FICTION
CHRIS COTTOM
FATHER OF PHYSICS
It’s the ninth anniversary of my house arrest. I’ve not left my villa, here in Arcetri, since their excellencies of the Inquisition ordered me to ‘curse and detest’ my opinion that the Earth does not lie motionless at the centre of the universe, but turns around the Sun. I’ve known its warmth for seventy-seven summers and, while I’m stubborn enough to remain convinced of views ‘contrary to Holy Scripture’, I’m wise enough to know I won’t welcome another spring.
My sight gone, I rely on my housekeeper Zilia, a godly soul who attends to my simple needs with diligence and compassion, not shirking from cleaning my southern regions or boiling my soiled linen. How thankful I am that my daughter Virginia did not have to witness these final indignities. My only wish now is for my body to join hers in that cold tomb at the Basilica of Santa Croce.
After declining even a spoonful of Zilia’s thin gruel, I send her to fetch Father Angelo, asking him to bring the holy water, that he might hear my confession and administer the Commendation of the Dying. For, though I was found ‘suspect of heresy’, I believe in the everlasting mercy of our Father Almighty, in the resurrection of His Son, in the power and grace of the Holy Ghost.
I believe that, when I prostate myself before Our Lord, He will bid me rise, will lead me to the very edge of Highest Heaven. I believe He will stretch out His hand and say, ‘Behold, faithful servant. Of course the Earth is not the centre of the universe. Of course it turns around the Sun. It is just as you said, Galileo Galilei.’
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Chris Cottom lives near Macclesfield, UK. He’s been published by Heimat Review, Oxford Flash Fiction, The Centifictionist, WestWord, and others. |
