Monday, October 06, 2008
A Gap in the Line
Bishop Wolsey cast furtive glances at the barred and bolted door, hold tight to the wooden cross he was given when he left office.
“By Michael, Gabriel and St. George, they can’t get in. By Michael, Gabriel and St. George, they can’t get in. By Michael, Gabriel and St. George, they can’t get in.”
His fingers tightened on the polished oak, tips whitening under the pressure. His mantra wasn’t enough to keep the demons out but the line of salt – laboriously gathered from individual café packets – should do the trick. The wouldn’t let him have a bag of salt from the kitchens.
The scent of burnt matches filled the room and he opened his eyes, heart hammering. The gentleman seated on the bishop’s cot – exquisitely polished boots resting on the desk – put down his silver-topped cane and smiled.
“One of those packets was sugar.”