A beautiful story

A heavy chalk rain falls from a slate gray sky. I can see it run down the roof of St. Anns and gutter out onto the churchyard below. It drops, flows and gathers and will eventually spill out over the steps of the front gate. Behind the white Fatima grotto the empty cider bottles fill with water and their Heineken can headstones begin to bob. This is any small town in Ireland on the first Sunday of Advent.

Inside the church the congregation quietly doze through the ending of their religious obligations:

"Dying he Destroyed our Death. Rising he Restored our Life."

However there are sudden movements from a heavy gray overcoat in the central aisle. A small elderly man bustles his way to the end of his pew and mutters out a path down to the backdoor and out through the backdoor crowd.

Tis gone Tis out. Forgive me Father risin. Hands. Like hot hands pressin right over left. Tidn't long I have now Tidn't long at tall.

St Anns St Judes.

Eyes to the ground lads. Eyes down ta where ye'll all end up.

The door. The latch. The light.

Cars in the car park like sittin cows. Down the narrow street past the narrow whore's door. The bank the root of all evil boi. Them women in the window are watchin me.
I see the top, tis, tis there, and tis there still

St Anns St Judes.

Tis only one step up the steps.

Tarts. Tarts. Tarts. Tarts.

"Thank god for the day."

Tarts. Tarts. Tarts. Tarts.

"Blessin a God."

The Latch. The door. The light.

Inside the Church of St Judes the priest stands open-armed and beams down on the congregation his start of mass smile.

"Welcome to the celebration of the first Sunday of Advent."

The rain hails directly down into the alcove of the main entrance. I can now make out the zigzag pattern of the Norman facade in its wet relief. The heavy wooden doors glisten and twinkle in the background. In the foreground stand two bright anoraks under two black umbrellas.

"Well. Well how are ya Mrs. Fitzgerald?"

"Well How are things Mrs. Lynch."

"Oh the weather's a fright it has me late for mass."

"Oh it'll rain all day and the wind would go through ya like a dose of salts."

"Oh tis true for ya. Oh it's himself."

"Who? Who's that now?"

"There. Bobbin up the steps like a bird."

"Where?"

"Wick. The P.P."

"Oh there. The P.P. Oh you're some one!"

"Morning Wick, how are things?"

"Morning Wick, how are ya?"

"Thank God for the day."

"Yeah. Thanks God. Except for the rain."

"Yeah, Except for the wind and all the rain."

"Blessin a god"

Four eyes follow the gray overcoat's entrance into the church and then slowly return in symmetry to greet the others gaze.

"The likes of him givin us his blessin like he was da Pope!"

"Like he was the P.P."

"Goin around like a tramp. Still. Ya know he goes to every mass of a morning. Leaves the one early to get to the other. Runnin from the friary to St Anns to St Judes to St Marys. Runnin like he was trying to catch a bus."

"Catch a lift."

"Oh and catch it he will. And he'll be there before the rest of us you mark my words."

"Oh he will. Like what Peggy Dunphy said, collectin for St Vincent De Paul outside the pearly gates."

Inside the front door of St Judes the holy water font stands in its twilight gothic gloom. The ceiling arcs into the transept but the nave disappoints with a squat flat roof of modern work. Perhaps this alteration was a necessary part of restoration or reinforcement? Perhaps not? A dark figure enters.

Cold floor. Cold walls around. Cold water like muck glass. Three, Four, Five fingers like sausages at the bottom. Cold. Cold. Hold. Up and in my eye Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Clean now. Clean. Clean the neck. Clean Brother. Fresh water. What do we do with the dirty Boys?

"Poor Tatty Bourke with his backside comin out of his trousers and never a mark on his skin."

"Scrub them Brother we scrub them."

"It makes my blood boil to see the slot. Ignorant slot."

"We scrub them Brother. We scrub them."

In. In. Crowded cow house. Oh whist.

At the top of the altar the priest stands with open-armed smile:

"Welcome to the celebration of the first Sunday of advent."

The congregation settles down to making mental notes of the remembered lives of those around them.

A small boy sits between his parents and leans forward to catch his father's vacant eye.

"Dad"

"hym"

"Dad"

"Yeah"

"That's Wick, Dad"

"Tis"

"At the back Dad, in the coat, that's Wick."

"Tis son."

"I know why they call him dat, it's..."

"He's burnt out son. They call him that cos he's burnt out like a candle."

"Will ye shush the pair of ye. I can hear ye from the top of the altar. And you. You're worse than him. They call him that cos he lights all the candles in the church and then waits for them to go out. And then lights them all again. He's cracked."

"They call him Wick cos he's a Prick!"

"What did you say!!"

"Amen"

The crowd rises to its feet. A foot above the rest of the congregation stands a tall young man. His lowered head and sunken shoulders confirm the musings of his betters. T'is a pity he didn't finish being a priest.

Tellos. Tellus all now Father. Steam rising of the people. The cooling warmth of a cow house. Dad can barely get of the bench, Grand Dad. My Grand Dad Diddy. Mam's Grand. Sprightly. Smiley. Cabbage again for Sunday dinner. There's Wick. There's some cabbage. Listen open mouth to every word he says like he could pierce the mystery like a finger through a rotten apple. The student's meager input into the duet with the master. That old women has been saying the rosary since she came in. Popping souls into God's safety deposit box.

"Amen"

"Let us go in Peace to love and serve the Lord."

A slow funeral march begins as people leave the church in unsure ceremony. The floor beneath has been more worn away by the passage of the congregation than the passage of time. A foot of a statue has been worn away from years of devout rubbing. Behind the altar the priest begins to disrobe from his garments of office.

He is a middle-aged man of a heavy ruddy complexion, the complexion of a medieval friar. Behind him stands an altar boy that reminds me of me.

"You see James the possessed are easily recognised in the house of God due to the filthy and vulgar outbursts the Devil compels them to utter. I will not repeat these for you James but I am sure you can guess at their Lurid content. Can You?"

"Yeah Father."

"Oh. Oh suddenly there came a tapping. As if some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Tis Wick and no one more."

"Father. Sorry Father. I've come for the money, my money I get for the things I do, around the place like. Father."

"Wick, come in, come in. I was telling one of our servers about the evil doings of the Father of lies."

"Yes Father"

"Wick. You know that you always put your wage in the moneybox for the candles?"

"Yes Father, Sometimes, yes Father, Yes, Yes I do"

"Well I put the money in there this morning for you already. So it will save you the trouble of putting it in."

"Thank you Father. I'll get the broom."

"That's Wick Father. He lights all the candles in the church. Ya can never light a candle."

"Ask him James. When he comes through again you can ask him."

"Ah no Father."

"Sorry Wick."

"Yes Father."

"James was wondering why you lit all the candles in the church instead of just the one. Like James would like to do. For his sins."

"I see her face Father. I see her face in the flame. I see her and then she goes. I see her face glow in the flames Father, the face you remember and then she goes."

"Yes Wick. She has a face you remember. Our Blessed virgin Mother. There she is on the side altar, lit by those candles, candles that you may have lit yourself Wick. You keep her lit Wick."

"Yes Father. Virgin Most Pure. Her face I can remember in the candle, before our lady, before her, the face you remember from before, blessed mother, my own mother's face, then she goes and I light another."

"Yes. Yes Wick. A beautiful story."

Biography

I'm a 28th year old theology graduate
from Tipperary now living in Dublin who
hopes one day to tell people he can write.