Poker Face

God, weddings can be the most boring and drawn out things in the world, particularly the speeches. I nearly lose the will to live when I see a microphone being passed to a nervous father of the bride. All that changed the day Bridie and Eamon got married. That wedding was an extra torturous occasion where seating was directed by a table plan. It’s not so bad if you're a couple, but at Eamon's wedding, I was that awkward single workmate so I was plonked on the, Nobody Knows Them Table, all the way at the back, but at least it was near the bar.

When we were called in, I pulled out my chair and sat to the right of two elderly ladies who turned out to be spinster sisters. They were lovely, in a sipping sherry kind of way. At the other side of me were a couple who seemed to be fighting; talk about frosty. Thank God there were a few younger people at the table as well.  

Grace was said, and the and meal started. As the courses vanished, it became clear that, Brian, one of the younger men, was determined to be the centre of attention. He had a good few pints under his belt and was dominating the conversation while his much younger girlfriend tried to set a world record for free wine top-ups. The other dominant force at the table was, Fiona, who clearly knew Brian for years. Fiona was gorgeous and bubbly, if not the sharpest chisel in the box. Her boyfriend, Tony, smiled in all the right places, laughed at all the right jokes, but seemed a little distant. It was around the dessert time I found out why. It seemed, Brian and Fiona had a short-lived relationship in college. While they seemed comfortable with this, Tony clearly wasn't. Fiona didn’t help the situation when she laughingly grabbed Brian's arm to stop him recounting some saucy tidbit from their past. As tea was served, a hotel manager appeared behind the best man with a microphone in his hand.

"Oh Lord, the speeches are starting," I said out loud, my words heavy with impending doom.

"Great stuff!" said Brain and he pulled an empty wine glass toward him. "Are yea all up for a game of, The Groom Thanks."

"What's that?" I asked as Brian rifled through his wallet.

"It's easy," he said, waving a ten euro note in the air. "Yea put a tenner in the glass. Every time the groom says the word, Thanks, during his speech, the glass moves one place to the right. Whoever the glass is in front of at the end of his speech, wins the money."

It sounded like a bit of fun so I said, "Count me in," and I added my note to the glass. Fiona had hers in like a flash, Tony reluctantly put his money in, the warring couple said nothing but the man stuffed a twenty in, the spinsters had a quick discussion among themselves about the evils of gambling but still added a tenner between them; they would count as one person. Then everyone looked at Brian's girlfriend but her head was swivelling around like an orange perched on top of a toothpick and her eyes were glassy. She hadn’t a clue what was going on.

"Don't mind her," said Brian dismissively as she slumped against his shoulder.

The speeches started and we had to endure the priest, the father of the bride, the father of the groom, Aunty Peggie; whoever the hell that was, and the best man before it was time for Eamon to speak.

"Here we go," said Brian gleefully, pulling the glass in front of himself which caused a giggle of excitement to emanate from Fiona. Tony gave her a sideways and I could see why. Even to my ears, the sound was vaguely sexual.

"Why does the glass have to start with you?" Tony asked frostily.

"I was the first to put money in."

"That’s hardly fair."

"Fair me arse. Anyway, it's where the glass ends up that counts," Brian said, clearly sick of being questioned.

"Now comes the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Let's hear it for the man himself, Mr Eamon Ryan." said the best man, passing over the microphone, a movement that caused a burst of feedback.

"Jesus," said Eamon when the screeching died down. He glanced over at the priest who was glaring at him. "Sorry, Father." The room was filled with the sound of rustling of paper while Eamon got his notes in order before he raised the mic to his lips and said, "How yea," in a thick bog accent that got the whole room cheering. "Thanks for coming."

"And we’re off," hooted Brian as he moved the glass to his right.

"I never thought I would see the day ..."

I have to admit I started to zone out after a while, that was until Brian thumped me on the shoulder.

"What?" I asked.

"He just thanked some auld bat who taught him in primary school. Yea got to pay attention and move the fecking glass around."

