Hallowed Ground, Page 2

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  When Father Brendan awoke, he lay before the altar, alone. Where Seamus had lain this morning, he thought, and shuddered. Michael the sacristan was absent, though usually he could be found here throughout the day, puttering about making minor repairs, often to things in no need of fixing.

  Father Brendan eased himself upright, not wanting to faint again or fall from a sudden rush of wooziness. His heart was not strong. This morning’s events returned to him, and he knew what must be done. Genuflecting before the altar he whispered, “Thank you, Lord,” and went out into the drab day.

  From the waning light, the young priest gathered it was late afternoon. All the men of Ballyvaughan were at sea fishing, or working their fields in the low hills and scarce flat ground. Busy with chores, women and children paid him no heed as he drew a pail of water from the village pump—the plaque expressed gratitude to a visiting British peer who purchased the system.

  Pail of water in hand, Father Brendan climbed out of the village and into the hills. This time, the trek was not so easy. Between a heavy pail and his earlier exertions, the young priest found himself forced to stop repeatedly as bursts of dizziness overwhelmed him. By the time he reached the small hollow, his breath came short and sharp, like icy pins in his chest.

  All the signs of a recent burial remained: One small rounded mound of loose-packed dirt and a higher pile of good black earth nearby waiting to be spread out. Father Brendan set down his bucket of water near the fresh grave of Seamus Rafferty.

  Slowly, so there might be no mistakes, he spoke the words which transformed ordinary water with a slight metallic taste into holy water, one of the minor sacramentals. Blessing complete, he began to sprinkle holy water over the grave and burial hollow.

  At length, he knelt beside Rafferty’s grave and recited last blessings. He should have insisted this morning, his conscience told him. As a priest his duty was to tend the welfare of his flock, not to coddle their schismatic tradition. Spiritual authority superseded local superstition.

  Then, as a final step, he performed the rite of consecration which would hallow this plot of earth. Though he lacked some elements of the rite—the great cross, the specially-blessed candles—he knew the prayers. “Purify me with hyssop, Lord, and I shall be clean of sin. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Lord God, Father of everlasting glory, solace of the sorrowing, life of the just, glory of the lowly, we humbly importune you to keep this cemetery free from any vileness of unclean spirits, to cleanse and to bless it, and finally to give lasting wholeness to the bodies brought here for burial…”

  When Father Brendan finished the ritual, dusk was creeping over the hills. He stood limp, cassock soaked in sweat, and watched the last orange-peel sliver of sun disappear behind the western ridge of the Burren. To the east, out in the bay, the riot of reds and pinks and oranges drained from the ocean, leaving only wine-dark sea.

  He turned back to the low Burren hills where darkness crawled leechlike down the slopes, turning greens and browns and greys to washed-out monochrome. In Ballyvaughan, the evening Angelus rang.

  Father Brendan’s attention shifted to the great dolmen further up on the slope. Tomorrow he must return and bless that ancient tomb as well. His role as pastor required it. If the bones of Catholics lay within, the tomb should be sanctified. But for now, the night breeze grew chill and he grew tired. His pulse was thready. The young priest prepared to return to Ballyvaughan.

  Up in the dolmen’s shadow, something moved. Squinting against the tenebrous hills, Father Brendan thought he recognized old Michael the sacristan’s gaunt frame. He hallooed and the figure ducked into the dolmen’s mouth. What was the sacristan doing up in these hills?

  Down in Ballyvaughan, the second evening Angelus tolled. No—it could not be Michael he had seen. The old sacristan prided himself on faithfully ringing out each knell of bells. The figure had been nothing more than a trick of the light, or his overweary brain, or some wandering tinker wishing to remain unseen. Old half-remembered fireside stories of the Gentry whispered in his memory, but he dismissed such superstition and naivete. He was university-educated.

  He descended from the hills with care. The stone jagging out from patches of scrub grass remained slick from morning’s drizzle. And in the near-dark it was easy to stumble over a taut vine stretched tripwire-like across one’s path.

  By the time Father Brendan reached the rectory, Ballyvaughan lay swathed in shadow. Sickly yellow light oozed out around cottage doors, but no other illumination guided his path. It was a moonless night.

  He entered the warmth and bright of the rectory with relief. Nights here held a chill which seeped into the very marrow of the soul. The smell and heat of a peat fire was a simple pleasure he never expected to value so highly. Michael the sacristan met Father Brendan almost at the door—“Ah, Father. I was beginning to worry the Old Folk got yeh! Where’ve yeh been?”

  “I went walking in the hills.” Father Brendan did not like deceiving the old man, even with a half-truth. But he needed time to arrange his thoughts. Blind, though righteous, anger would not guide the flock. Michael straightened a bit, “Aye, a walk can do powers o’good. Well, I’m off to home. The missus fried some praties and cod. They’re on a warm in t’oven.”

  Father Brendan thanked Michael distractedly and the old man slipped out. After picking at his dinner—fish and potatoes! How he longed for a curry—Father Brendan retired to his cramped study.

  The room scarcely deserved such a title. When Father Brendan first arrived, the space was used to store bottles of sacramental wine, more bottles than any parish would require in a hundred years. Father Duncan’s doing, no doubt. Now Father Brendan had lined the tiny room with shelves of books on canon law. In seminary, he received high marks for his analysis of the Church’s role in the Great War, and he still harbored hopes of a career in liturgical academics.

  For now, though, he turned to his books and searched for Church teaching regarding graveyards. The parishioners needed to understand it was not him who condemned their burial practices, but Holy Mother Church.

  He studied and wrote for several hours, crafting the outline of a sermon which he would deliver on Sunday. By his own admission, the work surpassed even his previous magnum opus in sheer knowledge of and reference to doctrine, while maintaining a clarity and simplicity of language even these simple fishers could understand.

  As his oil lamp began to gutter out, Father Brendan rose, trimmed the lampwick, and ascended the narrow stairs to his garret room.

  In the low-ceilinged bedroom, he knelt beside his bed and prayed once more for guidance to direct this wayward flock of sheep. Then, blowing out the lamp, he slipped into bed. Sleep came swiftly on the wings of exhaustion.