Holy Flight

Sunset is a lovely time, Jathos thought to himself pleasantly enough, The clouds make such a merry tableau as prelude to night’s solemnity.

His reverential mood was all but ruined by the coarse cry of, “Oy, what you doin’ up theres?” The castle guard were always so uncouth; it was a bother, even on a good day.

Haughtily, despite being crouched on the edge of a tower’s wall, Jathos responded, “Where’er I may be I am still a brother of the Holy Order of Davidicus and would expect to be addressed as such.”

“Oh me pardons,” the oaf bellowed, “What, pray tell, oh holy brother, would ye be doin at such a lofty spot on this our lowly earthly eddy-face?”

Jathos turned. He stood and in stretching out his arms expanded a makeshift framework of light wood and gossamer cloth. His eyes dared the setting sun to tell him to do otherwise.

“Oy, yer holiness, that ain’t safe.”

“My good man,” Jathos intoned solemnly, “Heaven awaits, and I…I must fly!”

“Right. Let’s just say what I didn’t see you here at all.”

View this story's 2 comments.