"Oh, I missed that one," I said, shoving the glass toward the two spinsters who eyed the money like a hungry dog eyeing up steak. So much for the evils of gambling.

"I want to thank the bridesmaids for looking ..."

"Whoop! There is another one! Move it on girls, come on now," teased Brian as a sad looking spinster shoved the glass in front of the grumpy married man. It had hardly stopped moving when Eamon said, "I don't know how Bridie would have done it without yea, Thanks." The man shoved the glass in front of his misses, and gave her a filthy look, as if she’d somehow cheated him out of it.

"I want to thank Father Tom for ..."

The glass moved on again.

All through the speech, the glass moved. I have to say it was getting very addictive. We hung on Eamon's words, waiting for that magic one. When he said it, a low cheer ran around our table. Even the spinsters were joining in with the fun but it was Brian and Fiona who were leading the charge. People were starting to notice what we were at.

"Th....(schreeech!)" Whatever Eamon tried to say was blotted out by a burst of feedback, but he powered through. "…as she searched every shop in Ireland for pink roses, so thanks a million." The glass moved in front of Tony, but Brian shot out his hand and grabbed the stem. "He said thanks twice there, it's got to go one more.”

"I only heard one," said Tony, trying to pull the glass back.

"Nope, there were two. One just before the static, then one at the end."

"Hang on a minute, he only got a t out. It could have been anything."

"What else could it be, for flip sake."

"Think, threw, timed, tempted, tits; who fucken knows!"

"Nobody says tits in a wedding speech," said Brian, deliberately not seeing Tony's point, and moved the glass back in front Fiona. Reluctantly, Tony let go, but the mood at the table was very much darker from then on. Tony didn't join in with the cheering as the glass moved, which seemed to make Fiona determined to make up for him.

Ten minutes later, and a thousand thanks, Eamon was drawing to a close. "So, to finish, I want to raise a glass to my beautiful bride and thank her from the bottom of my heart for having me." Everyone in the room stood, and our table was on tenterhooks because the glass now rested in front of Tony who smiled for the first time since the barney with Brian. It looked like he was going to claim the cash.

"Right, the bar is open, and the band is ready to go, so let's have at it. Have a great night everyone and Thanks again."

Eamon put the mic down on the table, and with a half-sad face Tony moved the glass in front of Fiona, which caused Fiona and Brian to cheer at the top of their voices. Lots of people looked in their direction, including Eamon, who thought they were cheering his speech. Sure enough, he picked up the mic and said, "Thanks, Lads!"

Another huge cheer came from Brian because the glass moved one last time and was now in front of him. He grabbed it and held it aloft like a conquering hero.

"Ah, hang on! That's not fair!" said Tony.

"He said thanks!" said Brian, waving the folded money in Tony's face.

"The speech was over."

"No, it wasn't, but it is now," sneered Brian.

"And that other thing earlier, if that were any other word besides thanks, the glass would have ended up in front of Fiona, not you!" he said, his eyes ablaze. I sensed trouble was coming so I shoved my chair back from the table.

"Come on guys, it's only a game," said Fiona.

"You stay out of it," snapped Tony. I saw the shocked look on her face as she glared at her boyfriend.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You've been drooling over this moron all evening, I'm sick of it. Just because you let him shag yea in college," snarled Tony. I knew a line had been crossed.

"What did you say?" said Fiona, coldly.

"What did you call me?" demanded Brian, getting up from the table. In the process, he dislodged his drunken girlfriend who woke for the first time since the speeches began.

"I said, you shagged him!" yelled Tony, pointing an accusing finger at Brian while glaring at his own girlfriend. Everyone in the room was now watching. Oh, God, why was I put at this table, I asked myself.

From nowhere the slurred word, "Bitch!" rang out and a haymaker of a puck sent Fiona sliding across the floor on her arse. The whole world then seemed to go into slow motion as Brian’s drunken girlfriend launched herself after Fiona. Pure flipping pandemonium.  

