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There were a number of carved stone figures placed at intervals along the parapets of the old cathedral; some represented angels, others kings and bishops, and nearly all were in attitudes of pious exaltation and composure.
But one figure, low down on the cold north side of the building, had neither crown, miter, nor nimbus. Its face was hard and bitter and downcast –It must be a demon, declared a fat blue pigeon roosting on the ledge of the parapet. But the old belfry jackdaw, who was an authority on ecclesiastical architecture, said it was a lost soul. And there the matter rested.
One autumn day, there fluttered onto the cathedral roof, a slender, sweet-voiced bird that had wandered away from the bare fields and thinning hedgerows in search of a higher roosting place.
It tried to rest its tired wings under the shade of a great angel-wing or nestle into the sculptured folds of a kingly robe, but the fat pigeons hustled it away from wherever it settled, and the noisy sparrow-folk drove it off the ledges. No respectable bird chirped and sang with so much feeling over simple things as clear weather.
Only the effigy of the Lost Soul offered a place of refuge. The pigeons didn’t consider it safe to perch on anything that leaned so far out of the perpendicular, and was, besides, too far in the shadow.
The figure did not cross its hands in the pious attitude of the other graven dignitaries, but its arms were folded as in defiance, and their angle made a snug resting place for the little bird.
Every evening, it crept trustfully into its corner against the stone chest of the image, and the dark eyes of the figure seemed to keep watch over its slumbers.
The pigeons mocked the small bird and its effigy, the starlings and sparrows told the figure to just fall, take the small bird with it, and rid the world of the annoying twitter it produced.
The bird grew to love its lonely protector, and during the day, it would sit from time to time on the effigy’s wild stone curls or cracking stone shoulder and trill its sweetest music in grateful thanks for its nightly shelter. And, it may have been the work of wind and weather, but the cold, drawn face seemed to gradually lose some it its hardness.
Every day, through the long, monotonous hours, the song of his little guest would come up in snatches to the Lost Soul. At evening, when the vesper-bell was ringing and the great grey bats slid out of their hiding places in the belfry roof, the bright-eyed bird would return, recount his day through sleepy notes, and nestle into the arms that were waiting for him.
After a while, the effigy named him Gavin –after the gentle man who had created him so lovingly all those decades ago. He could almost see the man through the little bird’s eyes. Almost.
Those were happy days for the Lost Soul.
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The folk in the verger’s lodge noticed a little brown bird flitting about the cathedral precincts, admiring its beautiful songs as it circled around each effigy as if it were racing the wind itself.
“It’s a pity,” they say, “that all that warbling should be lost and wasted far out of hearing up on the parapet.”
That night, the little songster was missing from its accustomed haunt, and the effigy knew, more than ever, the bitterness of loneliness.
Perhaps his little friend had been killed by a prowling cat? Perhaps he had flown elsewhere?
But, when morning came, there floated up to him, through the noise and bustle of the cathedral world, a faint, heart-aching message from Gavin, trapped in a small wicker cage far below.
And every day, at high noon, when the fat pigeons were stupefied into silence after their midday meal, and the sparrows were washing themselves in the street puddles, the song of the little bird came up to the parapets –a song of hunger and longing and hopelessness. A cry the figure could only try, with no success, to answer.
The pigeons remarked, between mealtimes, that the effigy leaned forward more than ever.
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One day, on the coldest day of winter, no song came up from the little wicker cage. The pigeons, sparrows, and starlings on the cathedral roof looked anxiously on all sides for scraps of food –most had left once food had become scarcer.
“Have the lodge-folk thrown out anything on to the dust-heap?” Inquired one pigeon, peering over the edge of the north parapet.
“Only a little dead bird,” was the answer.
There was a cracking sound on the cathedral roof that night, along with the noise of falling masonry.
In the morning, the decades old effigy of Saint Jones, the lost saint, had toppled from its corner and now lay in a broken mass on the dust-heap outside the verger’s lodge.
“It’s just as well,” cooed the fat pigeon, after they peered at the rubble for some moments, “now they shall have a nice angel put up here.”
From that night on, anyone passing by the cathedral could see two young men sitting on the parapets. One whistling a jovial tune, sometimes dancing, other times running around the other man –who would sit with crossed arms and a fond smile as he watched the other.
Some say they see them sitting close together, watching the stars, and stealing kisses through the night. Others say they see the figures dancing, slow and close, in the moonlight to some invisible song.
By morning, they’re gone without a trace.