Going Back

It was long since I had walked down that path. The four pairs of feet crunching the ground underneath them are now replaced by only mine. The scurry of footsteps that once were heard has been thinned down to my slow, rhythmic steps.
The woods on either side of the path and canal have become imposing, majestic, and coloured with golds, bronzes and rubies that have the essence of warmth and light, when before, they had been vivacious, and had illuminated the path with glistening emeralds. Even the canal has changed: it now reflects the majestic oaks, chestnuts and maples, which makes the water shine like liquid gold.
I see that the beauty and life on the woodland floor, which reigned supreme in the summer, has now been choked and smothered with dead matter and the heavy, rotting material coats the once free woodland floor like thick, wet carpet.
The canal’s flow of water is silent, but the wood is surprisingly vocal, with the whispering leaves in the treetops and the rustling of the woodland floor, surpassed only by the bird’s cries for the sorrow of the passing of the summer. In this serenity, my crunching footsteps sound like avalanches of falling rock, drowning out the whispers.
The branches slowly move to cover my head, cutting me off from the rest of the world, gradually hiding the sky from me. The branches of the trees on either bank reach each other above the canal and entwine together to form a vaulted ceiling like one of cathedral, preventing the sun’s light from reaching me. I notice that the darkness which envelopes me also blocks the light from reaching the leaves and so their true, dead form is revealed to me. Even the water has changed its appearance; the stillness of the surface makes the canal look like an unending pit with a sheet of glass placed over, but the surface doesn’t reflect light - instead it seems to consume it.
While I walk, the wind whistles though the wood to claw at me with cruel, merciless fingers while I fight to keep myself from collapsing into the canal, whose water I know is so cold that it feels like knives stabbing through your skin getting to your heart. Then when I get to a tear in the ceiling of leaves, the sun breaks in, its light and warmth envelop me, soothing and protecting me from the wind’s rage and increases the leaves’ intensity so that they burn with light.
For a while, the most that I can do is to stand in the sun’s gaze, recovering from the harshness of my surroundings, preparing myself to follow the path once again and to face the all obstructions that are thrown at me.
I follow the path on and on until the vaulted ceiling above me opens up again revealing the sun and sky in all of their glory. For a moment, I relish the feeling of being free from the clutches of the dark and the sun’s unlimited warmth and light. I turn the corner and suddenly everything opens up; the wood ends, the ground around the path and canal plummets. I have reached to the aqueduct.
The sky above me stretches to reach the ends of the earth. The river below the aqueduct looks like a shimmering silver ribbon bordered by lush green velvet banks. And surrounding them is the wood. From here, so high above it, the wood looks glorious - a stressed sheet of gold and bronze shining in the sun and throwing the sun’s rays into my eyes. Birds are soaring high above me over the forest in the stunning azure blue sky. The view is overwhelming and it takes my breath away as it had always done.
I had forgotten the feeling of standing in the middle of the aqueduct: the sense of being free and unrestrained and how consuming it is. I feel free so rarely that I want to stand here for eternity. But I know I cannot, so I treasure the feeling while I can and promise myself that I will return again.
The wind feels startlingly different here, it had felt so malicious in the wood but now, although still frighteningly strong, it feels almost like as if it was stroking and comforting me. All the fears I had have now been banished by the sun, the wind, the overall splendour of surroundings and the overwhelming atmosphere, so I carry on down the path leaving the aqueduct behind.
Again, I walk the path that follows the canal. The trees overhead start to get thicker and thicker. For a while, the path follows the canal, but then it splits in two: one turns a sharp corner and the other continues to follow the canal. Memories overflow and play tricks on my mind causing me to hear distant laughter and a flurry of noisy footsteps. I follow the sound and it leads me to choose the path leading off the canal path. The path leads me directly away from canal in a straight line, as if it was trying to get me away as quickly as possible. It seems that as soon as I leave the canal, the trees in the wood strain to cover me up and to trap me in it by rearing up to the path and growing as close together as possible.
The air soon becomes closed and I smell the damp dead matter covering the suffocating earth. In the gaps between the trees I see glimpses of my quarry: the chapel. I get more sightings of the building more frequently until finally the path leads me to it.
The strikingly intricate carvings on the walls and the great, wooden door stare at me as if daring me to come closer. Some of the carvings had been damaged: there are decapitated saints and melting designs but the overall formidable-looking design still held its power and presence. The surfaces of the chapel’s walls are blackened because of the lack of sun and cause the chapel to feel sinister and foreboding.
Despite the carvings’ opposition to my presence, I move towards the door and try to drag it open. The huge weight of the door is carried on two wrought iron hinges, which bind the door to the wall but as the paint of these impressive-looking hinges had flaked, the rain had rusted them from within so they refuse to give me entry. Again I haul on the thick black handle with all my strength until finally, the door gives in and scrapes open leaving me with just enough space to slide into the building.
The first thing that hits me is the smell and feeling of the air inside: the building stinks of mould and damp, and the air is dead. It feels as if the air had been trapped in the chapel for centuries. The air immediately clings to me and feels even closer than it had done outside, which makes it hard to breath. My body screams for fresh air. I feel I have to get out of this nightmarish place. I reach for the door but at the last moment, I force myself to stop.
