He had been standing up there, on the church spire, for as long as Saya could remember. Everyday, whatever the weather, if Saya looked up at the church, he would be standing on that spire.

The church was an inescapable presence in her town. It towered above the square, right in the heart of the place and almost every other building seemed to defer to it. Saya could see the church from anywhere. She walked by it on her way to school and subsequently passed it on her way home. She made her way by its welcoming doors if she walked to her ballet classes, or to her friend May’s house. If she had to run errands for her mother or if she had to take a short cut to pick up her little sister from pre-school she would always go by the church. In short, the church was so prevalent in her life that both it and the man on the spire were as ordinary as the passing of the days. They had always been in her life just as she had always had hands and feet.

When she was very young, Saya had little interest in the man on the spire and even less interest in the church. Her parents were not practicing Christians and had not pushed her to attend services. Although a curious child, Saya did not wonder about things like religion until her adolescence was well underway. And, that said, her wonder was brief. A flicker of interest that passed like a dragonfly’s life. She had a naturally scientific mind. The laws of physics, the natural world, facts and figures, these were her beliefs and she applied science to every part of her life. She was especially interested in the physics of movement and loved nothing more than to trace arcs and angles and map out trajectories, dissecting the motions of the other dancers in her ballet classes.

It was this natural inclination to understand how things work, that eventually drew her eye to the man on the spire. The questions began. Who was he? What was he doing up there? How did he get up there? How did he balance on that spire? Did he ever come down? She had never seen the spire without him. If he did come down then when did he do it? Where did he live?

No one could answer Saya’s questions about the man. No one knew anything about him. He just was. The man on the spire. It irritated Saya. She began to compile a list of things that she did know about him. He always seemed to be facing south. He wore a black cloak and stood slightly hunched over. This gave him the appearance of an enormous crow. His hair was dark and long. She could not see the expression on his face but there was something about him – perhaps it was his hunched over stance – that made her think he was rather sad. Perhaps it was because he was always alone. Was he searching for something? Another question to add to the list.

These questions bothered Saya. The man bothered Saya. This was not the casual annoyance of being overlooked, or having your favourite jumper ruined in the wash, or being made to do your chores. Annoyance was perhaps not the word. The man on the spire began to infuriate Saya. Just seeing him up there, at the top of the church, could send her into a rage that could last for hours, sometimes even days. These bouts of anger manifested in various ways. Saya would sometimes indulge in an endless torrent of complaints, finding faults in everything. She would stomp around aggressively, and vent her ire on the whomever was unfortunate enough to be nearby at the very top of her decibel range. At times she would even get physical, instigating fights that would leave her scraped and bruised and distinctly more angry. But everyone knew that her anger was at its worst on the days when she was silent. And it was those days that occurred most frequently of all.

Saya’s parents could not understand her fixation on the man that stood on the church spire not bothering anyone, and she could not explain it to them. She did not understand it herself.

A psychiatrist was employed. Saya agreed to see her out of curiosity. The first session left her feeling underwhelmed. Nevertheless she returned. After several appointments that consisted of interviews, various psychiatric tests, and observations, the psychiatrist told Saya that she displayed narcissistic tendencies compounded by serious issues of insecurity. She proposed that Saya undergo cognitive-behavioural therapy. Saya nodded and left the building. She did not return. Instead Saya prescribed her own treatment. She would go and see the man on the spire in person.

As soon as the thought occurred to her she wondered why she had not thought of it earlier. If anyone could answer her questions it would be the man himself. And perhaps by seeing him Saya would finally understand why she could not stand him. She made a plan and immediately felt better for it.

*

It was a Thursday evening. Saya had finished school and walked home with May. She had dinner at the table with her family. They talked about the day, the weather, the things they had done and generally covered all the usual tea-time topics. Saya cleared up the dishes with her sister and then finished off her homework. When she was done she told her parents she was going to May’s house and she left.

It was cold outside. Winter was close. Saya pulled her large, black coat tightly around her and walked towards the church. She was surprised by how nervous she felt. As she walked she kept her eyes on the ground. She was afraid to see the man up there, alone, on his spire, gradually getting bigger as she approached. Her heart began to race. She tried to count the beats. Grasshoppers beat against her insides. She thought about the process of the adrenal glands releasing epinephrine into her blood stream. She needed the toilet. Thinking about these bodily functions helped to calm her.

It took Saya ten minutes to reach the church. The journey felt too short. Looking at her watch she saw that it was nine-fifteen. She had not thought that it would be this late. She drew in a deep breath and stepped up to the church doors, praying to its god that it was open. She should have checked its closing times. A silly oversight on her part. It had to be open. She did not think that she could force herself to make this trip again.

Saya drew in another breath. She reached up to the wrought iron door handles and pushed hard against the large wooden doors. They yielded to her, opening smoothly and quietly. This small success did little to make Saya feel any better. She moved through the church foyer and stepped quietly into the cool, vaulted hall that was the heart of the church. The place was dimly lit by candles and small electric lights in brackets, set on the stone pillars that marked the central rectangle of pews. As she moved she held her breath, wondering if there was anyone there. Someone who would tell her to leave. Part of her hoped that there would be. But no one stirred.

