by John Watt
‘On another level, but no less important, the parish school needs equipment of all sorts. We should be in a position to spend money, not have to worry about repaying money we spent years ago. And there is the church window fund. As you know it was set up four years ago to raise money for proper church windows: stained glass, with angels and saints. I have imagined the raising of Lazarus for one. It would shame me and shame all of us if I explained how little progress that fund has made.
‘The work of God is built on the work of men.’ Father Kevin pauses, looks around the congregation, and repeats the sentence: ‘The work of God is built on the work of men.’ To Thomas’s ear there’s a note of satisfaction in the repetition. With some justification too; it is a nicely turned sentence. He must remember to jot it down for future use.
The priest resumes, ‘All of this would be understandable if you were living in want. But this is far from the truth. Almost all of the breadwinners among you are in regular work. You live in houses of your own, however modest. Many of you drive cars. You go to beaches and football matches. How many of you men would there be who never enjoy a glass of beer or a smoke, or put a few shillings on a horse, or buy a magazine? There is no sin in any of these necessarily, of course. Provided the magazine is a decent one, which I am obliged to point out some magazines are not, in these decadent times that we live in. But if you are spending money on your personal pleasures that you owe to the work of God and his holy Church, you are, my dear brethren, putting your immortal souls in mortal danger.’ He pauses again, allowing time for that last phrase to have its proper impact, and repeats: ‘immortal souls in mortal danger.’
He turns and disappears down the pulpit steps, to reappear striding towards the centre of the sanctuary, genuflecting, mounting the two steps to the level of the altar, resuming the familiar Latin ritual.
Thomas is impressed. A fine performance. A particularly striking conclusion. He must make a note of that last phrase: ‘immortal souls in mortal danger’. He imagines himself making good use of it.
*
Thomas enters the presbytery dining-room, a cramped corner off the equally cramped kitchen, with a chrome-legged table topped with red Laminex. Father Kevin looks up from his late breakfast.
‘Look at that, m’boy. Another pair of rubber eggs.’ He holds one up impaled whole on his fork. ‘As God is my witness, you could play tennis with this one. How do they do it? The cooks in hell must all be nuns, without a shadow of doubt. That shouldn’t trouble you and me though. We’re getting our eternal punishment here.’ He bites off a large mouthful and returns the rest to his plate to paddle it in a pool of Worcestershire sauce.
With the mouthful of egg obstructing speech for the moment he looks up again at the younger man, his narrow head tilted to one side as he chews, swallows, and grins lopsidedly.
‘And what did you think of the sermon? A devil of a lot of time and thought went into that, I don’t mind telling you. Should put enough of the fear of God into them to top up the coffers a bit, don’t you think? I wouldn’t mind buying one of those Holdens, the new model. Supposed to have plenty of go in them. The old Austin’s hardly got the power to pull a Christmas cracker.’
Thomas looks down at his feet for a moment. The new Holden. Yes, he’s seen them.
Father Kevin nods, forks the rest of his first egg into his narrow mouth. One cheek bulges. The jaws move steadily.
Thomas watches, turns to go, hesitates, turns back and finally, speaks.
‘I really came in to talk about something.’
The older man gulps down the large mouthful.
‘Well then, sit down, m’boy. There’s nothing so serious that you have to stand up to talk about it. What’s on your mind?’
‘At that nine o’clock Mass, I was behind the Regans.’
‘Of course you were. I saw you. What about it?’
‘I couldn’t help seeing, you know, hearing. Mrs Regan, she was rattling through the rosary most of the time. Hardly stopped. She paid no attention at all to the Mass. And Mr Regan, he was asleep far longer than he was awake.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ Father Kevin has some difficulty forcing the question through another mouthful of egg. He chews vigorously, then swallows.
