The old man was longboned and wiry, dressed in black from head to foot. His face was a leathery expanse of wrinkles and weathering stretched between a square jaw and high bare forehead, stringy white hair hanging down to his shoulders. In one hand he held a paper bag containing a bottle of cheap wine and a bread roll.
The old man walked down the predawn streets of Gotham without fear. He had been here a long time, become part of the streets and the community that shunned the daylight. Besides, this old man had long ago decided that a man like him had no truck with a useless emotion like fear anyways.
It was around five in the morning. The witching hour was long since gone and past, and gone too were the grimmer hours of three and four in the morning, when witches get too depressed to fool around with black arts. A man who's kept vigil during the hours of three and four in the morning has earned the right to see the sun rise.
The old man stood now among the old warehouses along the docks, paper bag still in hand. He now took the bag and gripped it in his teeth as he walked over to the rusty ladder that led up to the roof of one abandoned hulk of a building. Holding the bag in his teeth served two purposes. It left both hands free to climb, for one thing, and at his age the man needed both hands. It also forced him to keep his mouth shut, lest he turn the air blue with imprecations and blasphemies a man like him had no business uttering, but which were still ingrained deep in his character, the part of him almost but not quite left behind.
Atop the flat roof, the old man had a clear view of the harbor and the eastern horizon. His timing was perfect. The sky over the water was just beginning to shift from black to blue. There was still a ways to go until sunrise, but that was the whole point. A vigil should always involve waiting, or what's the point?
The old man sat on the tarpapered roof and leaned his back against the protrusion of a skylight, unmindful of the grime on his clothes. He nodded companionably to a shadow sharing the roof with him. The old ritual had begun, the sacred custom of many sunrises and many years gone. The shadow was always there waiting when he arrived.
"Mornin, mornin." The old man's voice was deep and powerful, the accent rough and unschooled but the sound pure and powerful. "Guess it ain't mornin yet, by my reckonin anyways, but near enough, my friend, near enough." The shadow made no reply. The old man was used to this. "I'd ask how ya are, what life's been like for ya this past year, but I wouldn't get much for an answer, would I? Thought not. I guess ya could tell a tale I'd be unable to believe, if ya wanted, and every word true. Yer in a kind of interesting profession for events happening to you, aincha?" The shadow still said nothing. It never did. This didn't shake the old man's certainty that he was heard, however. The one he spoke to was famous for keeping quiet about his presence, and the old man's faith was strong.
"I got to wondering today, how long it's been since the first time we did this. You know, kept watch here together. I guess it's been years, since I can't rightly remember the first time. Maybe that's just me gettin old. Anyways, I'm glad yer here, takin time away from yer busy schedule, saving folk and fighting evil and all, just to sit here a while with an old man."
The sky was definitely lighter now. The old man could see clearly what was around him, mainly, although the shadows were still thick. The air was that ghostly blue color that seems to hold for hours and days and years during the time right before sunup.
"Been thinking lately about what I do. Guess there ain't man woman or child as sees me that don't think I'm bark-at-the-moon crazy, is there? Cops think it, pushers think it, muggers think it, bums think it, shopkeepers think it. No matter. I know what the Word says, and I know what I'm to do with it. Preach it, the Word says, loud and far, and so I do just that. I spect you seen me doin it, just walkin the streets and preaching the Word, just like it's written down in the Book." The capitals sounded clear in the old man's speech. For him, there was but one Word, and one Book worth mentioning.
"And I been thinkin how much faith it takes for a man to do what he does. Not just me, but any man. We read a history book, and believe in Napoleon, and that's faith, ain't it? Believe in China, which I personally ain't never been to, belive in Jupiter, which ain't no one ever been to, and I guess that's faith too." The shadow, more clearly outlined now that dawn was so close, still said nothing, but the old man could feel eyes in that darkness, eyes fixed on him. Ears too, ears listening to him.
