Emerald Magic_ Great Tales of Irish Fantasy - Andrew M. Greeley [40]
He strode through the village one fine Monday morning, with his bell ringing and his candle burning. At every doorstep he stopped and bowed and prayed, and poured out every bowl of cream.
It was a great waste of good cream, as the widow O’Brien declared in her brass trumpet of a voice. “And is it any less wasted for sitting out in the sun or the rain?” he shot back from the core of his zeal.
That silenced her, which was a miracle in itself, but by evening every doorstep had its bowl back again, and cream in it—even his own.
It took a great mustering of courage to confront Mrs. Murphy, but confront her he did. He led her to the doorstep and the offending object.Words were almost beyond him. “This,” he said. “This thing—this defiance—before God, woman, are you determined to destroy me in this town?”
Her face was as serene as it ever was, but the brogue was just a fraction thicker than usual. “Sure and I did nothing, Father,” she said.
“Nothing but put this bowl out for the pixies,” said Father Timothy.
“I never filled it,” she said. “It was empty when I came in this morning, and full when I came out just now.”
Mrs. Murphy stood there with her stiff spine and her perfect rectitude, and he could not believe she lied. “Then who is it?” he demanded. “Who did it?”
“No human person, Father,” she said, crossing herself devoutly. “Come inside, Father. I’ve a nice chop for your dinner. Where’s the harm in a bowl of cream, after all?”
“Where’s the harm?” Father Timothy sucked in air. “Where is—” He coughed and choked. She thumped his back with a surprisingly strong fist, until he could talk again. “There is all the harm in the world! This is a threat to your immortal soul. You shall have no god before God. You shall worship no heathen spirits. You shall not—”
“Come,” she said, tugging lightly at his arm. “Come and have your dinner.”
“Unhand me, woman!” he thundered. “I will not be treated like a child—fed and put to bed and then forgotten. This village is in mortal danger. The forces of darkness are creeping up on it. I must defend it. It is my duty.”
“Surely, Father,” she said soothingly, “and a warrior of God needs his dinner if he’s to fight the good fight. Come and have your chop before it gets cold.”
Father Timothy groaned in frustration. But she was right. He should eat. Then he would pursue this war in earnest.
THE CREAM WAS THE LEAST OF IT. Every jar of milk that came into the priest’s house went sour, even if it were brought warm and foaming from the cow. The boots that fit him best in all the world sprang their soles and stayed sprung. His cassock would not stay clean for anything he did. There were vermin in his bed and spiders in his parlor, and when he walked on his rounds with his bell and book and candle, invisible fingers pinched and poked him until he bled.
None of it swayed him in the slightest. The worse the persecution, the more determined he was. He toppled the dolmen in the wood with his own hands, and nothing but a pick and a crowbar—and all the price he paid for it was a mass of tiny bruises that he offered as a sacrifice, and a broken toe that was even better in that regard. That Sunday he said Mass with more conviction than he had since he was first ordained, and his sermon was thunder and brimstone.
Better yet, the village began slowly to shift from gaping at him in astonishment or, at most, calling out to him to stop whatever he was doing. None of them made a concerted effort to stop him. After his glorious Sunday sermon, when he went to exorcise the ghosts from the crossroad, a surprising number of people followed him and joined in the responses.
He came home from that in a flush of triumph, having prevailed upon his audience to renew their baptismal vows—in which they renounced Satan and all his works.