The First Stone
ime stretched. The stone sailed in silent splendour, shining in the sun.
No birds sang. No traffic hummed and growled. No breath was taken. At last
the stone fulfilled its destiny. A black patch grew in the frame of the
church window, the long slow silence ending with the shatter of an image.
Time unstretched. Glass fell. The traffic's menacing complaint was counterpoint to the empty, automatic denial filling the mind of the child, standing small and overwhelmed in the dark and unkind shadow of the great, stone wall.
Father Schwarz was a youngish man, blonde, with blue eyes. His hair was thin, so the pink scalp showed through in the light. His neck was pink too, and an old man's scrawny bobbing Adam's apple stood out incongruously. Black anger filled the mind of Schwarz, his lighter colouring subdued by the shadow of his church.
The child stood lamb-like and resigned, waiting, crushed by the weight and the power of the anger. The blue Schwarz eyes burned into the helpless brown gaze of the child. The angry hand began to rise, and the condemnation swelled in acrid turmoil in the thin Schwarz throat.
Time stretched. A picture of the treasured window came to Schwarz. He saw through the beautiful, careful images. He saw his hand punish. He saw his words chastise. He saw again the image of his Lord. His anger shattered against the image. Time unstretched, and he saw the child. "Let he who is without sin....", he thought.
"Barry Schwarz, what have you done?"
The horrified, unbelieving shout froze him. The sickness of fear and guilt was a liquid emptiness in his gut. He had no answer. "I didn't mean it." he offered in a trembling whisper, already knowing that he could not appease the Gods. "I'm sorry Mummy", he whispered then cringed beneath the mighty hand that rose and fell across his face and then his shoulders.
"I'm sorry Mummy", he intoned, a tiny hopeless prayer, "it was an accident."
"I'll give you accident, you little monster. You just wait till your father gets home. He'll give you accident too. Nanna gave us that crystal bowl for a wedding present. You are in so much trouble, may God forgive you."
The hand fell again, but it was meaningless now as the young Barry Schwarz cowered amidst the splinters of his childhood, looking into the dreadful, distant future, and the anger of the Father.
"Well," said Father Schwarz, "that's an unfortunate accident, isn't it young lady?"
The child peered out from under her fear. No anger coiled around her. No hand grasped her collar. No blow fell. She did not answer the question. It was the sort of rhetorical question that leaves children without an answer.
"You'd better come with me and help me clean up the broken glass. We wouldn't want anyone to get hurt would we?"
Again, no response. A slight frown creased the lamb-like face. Another rhetorical question. They had moved now out of the shadow. Father Schwarz glowed pinkly in the light. The child looked up at him with bright, thinking eyes, reflecting the inner processing of 'come with me', and 'clean up', and 'broken glass'. The Father put his hand gently on the child's shoulder, as if to shepherd her into the church.
The childish eyes turned warily to scan his face. He smiled again, and committed a cardinal sin.
"What is your name?, he said, "my child."
Then with dawning recognition, " Aren't you the young Wilson girl?"
She was not, but the foray into identity brought to the child the sudden image of her father. The vision of real authority, and certain punishment galvanised her. Wheeling away from the unconvincing hand on her shoulder, she ran off along the street, calling out as she went,
"You.. you.. piss off. I don't have to tell you. I ain't gunna clean up no glass. You're not my Dad. You can't make me. You're just an old fart anyway!"
Father Schwarz smiled sadly after the small, grubby, receding member of his flock, and went to find a brush and pan to remove the broken shards of God's image.
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