel stood surrounded by trees; its roof reflected the green of their leaves, but with spots of blinding light here and there where the sun's rays came through. It was ornamented with a delicate tracery of leading, and the sides were every color of the rainbow, depicting scenes from he Bible.
“There is Noah,” Balkis breathed, “and there Abraham and Moses!”
“There David fights Goliath,” Anthony said, “and there Esther stands before the king!”
“There Mary and Joseph kneel at the creche,” Balkis said. “The whole church is made of glass!”
“How can it ever stand against a storm?” Anthony wondered.
“There is either magic in it or a genius of an architect,” Balkis answered. “Shall we see more of the Savior's life on the other side, do you think?”
“Let us enter and discover,” Anthony urged.
They went in, and the room was quite full, the congregation standing, but they were so spellbound by the beauty around them, they barely noticed. The glass of the roof was indeed green, dimming the sun so that it did not hurt their eyes—but that same sunshine poured through the western wall, throwing jeweled light upon all the people within. Even on the eastern wall, the windows glowed with the light from outside—and sure enough, it showed scenes from the Savior's life. Wherever they looked, they were surrounded by pictures that almost seemed to breathe with the light that infused them.
But Balkis' gaze went to the man who stood in the pulpit. She was disappointed to see that he wore no chasuble, nor any stole around his neck, only a simple white robe, though it glowed with half a dozen colors from the light that struck through the leaded walls.
“We shall not hear a true Mass,” Anthony said, disappointed, “for if he wears no stole, he is no priest, but only a deacon at best.”
Balkis felt a surge of chagrin and fought to keep it from showing—there was no chance of a wedding here. She tried to be philosophical, telling herself that Anthony had not asked her to marry him in any event.
There were no pews, which was why the people stood to hear the service. Anthony and Balkis edged their way in and stood with their backs against a wall.
It certainly was like no Mass that Balkis had ever attended, but Anthony nodded, smiling, obviously familiar with the words, even speaking them himself when the congregation gave the deacon their ritual response.
Then Balkis stiffened and clutched Anthony's forearm. He turned to her in concern, and she stretched to whisper in his ear, “The wall no longer presses against my back!”
“Surely we have stepped forward.” Anthony turned to look at the people in front of him, then stared. “No, we have not.”
Balkis turned to look, almost afraid of what she might see, and noticed that the wall was a good three feet behind her. She turned back quickly, as though to keep the chapel from hiding its dimensions from her. “Anthony—the roof is a little higher, and all the walls a few feet farther apart than they were when we entered!”
“This cannot be,” Anthony said nervously. He would have explained, but just then some people came in through the doorway behind them. They wore pilgrims' gowns, dusty with travel, and looked wearied, but the beauty of the little chapel seemed to refresh them instantly. The new arrivals filed along the wall behind Anthony and Balkis, then along the wall to the other side of the door—and kept coming. Thirty or forty of them filed in, standing on line behind another—three rows, where there had been only three feet! Moreover, the wall was a foot or two behind the backs of the rearmost line!
Balkis and Anthony looked at one another in amazement. then looked back at the walls, feeling a strange prickling along their backs. Anthony leaned close and whispered, “The deacon will explain it when we are done.”
They listened to the rest of the service in silence, but Balkis had a deal of trouble in keeping her mind on it. Her gaze kept drifting to the walls.
Finally the deacon bade the congregation go, and they filed out of the chapel—or church, for it had grown amazingly in the short time they had been there.
Anthony touched Balkis' arm. “Let us stay behind, so we may talk to the deacon at leisure.”
“Well thought,” Balkis agreed. They drew aside.
A woman in pilgrim's garb stepped up near them. “Is not this a wondrous church?”
“Wondrous indeed,” Balkis agreed and smiled, drawn to the woman even though they were total strangers. She was middle-aged, with a full, kind, smiling face. Her skin was the dark tan of the Afghans, wrinkled with laughter and smiling. Iron-gray curls peeped from under her hood, and although she wore the same dusty cream-colored robe as everyone else, the embroidered cross on her breast was a work of art in five colors. “Have you come far?” Balkis asked.
“From Kashmir, young woman—a land far to the south, glorious with mountains.” She pressed Balkis' hand in greeting. “I live in a little town there; my name is Sikta, and my husband and I grew prosperous from the caravan trade. Now all our children are grown and married, though, so he sold his business, and we have time and money to go to see St. Thomas and the wonders of Maracanda. What of yourselves?”
Balkis was a little taken aback by the woman's openness and friendliness, but Anthony responded to it like a flower turning its face to the sun. “I hail from a farm in the mountains far to the south, good woman, but only a day or two from the caravan route. Belike my father and brothers sold you foodstuffs as you passed.”
“I do seem to remember a man of my own years, with four stalwart sons.” Sikta peered into his face. “Yes, one of them looked much like you—but that was three months ago, and only a few weeks from Kashmir!”
“I had heard of your land,” Anthony said. “You grow sheep whose wool is wondrously soft, do you not?”
“Goats, young man, and yes, the quality of their hair is known far and wide.” Sikta beamed at his knowing of her land. “Are you newlyweds?”
She had her answer in Balkis' lowering of her gaze and her covert blushing glance at Anthony. He pretended not to notice, saying brightly, “No, good Sikta, we have only been traveling companions. I am Anthony, and this is Balkis, stolen from her home by a foul villain. I set out only to escort her, to bring her safely to her homeland and see something of the world along the way—but I have fallen in love with her, and have cause to think that she is not indifferent to my suit.”
“Suit forsooth!” said Balkis. “You have asked me for nothing but a kiss! Well, several… all right, many.”
“And shall ask for many more.” Anthony devoured her eyes with his gaze. “I would ask for your hand, too, and your life with mine, were I certain we could find a priest.”
“Do not let that stop you,” Sikta told him. “Long engagements have their virtues—if you can be virtuously engaged.”
“I could try,” Anthony sighed, “but I fear my own urges.”
Balkis blushed furiously and noticed that the pathway to the church had fascinating brickwork.
“You shall be quite safe if you have an abundance of chap-erones,” Sikta said somewhat primly. “Travel with us, young people, and you may be sure you will be so closely watched that you shall be hard put to sneak a kiss now and again.”
Balkis wasn't sure she liked the sound of that, either, but Anthony leaped at the chance. “Why, how good of you!”
“We are bound to Maracanda,” Balkis admitted. “I have dwelt there with my uncle this last year.”
“Of Maracanda yourself!” Sikta cried. “Why, then, you must journey with us, for you can show us the town!”
Balkis was saved from having to answer immediately, for Anthony said, “The deacon is done with his churchgoers. Let us speak to him before he goes to his home.”