Sermon for the Dead
For those not accustomed to the ways of rural village life, the traditions and customs of the valley folk can seem a little strange. Even those who've spent their entire lives living amongst the hills of the Peaks can find that their neighbouring villages do things a little differently. Despite this, one thing remained the same for most of the people in this land - church. The church was central to village life during the time of this tale, as it had been for hundreds of years prior. The church we are about to enter no longer exists in this world. Deep below Ladybower Reservoir sits the silt-laden foundations of Derwent Church. As the building died, so did a very strange and peculiar tradition that had existed within its walls for many years.
This is the tale of Robert Walden.
Derwent Woodlands was a fine parish indeed and any parson would have been lucky to call this place home. The sky was endless, the land green and gentle streams carved their way through pastured fields as sheep lapped up the amber water. A peaceful land. The air was the finest you could get and Robert Walden’s lungs filled with it as much as they could before they let out an inevitable wheeze and splutter. Tuberculosis had befriended Robert who was unaware that this would be a difficult and lifelong friendship. Despite the pain and tightness of chest, Mr Walden could only smile and appreciate the scenery as he was now the lucky pastor of Derwent Woodlands.
His predecessor had been a relative of the Master of Derwent Hall and had let the church fall in to disrepair having left the duties to a partly blind curate. The churches in this area reflected the simple Peakland character and Derwent Church had always remained true to its humble and sturdy roots, however an uncomfortable draught now resided between the uncomfortable pews and the villagers had quickly grown agitated by the rot and the cold. This was Robert's first duty.
Even before Robert had seen to the repairs of the church, the locals had taken well to the new pastor. He was a warm, gentle chap who was welcomed with equal character. Many weeks passed and life began to settle for Robert. Many people turned out for his services and Sundays were always full despite the draft, but Robert began to notice something.
After one of his Sunday services, a few of the local folk gathered outside the church. Conversations condensated and rose into the cold air. Robert was talking to Micah Harrison, an elderly hill farmer who was also one of the churchwardens. The topic quickly moved on to a matter that had been bothering Mr Walden, who asked a simple question.
“Why does nobody sit in the West Gallery?”.
“Aye, neebody been up thee’r. Not for a long time.“
Micah’s eyes shifted away from Robert’s and Mr Harrison abruptly left. The question remained unanswered and Robert remained confused.
——
A November mush of fallen leaves was starting to accumulate. The air was cold and wet and lingered in Robert’s chest. What was once a rolling cough was now a painful rasp. Though, much to Robert’s gratitude, the pain was infrequent and didn't disrupt his daily duties and much to the villager's gratitude, the church was looking anew. The nave and chancel shined. The pews were restored and the broken windows were now whole again. The villagers were most pleased.
One night Robert was sat alone in the church. He often did this. Just him and the pattering rain trying to get in. A congregation of candles illuminated the centre of the church and the flickering light gently faded into the dark crevices of the ceiling. Robert sat admiring the intricacies of this simple but handsome building. He did not know of those who came before him, but he knew of their handiwork. Robert was proud to know that his workmanship, though simple, would be a part of his legacy in the village of Derwent. There were parts that Robert had not touched such as the three-decker pulpit and of course the most beautiful of all, the West Gallery - the subject of his fascination ever since he stepped foot in the church all those months ago. In this half-light however, the light moved in an unusual way high up in the gallery. Light didn’t reflect and bounce off the stone like it did with the rest of the architecture, it seemed to be absorbed.
{more about the strange sighting in the church}
This disturbed Robert. Then arrived a dreadful coughing episode. The worst yet.
Robert needed air.
—
Several weeks passed and now every tree was skeletal and the streams were half-frozen. It was around the second week of December and Robert was about to have his first real altercation with the residents since his warm welcome many months ago. Micah and another fellow churchwarden, George, were on one side of a dry-stone wall and Robert was on the other.
“Tha conna be expected to know abaat it Vicar, with ya bein new round 'ere ‘nd that” said Micah.
“Aye, tis a tradition raand ‘ere see. First sermon fer t’first Sundee after Christmas, tha sees” chipped in George.
