CHAPTER 6
Hell’s Deepest Pit; and The Apprentice Self-Reliants
During the May holidays Father O’Long would organise a sort-of bushland “back to nature” camping retreat somewhere. Initially these expeditions were aimed at boys who for one reason or another were unable to return home for the break, but so popular did they become that boarders from closer in often chose to join them as well, rather than return home immediately the holidays commenced – pupils the likes of Kevin Cassidy, for instance. As a result Father began holding a second event later in the year, believing that we should all have the chance of attending at least one of these “retreats” during our stay at Gower Abbey College. They were times of special freedom, too, as save for immediate camp duties we had no responsibilities whatever.
Swimming was our most popular form of recreation so we’d usually go farther up the valley to somewhere near an abundance of deep water. But the occasion wasn’t exclusively for swimming. There were also bushwalking and orienteering excursions, plus rock climbing and abseiling.
At least once during these events (usually after the dinner things had been dealt with), Father would take the opportunity to instruct us in matters both spiritual and temporal – along with certain other things he thought Boys Aught to Know.
“Every drop you spill, boys, is worth a pint of your sacred blood!” I remember him thundering the first time I joined his little band – the post-barbequrial campfire reflecting from his righteous eyes like the shining light of Holy Indignation.
“Never forget!” he’d roared, clearing the immediate area of all nocturnal wildlife, “Your body is a sacred temple! ...And let me just remind you that I’ll flay the hide off any boys I find have been at it!”
The knocking of thin bony knees was like a bamboo thicket in the wind, I remember, and, like the southern aurora, the misty dusk was aglow with the barely post-pubescent Junior boys’ blushing cheeks and ears.
Indeed it wasn’t until reaching the hallowed levels of the Seniors and being appointed School Prefect that Father confided to me how, on that particular occasion, he’d actually been referring to his rapidly disappearing, specially imported Chivas Regal whisky. Apparently certain boys had taken to sampling it, having at some time during a metalworking class fashioned themselves keys to both his well appointed quarters and his well appointed liquor cabinet.)
“Boys who abuse the Temple of the Lord,” he’d continued, his voice booming into the darkness, “will find themselves cast into Hell’s Deepest Pit!”
In confirmation of this the earth began to tremble, then suddenly it was torn asunder and Father disappeared from sight in a boiling cloud of dust.
It is only fair to say here that even the Senior boys were impressed. They’d often scoff at our belief in Father O’Long’s powers, but to us Juniors they were common knowledge. Occasionally, after lights-out in the dorm, we’d huddle together and recount occasions when he’d let something slip, such as reading someone’s mind or using his x-ray vision. And his ability to detect a single molecule of cigarette smoke anywhere in the school compound was legendary and held in great respect. This was only demonstrated at the beginning of a school year, however, when there was an influx of new boys, as we had long since given the idea away.
So here then was a demonstration his power, undisguised and climactic. As the dust settled and the moon came out from behind the clouds a great pit was revealed to us, blasted from the firmament to illustrate the certain miserable nature of our collective fates. And as we awaited Father’s rematerialising from the remaining wisps of dust a great silence descended on us.
After a time some of the Senior boys moved cautiously to the edge of the pit and shone their torches into the dusty void. And there, slowly coming into view some six metres down and sitting atop a pile of rubble and old mine-timbers – the roof of some long-forgotten workings on which he happened to be standing at the moment of its collapse – was the ghostly figure of Father O’Long.
Duffy was the first to find his voice. “Erm … Father?” he ventured hesitantly, “…Are you all right?”
“Yes Brendan thank you yes,” came the shaky reply. “But I did for a moment think the Devil himself had taken me!”
We quickly spread out around the perimeter of the pit and Father became illuminated by the concentrated beams from our circle of torches. “Boys! Boys! You must all keep away from the edge in case more falls in,” he shouted up to us, at the same time trying to shield his eyes from the glare. Again he was plunged into darkness.
Being apprentice self-reliants we lowered him a torch and a container of water on a fishing line and then threw down his bedding. Next morning we retrieved him via an improvised windlass and a rope fashioned from some of the boys’ more savoury bed linen.
And it surprised us to find that after experiencing such a rough and rapid descent into the underworld Father was far from being out of sorts. In fact, despite his thoroughly bruised and tattered appearance (for which every boy present had at some time or other dreamt of being personally responsible), he was in an amazingly buoyant frame of mind.
“The Lord in His infinite wisdom be praised,” he exclaimed after spitting out a few lingering fragments of chipped teeth, “what a wonderful site for a boys’ school! Why, these caverns would make some of the finest wine cellars in all Christendom! Now then boys, gather round and I’ll...” he said as he slowly subsided to the ground – the probable result, we later learned, of delayed shock, concussion, and the fact he’d remained awake all night in case of further rock falls.
After making a stretcher from vines and saplings we took it in turns to carry him the three kilometres out of the bush to where the school ute was parked. A couple of stops were needed along the way – to reconstruct the stretcher mostly or to replace our feebly protesting patient. Once at the car the various farming tools and things Father invariably gathered in his travels about the parish were thrown out then we slid both him and the remains of the third litter-construct into its rear.
Two Senior boys we called Solvol and Race were the ones with the most driving experience so it was they who delivered Father back to Mrs Finnegan and the bosom of her ample care (or is it the ample bosom of her care?) ...not to mention her legendary chicken broth, rumoured to cure every human ailment known to medical science.
Once they were on their way the rest of us retrieved what was left of our bedding and equipment and started back to the school. Our walk would have been much longer, too, had we not found Angus Cross on his ramshackle little property. He was good enough to offer us a ride home on his old Chev’ Blitz-truck.
…After we’d first mended the flat tyre, that is.
And fixed the starter-motor.
Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles Page 10