‘You’ve got something against people saying the rosary? I remember what it was like in Ireland in the old days, thirty years ago or so. Especially out in the countryside. Most of the women used to say the rosary right through the Mass. Never faltered. Fast as they could go. Sometimes you couldn’t hear yourself think for women muttering the Hail Marys. Wonderful piety in the old country. Did them a power of good, I’m sure.
‘What else was worrying you? That’s right. Brendan Regan dropping off all the time. You mustn’t blame Brendan. I think I told you he’s a barman down at the Shamrock. Finishes up late every night except Sundays. But he’s up at five most mornings helping Brian O’Halloran with the training. Brian’s got three or four horses running. Brendan works like a dog to feed that tribe of kids. No wonder he needs his sleep. He’s a good man for a tip on the gallopers by the way, if you’re interested. I should have mentioned it. Falling down on my responsibilities.’
Thomas hesitates. ‘Yes, but … people like that. Most of them I suppose. They can’t follow the Latin. There’s nothing for them to do. You see, I suppose I’m starting to wonder why we stick with it, the Latin I mean. Maybe it would make sense to do it all in English. Then everyone could—what’s the word—participate.’
Father Kevin looks hard at him, fork poised in front of his mouth with the last chunk of generously sauced egg lodged precariously on it.
‘Participate!’ He lowers the fork to the plate and sits back. Thomas feels uncomfortable under his gaze, and looks down at the floor, rubbing his hands together between his knees.
‘Where are you getting these ideas from, m’boy? You should know better than I do what the Church teaches about this. The Mass isn’t a social occasion, it’s a sacrament. The priest celebrates it, the laity attend. You don’t need me to tell you all this. And the Latin keeps up the tradition, holds everything steady, the way it’s always been. People like the Regans, they don’t have to understand it all. Better in a way if they don’t. It keeps them in mind of the mystery and magic.’ He looks obliquely at Thomas and grins slyly. ‘And the fact that they need the priest to work the magic for them.
‘So you noticed that Brendan Regan slept most of the time. He does it every Sunday. It doesn’t really matter, or it wouldn’t if he stopped letting out those terrible loud snorts. He’s there, that’s all that’s needed from him. If he was awake there wouldn’t be anything much for him to do. We do it for him. Or I do, and you will when you’re given the powers.
‘You worry me, boy. These are Protestant ideas you’re playing with. Those Protestant pastors, I’m told you can see them after their services socialising with people, shaking hands and asking after the health of everyone’s aunties and grandmas. Handing cups of tea around. Ridiculous. They wouldn’t know what a sacrament was if one came up and bit them on the backside. But you—you should know better. What do they teach you young fellows in the seminary these days?’
Thomas looks down at his feet again, feeling awkward. ‘It’s not the seminary. It’s just that …’ He pauses, unsure how to go on.
Father Kevin doesn’t wait.
‘We’ll say no more about it then. And I won’t mention it to the archbishop. Anyway this stuff is too serious to talk about after Mass on a Sunday morning. What do you reckon on doing between now and Benediction? A young fellow like you should be looking for a bit of healthy exercise, not tormenting himself and his elders with questions that better men than either of us settled centuries ago. They have those tennis courts over at the Brothers’ school. You play, I suppose? So do some of them. It’ll do you a power of good. Blow away the cobwebs. Take the Austin after lunch. It should make the distance. You’ll never get a bus on a Sunday afternoon.’
7
; The Feast of Saint Bibiana
Thomas sits back in the deep leather chair. He closes his eyes and focuses on relaxing his muscles, one body part at a time, consciously attending to the sensations in his toes, ankles, calves, stomach, shoulders, neck. Like everything, he is finding, it gets easier with a little practice.
Macpherson watches approvingly.
‘I see that you’ve been working on the skill of relaxation. I imagine that the sights and sounds of the plane crash have been coming back to you at times over the week. It must be disturbing when they do. Inevitably. Have you found the relaxation exercise useful to keep your reactions under control?’
Thomas opens his eyes to respond.
‘Yes, but there’s something else. I’m not sure how this might sound, to you I mean.’ He feels the muscles of his neck and shoulders begin to tighten.
