the church

the water was rising but they would not move into the church because it was 'holy'. i tried to convince them that no deity lived in the long-abandoned hilltop stone building, but they would not be convinced. i hired locals from another village to help me 'de-church' the place. we ripped out the pews, used some of them as seating and turned the rest into raw stock to create walls and bunk-beds. i somehow wound up with white and orange paint which i applied in large color blocks. when i was finished it not only looked like a cheery scandinavian preschool but was big enough to safely and comfortably accommodate all. i brought the villagers up the to the sturdy stone building on the hilltop but they would not even step inside the door. they clicked their tongues in disapproval, crossed themselves and backed away with mumbled prayers falling from their lips. they turned as a body away from the church and snaked down the muddy path toward their ramshackle hovels. i felt so furious at their ignorance but the chattering teeth and weak cries of the children echoed in my ears. i bought up every gypsy wagon within a hundred miles so they could at least move from the rising waters. one by one, we filled the caravans with their shabby belongings, exhausted children and enough food for at least a week. i made simple maps that described a route to safety and handed them out to one and all. one by one the caravans followed each other into the rising waters as they moved along the paths they had always moved along. one by one the caravans lost their footing, floated for a short while and then tipped over into the icy rushing water.

i did not realize for many minutes that i was crying.