Featured in The Copper Press, 23 October, 2159 A.M.

The town of Bellweather prided itself on three things: its annual Mask Parade, a bell tower that rang in several wrong keys at once, and the diminutive Chapel of Gabouray, Angel of Frivolity. Within that chapel Father Émile Roussel presided, a cleric whose vestments sparkled with confetti thread and whose homilies were half stand-up routine, half blessing. He taught that mirth is medicine, that the world’s scars ache less beneath a feather’s touch. Pilgrims came for permission to be silly in a century grown stern.

Émile adored his post. He brewed citrus wine for feast days, ran juggling lessons for orphans, and convinced the town council to paint the chapel’s exterior in sunburst stripes. When skeptics asked why a divine house should resemble a carnival tent, he quoted Gabouray’s canonical jest: “A straight face is just a mask too shy to dance.”

One spring, Bellweather’s tranquility shattered on the Lion’s Road—a mountain pass linking trade routes to the interior. A landslide crushed caravans, blocking supply lines and trapping survivors on perilous ledges. The mayor pleaded for able-bodied volunteers to scale the pass and bring aid.

Émile attended the emergency assembly clad in violet trousers and sunflower-yellow boots. His suggestion—“Send clowns to cheer the trapped!”—met stone silence. The blacksmith snapped, “We need rope and courage, not jokes.” Émile laughed it off, but the words lodged like splinters.

That night, unable to sleep, he paced the nave. Every candle flickered in drafts he could not feel. When he approached Gabouray’s idol—a porcelain mask smiling with painted dimples—its eyes seemed duller, almost reproachful.

At midnight a tremor shook the bell tower. Bells pealed discordant, resolving into a single clear chord Émile had never heard. In that tone he sensed a presence—resolute, vibrant, utterly unlike Gabouray’s airy hum. A second ringing followed, lower, firmer, and words magnified within Émile’s ribcage: “Laughter comforts. Courage saves.”

He staggered, clutching pew rail. Visions burst: a lion carved of sunrise light bounding up the pass, stone tumbling aside; caravanners lifted from ledges by wings of molten bronze. The emblem that crowned it all was Jasiri, Archangel of Courage.

When dawn broke, Émile found the porcelain idol cracked down the center. The painted grin remained, but one half had slipped askew, exposing unpainted clay—like mirth peeled away to reveal unfinished resolve.

Émile debated confessing the vision, but feared parroting the blacksmith’s accusation. Instead he packed a satchel: rope, medical tinctures, flares, and—out of habit—his collapsible juggling batons. At sunrise he joined the rescue party. Some sneered; others shrugged. A cleric’s magic would at least mend bones.

The ascent proved brutal. Snowmelt turned shale to ooze, and fissures belched Shard-tainted vapors that numbed limbs. Midway, a second slide loosed boulders. Panic spread. Émile’s healing spells staunched wounds, but fear continued to gnaw.

When morale teetered, Gabouray’s teachings nudged Émile: lighten hearts. He juggled batons, cracking jokes about mountains needing better manners. Laughter returned—yet progress stalled each time the slope howled. Jests alone could not haul tons of rock.

Near the summit, rescuers spied survivors: twenty traders huddled on a jutting spur, road gone, only sheer drop. A single pine bent overhead like a bridge too frail. Attempts to throw ropes failed; winds shredded lines.

Émile’s turning point arrived when a child on the ledge began singing—soft, scared, a lullaby about lions guarding sleepers. The melody matched the chord he’d heard in the chapel. His heart pounded with Jasiri’s earlier message.

He anchored a rope to the bent pine, tested its give. The blacksmith grabbed his arm: “Fool, that branch will break.” Émile answered, voice steady: “Then let it break under purpose, not doubt.” He crossed hand over hand. The branch groaned but held.

On the spur, he passed out flares and coordinated a human chain. Courage spread—contagious. One by one, traders traversed the makeshift lifeline. Mid-evacuation, the pine trunk splintered. Émile shoved the last child onto stable ground as the branch snapped, sending him swinging into open air, rope burning palms. Jasiri’s name burst from his lips—not as plea, but declaration. A gust caught the rope, slamming him against cliff. Ribs cracked, but the crew hauled him up.

Weeks later Bellweather rang with celebration. The mayor praised everyone—but singled out Father Émile’s bravery. Yet Émile’s smile was subdued; frivolity no longer felt like full truth.

He convened his congregation beneath the cracked mask idol. With trembling hands he removed it, revealing bare wall. Gasps echoed. “Gabouray taught us to laugh,” he said, “and laughter will always live in this chapel. But I have seen peril laughter alone cannot lift. I have heard Jasiri’s bell.”

Some wept; others protested apostasy. Émile knelt, offering the broken idol to the altar steps—not discarded, merely set aside. He unveiled a new symbol: a small bronze sunburst he’d forged from melted juggling batons. It gleamed like dawn through fog.

When he struck the chapel bells that evening, their chaotic resonance resolved into a strong, steady triad—notes of courage grounded by a playful overtone. Two virtues now harmonised.

The next Mask Parade arrived. Father Émile marched at its head, robe half-patterned in Gabouray’s festive hues, half in Jasiri’s sunrise gold. Masks still danced, but now floats depicted lions alongside jesters. Children juggled while balancing on beams—celebrating frivolity fused with daring.

Bellweather learned: mirth cushions hearts, courage moves feet. And Émile found that a cleric’s calling can evolve without betraying roots—laughter seasoning valor, valor giving laughter weight.

At twilight, Émile climbed the bell tower alone. He struck the tuning fork—now reforged into a forked scepter topped by a lion’s grin. The clear chord that rang out carried over hillside, assuring distant travelers that Bellweather’s chapel could still make them laugh—and now, should peril strike, help them stand.