Seamus Rafferty, oldest fisher in Ballyvaughan, lay
alone before the altar. No family knelt near his flimsy pine coffin. In fact,
the church of Mary Stella Maris sat empty save for Seamus in his coffin and
young Father Brendan in his vestments.
As he stumbled through the Requiem Mass, Father
Brendan was almost glad for the absence of mourners. A botched funeral could
damage his standing in the isolated village even further. Already he felt the
parishioners barely tolerated him. His youth, his unfamiliarity with their
customs and dialect, his books of canon law. Ballyvaughan wanted Father Duncan
back, but Father Duncan had been recalled for his near-heretical writings. So
Father Brendan arrived and sent Father Duncan away.
But even the village’s polite dislike of Father
Brendan did not explain why no mourners were present at Seamus Rafferty’s
funeral. The old fisher had a large and loving family, and a reputation for
generosity and kindness towards all. Why, just last night at the man’s wake—Father
Brendan was present to pronounce a few edifying words—hadn’t three separate friends
lamented the world was worse off without Seamus Rafferty in it?
Father Brendan puzzled over this mystery until he
intoned the last “Requiescat in Pace, Amen” over Seamus’ body, whereupon
Michael the sacristan peeked in to announce that six strong men were here to
carry the coffin.
Michael was older than Seamus by far, but lacked the
honorary of “Old Michael.” Instead, locals called him Sacristan Michael to
distinguish him from various other Michaels roundabouts. Though a bit crook-legged,
Michael remained spry and spent his free time, when not tending the church,
documenting local ruins and history. Father Brendan found Michael an invaluable
guide to area customs: The second Angelus at evening, the strange fishers’
prayers in neither Latin nor Gaelic nor English, the taboo against naming the
drowned dead, the red doors to “ward the Gentry away.”
After removing his vestments, Father Brendan followed
Seamus’ coffin and the six strong men out into the mid-morning drizzle. They
walked out from the village and hiked up into the low surrounding hills, where
a square of grass and dirt nestled within a dip in the stone as if cupped in a
giant’s hand. Up above on a higher ridge stood a great cromlech of roofed
standing stones. The empty void between the stones lay thickly shadowed even
for this overcast day.
On an early ramble through the country round, Father
Brendan had noted that great portaled tomb. Inquiring with Michael, the priest
learned ancient inhabitants of the Burren had chipped long low passages out of
the stone, vast burial chambers that stretched back as far as anyone cared to
explore in flickering torchlight.
The six strong men lowered Seamus Rafferty to the
ground. The old fisher’s coffin flexed precariously and the scrap wood creaked.
One of the wooden pegs seemed ready to pop loose. A shallow grave awaited,
scarcely deep enough to hold the coffin, water already pooling in the bottom.
Good ground was scarce in Burren country.
While the coffin-bearers caught their breath, Father
Brendan glanced around this lonely cemetery. No headstones marked fellow
resters-in-Christ. Perhaps each family remembered their own graves.
A slight sensation of weakness caused him to feel for
his heartbeat. The pulse was irregular and very faint at times. The doctors in
Dublin said his heart was faulty. It had not kept him from seminary and
priesthood, however.
Turning back from his reverie, Father Brendan found
the pallbearers lowering Seamus into his grave. Hurriedly, he began final
prayers for the deceased. But he had just intoned the first “Dona eis requiem”
when one of the men—stocky Rod McCorley—stopped him with an exclamation. “Nae,
Father. Your work is done here. Best you be off now.”
Gawping in befuddlement, Father Brendan failed to
chastise the man, simply stumbling back to Ballyvaughan. His ears roared with
blood and the world swam about. What sort of madness was this? To hold wake and
funeral for the dead, but deny their last prayers? This could not be explained
as some local custom.
When he emerged from his stunned state, he found
himself in church. Kneeling before the altar, Father Brendan prayed for
guidance. In seminary, he had learned many things, many nuances of the faith.
Everything appeared so simple then, so easy. Now he wandered in the shadow of
despair. “Good Lord, guide my words and actions.”