I stand frozen for a while as my eyes finally adjust to the dark. Things slowly appear out of the blackness; the benches closest to me solidify, a column also appears and the floor emerges out of the darkness. I drag myself to the column. I place my icy hands on it, bracing myself against the column, fighting to stay upright. While I struggle to clear my head, my ears are buzzing with the deafening silence inside the chapel.
A sound stops my heart - the sound of children: they are laughing and their feet ring out with the sound of heavy footsteps beating down on the worn flagstone floor. I lift my head to search the darkness for them, but I see no being inside the chapel other than me - my mind is playing tricks on me again.
Now that my head has cleared, I step back from the column and look around. The chapel had not changed at all other than falling into more damage and decay. The carved, dark benches are still in orderly rows with moulding, blood red coloured hanging off elaborate hooks at the back of them, the stained glass windows were all miraculously still intact although the light had been prevented from entering by all the dust and dirt that coats them. I reach up to wipe away the dirt. Streams of golden light pour into the chapel, blinding me for a moment. I wipe away as much of the dirt as I can reach and stand back to admire the treasure that was under the filth.
The window glows with light, each pane of glass looks like a gleaming jewel, shimmering with the sunlight that it holds. Every individual red coloured glass piece looks like a blazing coal in the core of a fire, the greens look like shining emerald leaves in the middle of summer, the blues each look like a shimmering piece of a cobalt blue ocean, the whites each look like a drop of pure water, untainted and untouched, like a diamond, bright in the light. Each and every pane sears its colour and light into my eyes.
I walk around the chapel, cleaning the other windows and trying to restore the glory in them, that was killed by the dirt and grime. The sunlight shines in, and banishes any fear or doubt in my heart. I can now see everything and all the skilfully designed details.
I remember the originality of the columns and I turn to stare at one. The column looks as if it should be outside, in the wood with leaves and branches - it was designed like the trunk of a twisted chestnut, with the bark sweeping up and round like winds in a whirlwind. The column blends into the ceiling and floor and looks as if it the whole building was made out of the same block of stone.
The ceiling above me is still as awe inspiring as it was before. The wonderfully elaborate designs are as clear as if they were carved yesterday. The designs spread across the ceiling like water ripples on the surface of a lake and look so natural that I could believe that it was alive and grew from the ceiling. Black lacquered lamps hang down from the ceiling on strong iron chains like magnificent chandeliers adding to the grandeur but shed no light.
The image of the intricately carved benches appears in my mind and I move quickly to kneel beside one to study the workmanship and joy that went into making it. I touch the carvings gently and admire the exquisite images and designs. The cushions were once beautiful, with complex gold embroidery and sumptuous crimson velvet covering it; the remains of it were still left and decaying, but the soul and delight that was put into its making has now been lost.
All the imagination that went into our games and playing is not been lost; it now dwells here and in my mind as lingering nostalgic memories. This Chapel, which had been my very own enchanted palace that hid me from the world, is now desolate, dark and filled with my nightmares. Death has long departed from this place but the fear and bitterness still reeks in the still air. The loss that I had felt is still raw enough to cause me pain and flickers of grief but I force myself to push that out of my thoughts while I try to clear my bleary eyes.
The final thing that I remember from my last visit is the altar and the wall behind it. I walk up the aisle staring. The closer I get, the more awe I feel. The altar shines like the sun, throwing light everywhere around it. The memory of it does not prepare me for the splendour and magnificence. The altar is coated with gold and studded with diamonds, emeralds, sapphire and rubies and the designs of it depict saints and Christ. I feel a little surprised that someone hasn’t come here and plundered the chapel of all this wealth and treasure but the feeling is distant that it does not take my mind off the grandeur of the altar. On top of the altar is golden candlestick with the unused white candles still in it. Even the cobwebs between the candles do not spoil the beauty of the ornament. The tablecloth has moulded as little, the lace bordering it has been damaged and both have lost their pure white colour but this does not affect the overall effect of the breathtaking and glorious altar.
The wall behind the altar is just as magnificent. Underneath the still dusty stained glass window is a balcony of sorts. The design seems to be rather gothic with arches and miniature spires. Below the balcony are the most complex carvings that I had ever seen before. There seem to be hundreds of people, saints and images of Christ in hundred of different situations but the most prominent is of the crucifixion of Christ. The carving looks so solemn and moving – the detail is incredible and the expressions of all the people look so truthful and real. For a while, all I am capable of is to gaze at it and admire the carvings that countless days of labour had been poured into.
When I regain the control of my mind and body, I realise with shock that the light has dimmed – I had spent the whole day getting to this chapel and being in here, it is now early evening. The dying sun throws its last rays through the jewelled windows to project a hazy image onto the opposite wall and cool air causes me to shiver.
I move towards a bench and I sit down huddled into a corner. Despite the shadowy fears forming in my mind, exhaustion has caught up with me. I am incapable of stopping the overpowering sleep and my memories overflow again.