*
Old Canon Hanrahan took to his bed, declaring himself unfit to continue
with his duties once Father Patrick had arrived. He had another headache.
Patrick listened to the old man’s complaints, and then picked up where the old
Priest left off, visiting the sick, carrying Communion to the housebound,
counseling those in need, hearing Confession and cooking the old man’s supper.
And to anyone who showed interest, Patrick explained that he would be returning
to Innisfen on Saturday, and would say Mass there on Easter Sunday.
In spite of Canon Hanrahan’s pleas, he did as he said he would, and
boarded the first boat headed that way on Saturday morning. He helped to load
supplies, passengers, and then he took a seat across from Eamonn and Deirdre
Darcy. He sighed with relief to be out from under the old man’s thumb.
Patrick borrowed a bed sheet he had found while the bunch of them had
been wandering through the old dun. His intent was to hear Confession as he
should hear it, with privacy, security and something akin to dignity. He pinned
up the sheet, using a branch on the tree that grew near the foundation of the
old Church. That bird from earlier shared its song with several more. On closer
inspection, Patrick decided that Spring was indeed on its way. The rains were
beginning to reside, and the skies were beginning to clear.
This sheet wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but Enid
Kelly caught on when she arrived. He pushed his spectacles up over his head and
covered his eyes. Enid Kelly crossed herself. “Bless me, Father for I have
sinned,” she said in her usual singsong. She paused. “Father Patrick,” she
said, “I’m thinking. What we spoke about last time.” The Priest began a slow
rock back and forth, praying for the patience and the ability to stay awake
through another one of Enid’s feeble Confessions. “Father Patrick, are you hurting,”
she asked. Of course she could see his shadow through the sheet.
“No, Enid. I’m fine,” he said, straightening up. “I don’t know why we
need to speak about this again.”
“What if we make a…?” she shrugged. “Wouldn’t you be considering that
sinful?”
“Why do you think Himself had put us here? ‘Be fruitful and multiply,’ is
what He said to Eve. Where is it in the Scriptures for Enid Kelly to have a
bairne is to commit a sin?”
“How can I bring a child to this world if I know I can’t take care of it
as I should?”
“Do you think, woman, that this is not your decision, but that of God,
Himself? Why is it you’re insisting that you have any affect on how he conducts
our lives? Do you think maybe you could be committing another sin?”
“Me?”
“You, Enid. Where is it written that any man or woman has the right to
decide what it is that only He can? Enid, your duties as a wife are clear, and
by you denying Brendan because you’re afraid of something only He can control
is wrong. You married the man, allowing him to think that you would act as his
wife.”
“I married him because I was…” she swallowed, reminding him that she had
miscarried shortly after they had exchanged vows.
“Enid,” he cried, rising from his knees, “Go take care of your wifely
duties. And don’t come back until you’re willing to ask forgiveness for this
foolishness.”
In the bright sun, her image rippled as a breeze rippled the sheet. She
made the Sign of the Cross, but didn’t leave. “Father Patrick?” she asked after
a moment.
“What is it, Enid?”
“Will you be granting me Absolution today?”
He swallowed. “The Act of Contrition, please.” She began the well
rehearsed prayer, and with great effort he Crossed himself and began his part
in well rehearsed Latin.
Old Mrs. Keenan slipped into Enid’s place. She knelt and Crossed herself.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…” As much as Patrick did not want to
rehash the argument that woke Killelea Wednesday last, he thanked the Virgin
Mother he had enough to keep him occupied, and maybe he could avoid another
discussion with Enid before the last boat parted for Killelea.
*
This particular crucifix had been used for at least a hundred years. It
had been copied from the one St. Patrick was said to have carried across the
sea when he returned to Erin. The cross was made from wood, so old that it had
cracked and dried with time. Jesus, the pole that held it up in the air for all
to see, and the open circle on the back that connected each arm of the cross
was made of ragged, green patina.
In centuries past, all of Ireland attended Mass outside because their
oppressors had given all religious buildings over to the Protestant church. And
just as the law that forced them to speak only English, they took what was
meant to destroy their ways and turned those impositions into Irish tradition.
During more difficult periods of this century, Old Canon Hanrahan had
posted the Crucifix outside of St. John the Baptist when the British tried to
close the Church again. Through the best of weather, or through the worst,
himself and Father Patrick served Mass on the common outside the Church. In
those days, they used a roughly hewn table made from discarded packing crates
They also built a box to use as a sanctuary, and borrowed tea mugs from the Pub
to use as chalices. They had blessed ordinary bread or sliced potatoes and
poteen or water to be used in the Sacrament. Anything to carry on God’s work to
bring His people His word, and to offer them His Body and Blood. The pair of
them did so successfully until that day when Father Patrick Plunkett was
arrested and incarcerated for harboring fugitives.
Tim Darcy carried the Crucifix and shabby vestments over on the first
boat out of Killelea that morning. Someone had carried the work table down from
the dun to serve as an alter. A cupboard found there would serve as the
sanctuary, and the sheet Father Patrick pinned up for Confession served double
duty as alter linen. He had carried an ancient ceramic chalice over the day
before, and set it into the cupboard. Then he blessed all instruments he
planned to use in spreading God’s word.
The crowd was immense with both the remnants of those who had once
resided on Innisfen, and those who had welcomed them into Killelea when the
British turned them off the Island. Tim Darcy again carried the Crucifix, this
time parting the crowd on this jagged trip between the well and the top of the
hill. Two other lads carried lit candles. Father Patrick blessed the
congregation and sprinkled holy water. A chorus of angelic voices backed by a
single fiddle, reached out to God above with their song of love. Participants
lowered their heads, making the Sign of the Cross. Father Patrick passed before
his makeshift altar and genuflected. As the altar attendants stowed their
charges on the altar, the audience knelt. Father stood and began his opening
prayers.
Mass ended, and Father Patrick genuflected before the altar again. The
altar attendants collected their candles and the Crucifix and led the way
through the crowd, again. Father Patrick paused next to the wall he had helped
to build days earlier, taking what looked to be a moment of silent prayer. He
swallowed and crossed himself, before turning to meet his parishioners.
The celebration began almost immediately after. The women retired to check
the lamb buried the night before beneath a bed of coals. There were no sheep
that anyone had found on Innisfen and few left in Killelea. This was a rare
treat indeed. Not only were they celebrating the Resurrection of the Lord,
Jesus, but the resurrection of Ireland as well, and on their very own island no
less. Musicians warmed up their fiddles, drums, tin whistles and a variety of
horns. Children and dogs darted between adults.
“Father Patrick,” Old Mrs. Keenan, tall, skinny and sour, tugged at his
elbow, dragging him into the center of all of this. “You’ve got to put an end
to this now, before they’re all too drunk.”
“Put an end to what?” He stepped back as Robert Darcy and Jackie Corrigan
circled him.
She tugged. “That bunch from the docks in Killelea is here, and they
brought their brew with ‘em. You have to make them go. The good people of this
community need not be brushing shoulders with the lot of ‘em.”
“And Jesus Himself was spending His time with tax collectors and
prostitutes. How can I be saying who is welcome and who isn’t?”
“Canon Hanrahan would.”
“You should have stayed in Killelea and heard his Mass.” Father Patrick
loosened the old woman’s grip and made his way further into the mêlée.
*
Liam laughed aloud at Old Lady Keenan’s expression. He could feel
Bridey’s presence, although the crowd made it hard to find her. When he did,
she smiled in her old way, and hurried to his side. “Maureen is in the family
way again,” she told him.
