There Used to be Bells Here

The old church has been gone for some seasons now, but the memory runs deep.  When the wind blows they still listen by the windows for the jingle and clang of absent bells.  Today the wind howls a low and unaccompanied song of mourning, shaking the trees, rattling the fences and tugging at the coats of the few who go out on such days.

Sitting on the sidewalk curb just across the street from the construction is a tired man.  He stares wistfully through where the church once stood.  He has been there since early morning, before the clouds rolled in and the wind rose up.  One of the construction workers calls to him across the road:

"Hey, what're you doing over there?"

The man raises his head.  He has a well-trimmed beard and deep-set eyes.  He looks older than he is.  "Nothing.  Just thinking."

"You've been here all day.  Think anything interesting?"

"You know what used to be here?"

"Nah.  It's gonna be a Rec Center, though.  Have a pool with waterslides and everything."

"It used to be a church.  Real old building, my dad used to preach there.  Half falling apart, lately.  It was too dangerous, they said, so they tore it down.  There used to be bells here."

The worker turns to follow the mans gaze.  For a second, he tries to picture what it might have looked like.  "Did they sound nice?"

The man nods slowly.  "Real nice."

"Shame."  Thunder cracks far overhead.  "Well, looks like a storm's rolling in.  We'll be packing up till tomorrow."

The worker leaves, and, a few minutes later, the rain starts.  Tiny drops of water are lashed into a fine wet stray by the winds overhead.  The man rises shakily to his feet and leaves as the construction team bustles around trying to pack up and leave before getting drenched.  The storm grows nearer and the rain turns to solid sheets of water, drenching the man to the bone.  He has not gone far, but in this storm he can't see the construction site anymore.  Can't see much of anything.  He continues; his feet carry him confidently through the murky darkness by memory alone.

He hears sirens ahead, and sees blazing lights in yellow and red.  Approaching, he can just make out the bright red-and-yellow form of a fire truck.  Further, there is a big dark mass blocking the road.

A fireman approaches.  "Sorry sir, this road is closed for now."

"What happened?  There can't have been a fire, can there?"

The fireman shakes his head.  "A big old pine tree fell across the power lines in the storm."

"Oh."  The man just stands there.  "I… I don't know what to do."

"You'll have to go around, sir.   It's dangerous."

The man takes a few more steps forward.  The fireman calls him back, but he says, "I just want a little closer look at the tree."

The tree is enormous; a thing of the old forest, older than the town they built around it.

"Sir, please step back."  The man obeys, backing away from the tree and the fallen power lines.

"That tree has been there forever.  What happened?"

"Wind blew just a little to hard for it.  It happens, sometimes.  Maybe bits of it were getting a little old and rotten, or some insect had been eating at it.  Who knows?"

The man walks back the way he came.  His house is just past the fallen lines, he'll have to go around the block to reach it now.  The rain has let up a little, now, and the wind no longer roars.  It's a plain, dreary sort of rain that washes all the colour out of everything and pitter-patters relentlessly off rooftops and umbrellas of passers by.

He passed the old church grounds once again.  There's another man there now, a young traveler in a trench coat, carrying an umbrella, peering at the construction.

"You should have come by a year or two ago, there was a big old church here.  Or ten years ago, you could have heard my dad preach here, with the bells all going and the big organ, that was a sight to behold.  The man laughs.  "Or you should have come this morning.  It wasn't raining, and the big tree was still standing."

The traveller turns and offers to share his umbrella, the man nods and steps closer.  He sighs.  "That tree was standing for who knows how long, hundreds of years, maybe, and now it's gone.  There used to be bells here.  What am I supposed to do?"

The traveller shrugs.  "Old things have to stop, sometimes, for new things to start.  That's just how it goes, I guess."

"His birthday would have been today.  They'd have rung the bells, for that.  But I suppose there's no point brooding."

The traveller looks the man over, then digs around in the pocket of his coat.  "Bells are good for memories.  Here."  He hands the man a little hand-bell.  "Take good care of it."

The man shakes it gently.  It rings; a high, clear tone through the rain.  He smiles a sad sort of smile and thanks the traveller.

They part ways, the traveller continuing his journey, the man heading back home.  By the time he reaches his front door, it's still raining.  But the sun is peaking out, just a little bit, through a crack in the clouds.  Softly, from a great distance, a bell rings.