we are drawn

Quickly, the large oval doors creaked open on their huge iron hinges. A priest hurried in, rushing past the stairs to the font nave. The priest's black cassock fluttered just a bit above the ground, catching the wind at his feet. Just as his used to do.

He had once walked swiftly, purposefully like that. Why? What had he been drawn to? Those black edges held the keys, perhaps. He should find out. Catching the small whiffs of energy the priest left behind, he turned to follow.

But after he had gone only a few steps, the whiffs had already dissipated in the fragile air. He stood motionless for a long while, looking after where the priest had been.

Slowly he tried to retrace the church, remember where the priest might have gone, but it was too much of an effort. DId the doorway open into the garden on the side of the transept? The front of the nave? The way to escape? Or was this the graveyard door? He shook his head again to loose the memories. The movement was easier, but still the thoughts eluded his feeble grasp. He closed his eyes and created the familiar darkness. Rested in it comfortably.