"So I have faith that a man once lived. And I have faith that this man died. Here's the fixer, though. I also believe, based on no clear evidence of my eyes and without having personally spoken with any eyewitnesses, I believe that this man didn't stay dead. You hear me! Did not stay dead, but got up out of the grave after a few days! And I believe that this man, having done this thing, gave orders that this thing he did be told around to everybody who'd listen, and for that matter everybody that wouldn't. Which is what I do. Now, here's the thing. If you believe in a man that used to be alive that you never seen, that don't make you crazy. You believe that this same fella died, that don't make you crazy either, does it? Maybe believin he got up afterwards does make you crazy, but there's folks going to be gathering in every church in this city in the next few hours that believe the same. So, believin all this and not bein crazy, why am I crazy for doin just what the man told me to do? As best I can figure it, a man don't stay dead is a man worth listenin to. Am I wrong?"
The question did not seem rhetorical. Perhaps the shadow moved a little bit, possibly looking like a faint shake of the head. The sky was grey now, going gold along the horizon.
"Well, all that's neither here nor there. I'm just thankful you're willin to listen to an old man ramble. If you think I'm crazy, at least you've the decency not to tell me so, and God bless you for that. This watch is hard to keep alone, and it's always best to have company when you see the sun come up."
The band of gold on the horizon was thicker now, bulging out pregnant in the east. The time was at hand. The old man reached into the pocket of his tattered coat and drew out a small leatherbound book with faded gilt lettering on the scuffed cover. Turning the well-thumbed pages, he began to read.
"There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were as white as snow."
The sun laid a golden track over the water in Gotham Harbor, illuminating the world with clear daylight as the old man continued reading.
"'He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go and tell his disciples "he has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him." Now I have told you.'"
The weathered old preacher put away his battered Testament and opened the paper bag. Taking the cheap wine and slightly stale roll in his hands he said "God's blood, God's body, God's blessing. Thanks for your gift, Lord." Then he tore the roll in two, eating one half and washing it down with the wine. Half a roll and half the bottle he left behind him as he clamored down the ladder, whistling an old hymn.
Above him on the rooftop, Batman stepped out into the sunlight. Eating the bread and drinking the wine, he looked at his city, deceptively clean and bright in the morning sun.
Rambling madman or not, the old preacher gave a finer sermon than could be heard in the finely appointed churches Bruce Wayne sometimes visited. And this communion was the finest he had ever taken.
End
Note: The scripture quoted is from Mathew chapter 28, verses 2, 5, 6 and 7, NIV translation. The missing verses were omitted to improve the flow of the narrative.
The old man walked down the predawn streets of Gotham without fear. He had been here a long time, become part of the streets and the community that shunned the daylight. Besides, this old man had long ago decided that a man like him had no truck with a useless emotion like fear anyways.
It was around five in the morning. The witching hour was long since gone and past, and gone too were the grimmer hours of three and four in the morning, when witches get too depressed to fool around with black arts. A man who's kept vigil during the hours of three and four in the morning has earned the right to see the sun rise.
The old man stood now among the old warehouses along the docks, paper bag still in hand. He now took the bag and gripped it in his teeth as he walked over to the rusty ladder that led up to the roof of one abandoned hulk of a building. Holding the bag in his teeth served two purposes. It left both hands free to climb, for one thing, and at his age the man needed both hands. It also forced him to keep his mouth shut, lest he turn the air blue with imprecations and blasphemies a man like him had no business uttering, but which were still ingrained deep in his character, the part of him almost but not quite left behind.
Atop the flat roof, the old man had a clear view of the harbor and the eastern horizon. His timing was perfect. The sky over the water was just beginning to shift from black to blue. There was still a ways to go until sunrise, but that was the whole point. A vigil should always involve waiting, or what's the point?
The old man sat on the tarpapered roof and leaned his back against the protrusion of a skylight, unmindful of the grime on his clothes. He nodded companionably to a shadow sharing the roof with him. The old ritual had begun, the sacred custom of many sunrises and many years gone. The shadow was always there waiting when he arrived.
"Mornin, mornin." The old man's voice was deep and powerful, the accent rough and unschooled but the sound pure and powerful. "Guess it ain't mornin yet, by my reckonin anyways, but near enough, my friend, near enough." The shadow made no reply. The old man was used to this. "I'd ask how ya are, what life's been like for ya this past year, but I wouldn't get much for an answer, would I? Thought not. I guess ya could tell a tale I'd be unable to believe, if ya wanted, and every word true. Yer in a kind of interesting profession for events happening to you, aincha?" The shadow still said nothing. It never did. This didn't shake the old man's certainty that he was heard, however. The one he spoke to was famous for keeping quiet about his presence, and the old man's faith was strong.
