Chapter Eleven

Todd was not sure how his editor was going to feel about a feature piece on "Atheism in Islam," and he was sure this wasn't the story he'd been sent to gather.

Tariq had been emphatic: "This is the wave of the future."

Todd's editor said, on the phone, "Who in America is going to want to read about Arab atheists? They don't want to read about American atheists!"

Todd's response was "My contact, which you and Quentin recommended, is very certain, very passionate, that a free thought movement among Muslims is picking up speed and many adherents, and that western support is critical for their viability." He said that last in the tones of someone trying to repeat verbatim what he'd been told.

The reaction was, very simply, "Are you kidding me?"

Walking around the Old St. Pancras' grounds, where he'd drifted back to simply because he knew how to find it without asking anyone any questions, Todd looked at the markers in the remaining cemetery space.

Apparently, there had once been a much larger burial ground here, and over behind the church building was a tree with an odd arrangement of weathered and mostly illegible tombstones in circles around it, edge on to the trunk, and in many cases the tree growing around them. A nearby plaque explained something about an author who had been a surveyor or something and had put these in place over a hundred years ago, when the train station next door went in.

From that oddity, he strolled in no particular pattern past monuments that looked like English phone booths, ancient markers with only the outline of an urn in relief on top and a few letters still readable, and newer stones with fresh carving that must be replacements, since the years indicated were much older than the sharp edges would indicate.

He stopped near a tall monument near the gate back towards the church. It was one of those things that made him realize, on a deeper level, that he was in a strange place, English aside. The structure was of a design and construction like nothing he knew back home. Sure, there was a tower and a bell and a long roofline and pointed-top windows, but the arrangement of the stone and the various elements seemingly stuck together with something that wasn't quite concrete: it was different. As was the interior.

His editor still wanted an interview with the Somali preacher, but finally switched course and said "Fine. You're there, the source is pushing for a new angle, and maybe it can be a sidebar. Go talk to a few of his people, take some notes, and tell him your crazy boss is only letting you do this as LONG AS you interview Hasseem, or whatever his name is. And ask him what he thinks of Buckeye football."

Todd had to stop a moment and realize what Buckeye football had to do with anything, long enough for the editor to bark "I'm KIDDING. But anything he says about what he learned, or learned to despise back in America: there's your hook. Go get it." And there was the noiseless end of their conversation.

He walked through the wrought-iron gate, and back around to the front of the church, and saw that people were coming up the path in more than just the pairs and singles of tourism. "Must be some sort of evening service," he thought to himself, and let his steps wander along with the groups entering the building.

It all seemed somewhat informal, and after standing in the back uncertainly, loosening his scarf, Todd slid along the left hand side of the seats, just past where he and Tariq had talked the other day. Or where Tariq had talked to him, and he had nodded a great deal. Sitting down on the end, a woman a few seats closer to the center aisle turned and smiled at him. He nodded, she nodded back, and went back to rummaging in her bag.

From the front, up near the altar, a robed man came out trailed by another man in casual clothes carrying a guitar case. The apparent priest grabbed a light podium with one hand while carrying a book and a tablet in his other, and came down the center aisle to where the first row of seated people were in place, swinging the podium to rest in the aisle. Next to him, the fellow with the case opened it up and took his guitar out and began laboriously tuning it. Looking around, Todd could tell this was not yet the signal for people to quiet down; in fact, the conversations among clumps behind him almost got louder.

As he had been looking over his shoulder, suddenly he heard a voice to his left say "Greetings; are you new in the neighborhood?" Turning back, he realized the bearded and robed priest had come up the side aisle and was standing there with his hand extended.

Shaking it and starting to stand, Todd said "oh, no, sorry, I'm . . ."

"Ah, you're an American. Are you here on business or as a tourist?"

"It's that obvious, is it?" Todd smiled at the obvious good humor of his greeter. "I'm here on business, but also getting in a little look around."

"Yes, of course. So you've seen the Hardy Tree and the Soane monument and all? We'll have to show you our Roman building materials set into the walls, after Evensong is over. It's more of a "folk Evensong," I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Todd replied, wondering what an evensong was.

"Well, Frederick may be tuned finally, so we'll begin, but would you be my guest for dinner with me and Anne?" As he said this, the woman on the other end of his row turned and smiled at both of them, and said "Oh, please do."

"I'm Father William, and if you stand or sit at the wrong time, don't give it a thought. We're used to tourists at this service." With that, and a swirl of long, floor-sweeping brown robes, he moved back around through the rows to the center aisle, and with a wave of his hands and a wink to Todd, he said "Shall we all rise?"