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There are places in the world where people go to ask for miracles.
They bring their grief, their desperation, their carefully rehearsed prayers, and leave them at the feet of whatever they believe might be listening.
This particular cathedral had received its fair share.
Its stained-glass windows depicted angels, martyrs, and various other individuals who had apparently made a considerable impression upon the Almighty. Candles burned beneath them, their little flames trembling whenever the ancient building sighed.
But there was one figure who appeared in none of the official records.
She stood beneath the largest window, dressed in black and bronze, her elaborate headdress reaching toward the vaulted ceiling. Her face was difficult to look upon for very long. Some found it frightening. Others considered it beautiful. A few had even suggested that it was best not to look at her at all.
Naturally, she had acquired quite a reputation.
Some called her a saint.
Others called her a demon.
She found both descriptions rather presumptuous.
For centuries, she had watched people arrive at the cathedral carrying burdens they could no longer bear. They prayed for forgiveness, for vengeance, for lost lovers to return, for enemies to suffer, and occasionally for the weather to improve.
She had heard every imaginable request.
She had also noticed that very few people ever asked what she wanted.
Not that she particularly expected them to.
One evening, long after the last visitor had departed, a woman entered the cathedral.
She was alone. Her coat was damp from the rain, and her eyes had the peculiar exhaustion of someone who had spent too long trying to convince herself that everything was going to be all right.
She approached the altar, hesitated, and finally sank to her knees.
“I don't know who I'm supposed to ask,” she whispered.
The figure beneath the window remained motionless.
“I've tried being patient. I've tried being good. I've tried understanding things that make no sense to me. I don't even know if anyone is listening anymore.”
A small laugh escaped her, although there was nothing particularly amusing about it.
“I just need some help.”
For a long while, the cathedral was silent.
Then, from somewhere behind her, came a voice.
“Well, that makes two of us.”
The woman turned so quickly that she nearly lost her balance.
The figure had moved.
Not much. Just enough to make it unmistakably clear that the enormous, terrifying creature beneath the stained glass was no longer quite where she had been.
The woman stared.
“Are you...?”
“That depends,” said the figure. “What have they told you about me?”
The woman glanced at the window.
“That you're holy.”
“Hm.”
“Or possibly evil.”
“Naturally.”
“Are you?”
The figure considered this for a moment.
“I've been called considerably worse by people who were considerably less qualified to judge.”
The woman wasn't sure whether she should be frightened.
The figure seemed to notice.
“Don't worry. I have no intention of eating you.”
“That's reassuring.”
“I thought so.”
The woman looked back toward the altar.
“I came here to ask for help.”
“Yes. I heard.”
“Can you help me?”
The figure regarded her with an expression that was difficult to interpret.
“I can listen. I can keep you company. I can remind you that being misunderstood does not make you undeserving of kindness.”
She paused.
“But I cannot promise to rearrange the universe simply because you have asked nicely.”
The woman lowered her eyes.
“I suppose that's fair."”
“Is it?”
The question was so unexpected that she looked up again.
The figure stepped away from the stained glass. Its colored light fell across her dark clothing, scattering violets, blues, and crimson over the bronze ornaments.
“People come here asking for miracles,” she said. “They ask for their lives to be restored to the way they imagined they should have been. They ask for the past to be rewritten, for other people to change, for the impossible to become convenient.”
“And you don't grant them?”
“My dear, if I could make people behave sensibly, I would have done so centuries ago.”
Despite herself, the woman laughed.
The figure's expression softened.
“But sometimes,” she continued, “a person doesn't need the universe to change. Sometimes they need to survive long enough to discover that the universe is not finished with them.”
The woman sat quietly for a while.
“Are you really a saint?” she finally asked.
The figure looked toward the window, where her silhouette mingled with the brilliant colors of the glass.
“I don't believe anyone has ever bothered to find out.”
“And a demon?”
“An equally disappointing misunderstanding.”
The woman smiled faintly.
“Then what are you?”
For the first time, the figure seemed genuinely uncertain.
Perhaps she had been waiting centuries for someone to ask.
“I suppose,” she said at last, “I'm the patron saint of misunderstood things.”
“Is that an actual position?”
“It is now.”
The woman stood, brushing the dust from her knees.
She hadn't received the miracle she had come seeking. Nothing had been restored, no great revelation had descended from the heavens, and the troubles waiting outside the cathedral had not miraculously disappeared.
But she no longer felt quite so alone.
At the doorway, she turned back.
“Thank you.”
The figure inclined her head.
“You're welcome.”
Then, after a moment:
“And if you happen to encounter anyone who insists that I'm evil, please tell them I said they should mind their own business.”
The woman laughed again, this time without quite so much sadness.
When she finally departed, the cathedral settled into silence.
The figure returned to her place beneath the stained glass.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
And somewhere in the great, indifferent machinery of the universe, a small and rather peculiar thing had happened.
Someone had come looking for God and found a monster who knew how to listen.
For the moment, that would have to be enough.
- “The Patron Saint of Misunderstood Things” — story inspired from a photograph shared by mąʼii naʼiidzeeł joogááł AKA Coyote Dreamwalker AKA Coyote Moonchild
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