‘We won’t worry about how it might sound to me. Try to relax again and tell me about it.’
‘It was at the cemetery last Wednesday. A funeral. I went with the parish priest. Beside the new grave, suddenly it all came back. You know, the horror, the torn pieces of body and the smashed heads. The roaring flames, and the screaming. The hideous screaming was worst of all. I felt as if it was tearing something apart inside my head.’
He pauses, shakes his head as if to shake some of the horror loose.
‘And I looked around to focus on something else—you know, anything different from what I was seeing and hearing in my head. There was a tombstone there. And written on it were the words, Sleeping Peacefully. It seemed to help. Just looking at the words, and imagining those people sleeping peacefully. I felt more peaceful myself.’
‘That’s interesting. As far as I can see you are managing those traumatic memories well. Perhaps we could go on with our strategy. I see that you’ve brought the book. Who is our saint for the day? The second of December, if I can trust my notes from last week.’
Thomas leafs through the pages. ‘December the Second. The Feast of Saint Bibiana, virgin and martyr. 363A. D.’
‘Well, now. Saint Bibiana. Another stranger to me. And an ancient one. Let’s hear about her. Remember to be alert for any memory that comes to mind from the last time you read her story.’
Thomas sits back with his book and begins.
We are informed by Ammianus Marcellinus, a pagan historian of that age, and an officer in the court of Julian the Apostate, that this emperor made Apronianus governor of Rome in the year 363, who, while on his way to that city, had the misfortune to lose an eye. This accident he superstitiously imputed to the power of magic, through the malice of some who excelled in that art; and, in this foolish persuasion, to gratify his spleen and superstition, he resolved to punish and exterminate the magicians; in which accusation Christians were involved above all others, on account of many wonderful miracles which were wrought in the primitive ages. Under this magistrate, Saint Bibiana received the crown of martyrdom.
This holy virgin was a native of Rome, and daughter to Flavian, a Roman knight, and his wife Dafrosa, who were both zealous Christians. Flavian was apprehended, deprived of a considerable post which he held in the city, burned in the face with a hot iron, and banished to Acquapendente, then called Aquae Taurinae, where he died of his wounds, a few days after. Dafrosa, by order of Apronianus, who had thus treated her husband for his constancy in his faith, was, on the same account, confined to her house for some time; and, at length, carried out of the gates of the city, and beheaded.
Bibiana and her sister Demetria, after the death of their holy parents, were stripped of all they had in the world, and suffered much from poverty for five months, but spent that time in their own house in fasting and prayer. Apronianus had flattered himself that hunger and want would bring them to a compliance; but, seeing himself mistaken, summoned them to appear before him.
Demetria, having made a generous confession of her faith, fell down and expired at the foot of the tribunal, in the presence of the judge. Apronianus gave orders that Bibiana should be put into the hands of a wicked woman named Rufina, who was extremely artful, and undertook to bring her to another way of thinking. That agent of hell, employed all the allurements she could invent; which were afterwards succeeded by blows: but Bibiana, making prayer her shield, was invincible.
Apronianus, enraged at the courage and perseverance of a tender virgin, at length passed sentence upon her, and ordered her to be tied to a pillar, and whipped with scourges loaded with leaden plummets till she expired. The saint underwent this punishment cheerfully, and died in the hands of the executioners. Her body was left in the open air, that it might be a prey to beasts; but, having lain exposed for two days, was buried in the night, near the place of Licinius, by a holy priest called John.
Thomas shuts the book, puts it aside and looks up to find Macpherson’s eyes on him.
‘That’s not a long story, but it’s certainly a remarkable one in some ways. We’ll return to that later. For the moment there are more pressing matters. When you last closed the book on that story, where were you? Or rather, where are you? What is happening around you?’