"I got to wondering today, how long it's been since the first time we did this. You know, kept watch here together. I guess it's been years, since I can't rightly remember the first time. Maybe that's just me gettin old. Anyways, I'm glad yer here, takin time away from yer busy schedule, saving folk and fighting evil and all, just to sit here a while with an old man."
The sky was definitely lighter now. The old man could see clearly what was around him, mainly, although the shadows were still thick. The air was that ghostly blue color that seems to hold for hours and days and years during the time right before sunup.
"Been thinking lately about what I do. Guess there ain't man woman or child as sees me that don't think I'm bark-at-the-moon crazy, is there? Cops think it, pushers think it, muggers think it, bums think it, shopkeepers think it. No matter. I know what the Word says, and I know what I'm to do with it. Preach it, the Word says, loud and far, and so I do just that. I spect you seen me doin it, just walkin the streets and preaching the Word, just like it's written down in the Book." The capitals sounded clear in the old man's speech. For him, there was but one Word, and one Book worth mentioning.
"And I been thinkin how much faith it takes for a man to do what he does. Not just me, but any man. We read a history book, and believe in Napoleon, and that's faith, ain't it? Believe in China, which I personally ain't never been to, belive in Jupiter, which ain't no one ever been to, and I guess that's faith too." The shadow, more clearly outlined now that dawn was so close, still said nothing, but the old man could feel eyes in that darkness, eyes fixed on him. Ears too, ears listening to him.
"So I have faith that a man once lived. And I have faith that this man died. Here's the fixer, though. I also believe, based on no clear evidence of my eyes and without having personally spoken with any eyewitnesses, I believe that this man didn't stay dead. You hear me! Did not stay dead, but got up out of the grave after a few days! And I believe that this man, having done this thing, gave orders that this thing he did be told around to everybody who'd listen, and for that matter everybody that wouldn't. Which is what I do. Now, here's the thing. If you believe in a man that used to be alive that you never seen, that don't make you crazy. You believe that this same fella died, that don't make you crazy either, does it? Maybe believin he got up afterwards does make you crazy, but there's folks going to be gathering in every church in this city in the next few hours that believe the same. So, believin all this and not bein crazy, why am I crazy for doin just what the man told me to do? As best I can figure it, a man don't stay dead is a man worth listenin to. Am I wrong?"
The question did not seem rhetorical. Perhaps the shadow moved a little bit, possibly looking like a faint shake of the head. The sky was grey now, going gold along the horizon.
"Well, all that's neither here nor there. I'm just thankful you're willin to listen to an old man ramble. If you think I'm crazy, at least you've the decency not to tell me so, and God bless you for that. This watch is hard to keep alone, and it's always best to have company when you see the sun come up."
The band of gold on the horizon was thicker now, bulging out pregnant in the east. The time was at hand. The old man reached into the pocket of his tattered coat and drew out a small leatherbound book with faded gilt lettering on the scuffed cover. Turning the well-thumbed pages, he began to read.
"There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were as white as snow."
The sun laid a golden track over the water in Gotham Harbor, illuminating the world with clear daylight as the old man continued reading.
"'He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go and tell his disciples "he has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him." Now I have told you.'"
The weathered old preacher put away his battered Testament and opened the paper bag. Taking the cheap wine and slightly stale roll in his hands he said "God's blood, God's body, God's blessing. Thanks for your gift, Lord." Then he tore the roll in two, eating one half and washing it down with the wine. Half a roll and half the bottle he left behind him as he clamored down the ladder, whistling an old hymn.
Above him on the rooftop, Batman stepped out into the sunlight. Eating the bread and drinking the wine, he looked at his city, deceptively clean and bright in the morning sun.
Rambling madman or not, the old preacher gave a finer sermon than could be heard in the finely appointed churches Bruce Wayne sometimes visited. And this communion was the finest he had ever taken.
End
Note: The scripture quoted is from Mathew chapter 28, verses 2, 5, 6 and 7, NIV translation. The missing verses were omitted to improve the flow of the narrative.