Robert seemed a little peeved, “But what about //my// sermon?”.
“Summit that's always been done” said Micah. “First Sundee after Christmas t’vicar always preaches ‘is sermon to them what’s bound t’ pass o'er th' comin' year”.
This alarmed Robert who stepped back a little and looked at both the men. “That's witchcraft that is. Such a thing would not be uttered in a Christian church gentlemen. I’m amazed you would ask it of me, besides the bishop would certainly never permit it.”
Now Micah and George grew as discerned as Robert was.
“But it's alweeys been done 'ere see, them in the West Gallery expects it.” said George who side-eyed Micah.
It seemed as if Robert's patience had thinned and now he was shouting. “What ever do you mean? Of all the time I have been here, I have not seen a single soul in the West Gallery. Not one!”
George smirked and nodded in agreement, “Aye sir, tis true that. See, thems that are fated to pass o’er the comin' year leave their damned bodies, see. Their souls leave em.”
“Aye, they creep out o’ their bodies and gathers in the gallery on't last Sundee of t’year.” Micah jumped in. “They wants to hear God's words, to hear that there’s a better life waiting for'em on t’other. Soothes their pain and suffering in this life see.”
“That's a pagan belief. I’ll hear no more of it gentlem-“ A thick rasp of blood and mucus wrangled Robert’s lungs and he gripped the bones of his chest. The pastor, filled with agony and anger, retreated towards his home to rest and recover from his unorthodox spell of angst. Micah and George slowly left, listening to Robert's fading mutterings.
———————
Christmas came and passed. Robert noticed that the parishioners, gathering outside the church, were a little guarded. He felt watched as he approached and entered through the door. It was as if the local folk were expecting something from him. Robert knew all too well that they were expecting the Sermon for the Dead on the following Sunday but he had no intentions of delivering this.
Robert had adapted a text from Deuteronomy, presenting superstition and ignorance as the enemies of faith. No true Christian would surely believe that the souls of those fated to die would gather amongst the living to hear a sermon. Robert felt as if the matter was over and that he could move on from this weird encounter with local nonsense.
——
A week passed and the day had come. The first Sunday after Christmas. Stepping into the three-tiered pulpit of the cold and quiet church, making sure to refrain from coughing, Robert was ready to deliver his sermon. There was not a single gap in the church, for the whole village had turned out. Opening up the bible, armed with his adaptations of Deuteronomy, Robert looked around with a loving smile at his villagers. Took a deep breath and - froze, in horror and disbelief.
High up in the beautifully carved gallery, clustered close to the rail was a small gathering of shadowy figures. Their faces shined white in the gloom. They were waiting.
In the middle of the ghostly figures, Robert recognised himself. (Slow this bit down)
Robert Walden sank to his knees, cradled by the stone walls of the pulpit. The church filled with a bustle of gasps and concerned whispers from the local folk. But, after a minute or so, Robert managed to regain control and stood upright.
“Dearly beloved, I take for my next text tonight, on this last Sunday of the year, these lines from the Book of Job.”
He preached an entirely different sermon from the one he had planned. A message of hope and peace. The shadowy figures drew closer and listened. Looking out across the pews of people, he caught glimpses of those who would no longer be alive in the coming year. He knew he couldn't warn them but only offer a promise of solace and a place free from suffering. A lonely tear fell from Robert's eyes as the sermon closed and the congregation joined in a prayer. Robert could no longer feel the pain in his chest.
-----------
Winter had long since thawed and the valley was filling with a warm, hazy air. A local traveller was passing through Derwent Woodlands one day and was lazily walking through the quiet lanes of the village. She came across a simple but beautiful church. Upon entering the grounds, she noticed a newly set grave, near to the church entrance - it was awaiting the most expensive and best-carved stone the parish could buy.
“Hello ser, I’m always sorry to see that someone has passed. Who might it be?” She asked the sexton politely.
The sexton looked up and replied, “That were our parson. Weren't from round 'ere, but he were one of us.”
=======================