Saya had never been inside the church so it took her some time to figure out which way led up. After exploring many of the building’s nooks and alcoves she found a staircase that led to the bell tower. That seemed like a good start. She crept up the steps, hesitant to make a sound, worried someone might find her and tell her off – how she hated to be told off! –  until she reached the space where, traditionally, bell ringers would stand and pull at the ropes, calling people to worship. But there were no ropes now. The church had changed with the times and now the bells were on a timer. This break with tradition mattered little to Saya. What did matter was the fact that a staircase had been installed in this bell ringers chamber so that maintenance could be administered with ease.

Saya took her first step into the tower tentatively. It felt colder here than it did outside. In an effort to combat her misgivings and the cold she ran up the flight of stairs to a platform at the top. This platform gave access to the mechanics of the bells and to one of four, glassless, arched windows. Here, Saya paused. Looking around, she realised that there was only one way up to the spire. She did not hesitate to take it. Lifting herself up onto a window ledge and reaching for to the top edge of the window with some difficulty, she swung herself out of the arched opening, back first, to take a lay of the land. Above her, the tiling of the tower roof jutted out just far enough for her to grab a hold of it if standing on tip toes. Saya did the maths, nodded to herself, and jumped down from her perch back into the tower. She took off her coat, her shoes and her socks and then pulled herself back onto the ledge. Shutting her mind to thoughts of loose tiles and other disasters, Saya made the grab for the roof and hoisted herself upwards in one fluid motion. She managed to get her torso clear of the roof edge with ease and followed the movement with a neat kick of the right leg, managing to anchor it up on the tiling using her toes. With one leg in place, Saya pushed herself up with her foot and reached for a more secure handhold. What followed was a desperate scramble upwards, ending far less elegantly than it began.

Saya stopped just beneath the metal cross at the spire top, breathing heavily and feeling incredibly thankful for ballet. It took her a moment to catch her breath before what she had done and where she was truly sank in. Slowly, she turned her gaze upwards. Her eyes travelled up the cross. Part of her was expecting, after all this effort, to see nothing on top of the spire at all. But sure enough, there he was, standing as he always had, for as long as she could remember. His black cloak covered all but his pale face, which was turned towards her.

Saya was mute. She studied that face. It was gaunt. Cheekbones, sharp and defined, threw dark shadows over the white skin beneath them but even so, Saya could tell that she had never seen such skin. Despite the distance between them she could see how thin and delicate it was, almost like the shell of a dove’s egg. She wanted to touch it but knew that if she were close enough she wouldn’t dare for fear of it breaking beneath her fingertips. She could see it in her mind’s eye. His face crumbling away as she reached out for him. The image sank heavily until it settled, uncomfortably, in her stomach like a dread. She shuddered and her gaze shifted, her eyes meeting his. In the dark she could not tell what colour those eyes were. They glittered coldly as they took her in and as she sat there she felt as though she were being drawn close, absorbed, considered and subsequently let go and forgotten. She opened and closed her mouth, trying to find words.

‘Why are you here?’ she eventually croaked out. At the sound of her voice the man appeared to waken. He broke eye contact and turned his gaze out, to the town that sprawled below them, and to the dark landscape beyond its lit confines.

‘Why are you here?’

He did not answer.

‘Why?’ Saya asked again and, testing her courage she stood up. Even at her full height her head only just reached his knees. She strained her neck, looking up, trying to find his face again. She could not see it. Where was he? He was there but he wasn’t and yet because he was there she was there. She needed to know why. She needed to understand why.

‘Why!’ she cried out. Her voice pierced the cold air and he turned his face (that was not there) to her again and she knew why. It was obvious really. He was there for exactly the same reason she was.

‘You’re not for me,’ she whispered and she began to cry.

At that moment the man on the spire stepped out into the empty air before him and began to float, slowly, like a soft snowflake, down to the ground.

Saya slid down, bumping and grating, to the edge of the tower roof and watched him descend. When he reached the ground below he appeared at first to be only a dark dot that Saya struggled to see through her tears. Slowly, however, he came into focus. It was as though Saya’s eyes had managed to zoom in on him, indeed they had, for gradually she found that she could see the smooth white skin, pulled tight, over his sharp and angular face. She could see his dark eyes, strangely void of colour, and the eyelashes that framed them. His breath unfurled before him in elegant curls of condensation. He was beautiful. He looked up at Saya. He locked her in that absorbing gaze for a moment and then his eyes softened, let her go, and she felt as though she were being forgotten by him, and by all the world. And she was.

The man from the spire turned and walked away. Saya tried to call out to him but she had no voice. He was beginning to fade from sight. Desperately, Saya clambered up the roof again, reached the spire top, hoisted herself up onto the cross and balanced on its point, looking out into the darkness, watching the man as he walked away, from the best vantage point there was. And she forgot too. About everything. All the world. But not the man. Never the man.

*

Years pass. The town changes slowly, imperceptibly. People die and others are born to replace them. The seasons are the same as ever. The girl on the spire watches it all, searching.

‘Why are you here?’ a strangled voice whispers to her from below. The girl on the spire turns her fragile face to the speaker. A boy. No more than sixteen. His presence stirs a distant recognition within the girl but she quickly loses interest. He is not for her. She steps off the spire and is released.