Michael interrupted the young priest’s prayer. “Ah,
Father. I’ve just touched-up that pitcher of Our Lord o’er there…”
Standing up, Father Duncan loomed over the sacristan.
“Michael, I demand an explanation. Why did Rod McCorley send me away before I
could pray over old Seamus’ grave?”
“Yeh prayed o’er t’grave?” Michael paled.
“I did not. Though I should have insisted. I failed in
my duty as pastor.” Father Brendan clamped onto Michael’s gaunt shoulders. “Why
did they send me away, Michael? Such behavior is not in line with doctrine.”
A sigh of relief from Michael, then a yelp as Father
Brendan tightened his grip. “It’s how we’ve always done. Ever since the old
days before even this church stood here, before the stone fortress this church
used t’be, all the way back to before the first priests came. The dead, we bury
them in that hollow, an’ no one prays o’er them. Then after a year or so their
bones go into the cromlech above. It’s always been that way… Tis a path of the
Gentry up nigh that cromlech, and they dinnae care for hallowed ground. Father
Duncan saw no harm in’t.”
The last words were delivered in a wheedling tone
which made Father Brendan’s gorge rise. Father Duncan. Father Duncan. Could he
never escape that old heretic’s shadow?
“Father Duncan was a schismatic and recalled to face
punishment.”
“Maybe, but he understood. Unhallowed ground and no
prayers o’er the grave. The way it must be. Best yeh just leave such things
alone. Best not to meddle in the old ways. The Gentry don’t care for nosy
pikers.”
Unhallowed ground and unsanctified burial. Father
Brendan reeled. Anger throbbed through him. His pulse quickened and he shook.
He must calm down. The doctors said his heart could fail. He must calm down—All
the world went white.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
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 as 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. 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 spiritual welfare of his flock,
not to coddle their schismatic tradition. Spiritual authority superseded
earthly superstition.
Then, as a final step, he performed the rite of
consecration which would hallow this plot of earth. Though he lacked some of
the necessary 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 cairn
further up on the slope. Tomorrow he must return and sanctify 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 cairn’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 cairn’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 up 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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
He woke breathless. A great weight crushed his chest,
and he thought of his last heart attack. The graveyard stench of rot and damp
earth filled the attic room.
Then the weight shifted and Father Brendan knew he was
not alone. The thing leaned forward—Father Brendan felt its scabrous lips at
his ear—and in a sepulchral tone whispered, “The last priest was a drunkard,
but at least he was no fool. You may bury your dead in hallowed ground, but we
will have our way.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Michael the Sacristan found Father Brendan
the next morning. The young priest had collapsed halfway down the narrow stairs
from the garret, spending the late hours of the night trapped in darkness,
alone with his fear and the stench of grave-mould. Michael reported to the
village that Father Brendan had been muttering frantically about “hallowed
ground,” but the sacristan could get no more sense than that. For when Michael
bent over the young priest, Father Brendan scrambled backward with a
half-intelligible scream about smelling damp earth, pointing at stains on
Michael’s trouser knees from the morning’s gardening.
Father Brendan did not recover from the
shocks, and lay bedridden for some weeks, whilst all the village women took it
in turns to provide him with food and care. Privately, though, they whispered
that the young priest’s weak heart and heavy reading had stressed him unduly.
No such thing would have happened during Father Duncan’s tenure, that was
certain.
Though he lingered on for a time, Father
Brendan’s heart gave out entirely one mid-spring morning. He had always been a
sickly sort, and no doubt the shock of his imagined nightmare caused a second
attack like that which had first made him aware of the heart problem. After
that, it was merely a matter of slowly fading away. So said the country doctor
brought in after the first week of bedrest showed no signs of improving Father
Brendan’s health.
They buried him in a torrential rain, up
in a hollow very near to the one which held Seamus Rafferty. When the six
strong men lowered the priest into his grave, water had already flooded the
shallow pit. No priest was there to say the requisite prayers, for none had yet
arrived to replace Father Brendan. Privately, the people of Ballyvaughan hoped
for one more like Father Duncan than Father Brendan, though they said no such
thing aloud. It would be disrespectful to the dead, though he lay in unhallowed
ground.