Thomas closes his eyes. Images and sensations start to float into his consciousness. He is putting the book down on fine white sand. Looking over his shoulder he finds that he is sitting at the foot of a high dune, with his back against the steep slope. The surface of the sand has been warmed by the increasing heat of the morning, but when he pushes that layer aside there is a pleasant coolness against his back. With any slight movement, small runnels of sand slide down the slope. He picks up the book again to return it to the rucksack that is resting beside him, and takes out a water bottle for a drink. It has an unpleasant, muddy taste. The bottles had been filled from a small creek running through a low-lying area. The water was brownish, like weak tea, and smelled of mud and decaying leaves. Tiny fish darted away for shelter in tangles of fallen leaves and branches as he dipped the bottles into one of the deeper pools.
From the other side of the dunes, Thomas can hear the soft thunder of waves breaking on a beach. The sound has been creeping gradually nearer through the morning’s trek towards the coast. Before him is the stretch of country across which they have struggled to find a way: an expanse of fairly flat land densely covered with scrub, mostly about eight or ten feet high.
At this distance the scrub is a uniform dull grey-green. Seen close up most of the shrubs have small leaves and tiny white flowers. When a branch was shaken as he passed, a shower of delicate petals drifted down and settled on his shoulders. Here and there are bushes with bigger leaves and bright red bottle-brush flowers that stand stiffly upright. Away in the background is the higher ground from which they have come: a line of hills that stand up steeply out of the low flat land between. The hills are crowded with towering trees: massive, smooth trunks with high branches that he sees, from this distance, as arms reaching up, dividing into clumps of leaves like thickened fingers. And, somewhere among those hills and trees, the shattered remains of a plane, and the scattered burnt remains of its occupants. A small smudge of what looks like smoke among the deeper green tree tops suggests the location.
Macpherson intervenes: ‘And the young woman? Where is she? You have a name for her now I think, according to my notes. Should she be Jane, or Miss Peterson?’
Thomas scans the scene. She is there sitting beside her rucksack, a few yards away along the foot of the dune, leaning back against the steep sand incline. Her eyes are closed. She looks exhausted. Seeing her resting, vulnerable, he thinks of her as Jane.
She has struggled with the walk from the crash site, limping from the pain of her deeply bruised leg, pushing through the scrub. Once a branch had whipped back after Thomas had passed ahead of her, and caught her in the face. He heard her cry out and turning back, realised his carelessness. At the time he said nothing. Perhaps he should have said something, but what?
They have had to detour around patches of swamp, tripping on roots and stumps. She has sometimes fallen too far behind
and had to call to him, ask him to wait.
‘Please. I can’t walk so fast.’ Her pack, with food and water bottles and spare clothes and shoes is too heavy for her. He has had to wait for her to catch up. Several times. When they stopped beside the creek to refill the water bottles he had been anxious to press on promptly, but she wanted to sit with her back against the stem of one of the bigger shrubs and have what she called a proper rest. He had to sit down too, chafing about the loss of time.
It was during that rest stop that she turned to him with a series of questions. They followed each other as if she had been turning them over in her mind for some time. A priest, she said, a Roman Catholic priest would have to stay single, celibate, is that right? He agreed, wondering at the same time why she would want to press him about this. She turned the questions in a much more personal direction. Why would anyone, she began, why would he want to do that? Wouldn’t he want to marry, have a wife and a home of his own? A family? In time, of course. It’s what most people imagine themselves doing.
He found her questions confronting. A kind of invasion. Another Catholic wouldn’t have asked him these questions, would have understood that a priest commits himself not to do what most other people do. What reason would she have for interrogating him like this? He noticed her puzzled expression while she listened to his hesitant attempt at an explanation.
Finally, after that rest by the watercourse, she was ready to move on. But it must have been only half an hour later that she stopped to look at a flower, calling to him to come back to see it. An orchid, she exclaimed. It was nothing special: a spidery thing close to the ground, hardly noticeable. It took much longer than it should have done to get this far, to the beginning of the dunes.