Well there you have it. That’s how the battle began. It took two squad cars and a half dozen bouncers to bring order back to the wedding. The bride was inconsolable; Brian’s girlfriend was hauled off in handcuffs, Fiona was taken away in the back of an ambulance, and I never found out what happened to the money. I have to say it was one of the best weddings I’ve ever been at.

Thinking back on it all has left me with one golden piece of advice for anyone thinking of getting married, and this is it. No matter what you do, never make a table plan. If you do, you’ll regret it. You can bet on that.

Love in an Elevator

The airplane banked and Brian caught sight of Las Vegas shimmering in the vast expanse of arid desert. It looked like he was about to land on an alien planet. Living in Ireland he was used to rain, rain and more rain. When the door opened he was slapped in the face by a wall of dry heat and by the time he reached the baking hot tarmac, the suit he was wearing started to feel as heavy as armour. It didn't take more than a minute to get inside the terminal but the first thing he thought was, Thank God for air-con. He had flown in to pitch his company at a medical conference taking place at The Mirage, but the bean counters were so tight they’d booked him into some off strip place he’d never heard of. But after traveling for nearly twenty four hours straight, he couldn't care less where the hotel was, as long as it had a bed for him.

It turned out the hotel wasn't that bad at all. Sure, it was a little dated, but it seemed fine. It seemed fine right up to the moment he put his key into the lock and it wouldn't work. He swiped the credit card sized piece of plastic again and again, red light every time. What was wrong with an actual key he thought as he scooped up his suit carrier to head back down to reception? The elevator was one of those ornate copper covered jobs which were supposed to look vintage, but had really been made only yesterday. He'd just pressed the Lobby button when a woman appeared on the hall, running in a billowing white dress while waving and calling, "Hold the door!"

Brain didn't know what to do as the doors had already begun to slide closed, so he pushed his hands into the gap and forced them apart. He had to push quite hard, but it worked. She ran all the way into the car and narrowly avoided crashing into the mirrored back wall.

"Thanks," she panted, and Brian let go of the doors. They closed over with a funny squealing noise, and the elevator began to drop. Something was wrong. As they moved the squealing got worse, and after a second or two, the car bounced, stopped, started again, before grinding to a shuddering halt.

"No, no, no no," said the girl busting past Brian to punch the lobby button six or seven times.

"You got to be kidding me!" she yelled, kicking at the door with a bejewelled white stiletto.

Brian watched the woman pace the car as if he wasn't even there, pounding her forehead with balled hands and muttering to herself. She stopped and shot him a look as if he had just appeared out of thin air.

"I need your cell," she said holding out her hand. Cell? Brian had no idea what she was talking about.

"Pardon?"

"Your cell phone, I got to make a call."

"Oh right," he said digging through his pockets and taking out his phone. She grabbed it and punched numbers, but it seemed to him that nothing was happening. After two more tries, she checked the screen and gave him a dirty look.

"No network?"

"I'm from Ireland, I don't think I have roaming," stammered Brian, wondering why he was explaining himself to a complete stranger.

"What kind of a cheap-o has no international calling? Jesse!"

He didn't appreciate being called a cheap-o, but now he felt like one.

"Why don't you use your own phone," he said taking his back. She held out her arms like Christ on the cross and looked at him open-mouthed. "Does it look like there are pockets in this thing?"

"Fair point," said Brian going even redder. He thought he'd better get some help before this woman flipped out and killed him. He looked at the control panel and spotted a button with a bell sign. He pressed it and waited, but nothing happened. He pressed it again, still nothing.

"Let me do it," she said pushing him aside again jammed the button home with a manicured thumb. At last, a woman's voice came from the speaker slot. "Hi, what can I do for you today?" said the woman cheerily.

"Get us out of this God damn lift!" screamed the woman at the speaker.

"Has your lift stopped?" asked the speaker in the most laid-back way ever. The crazy girl in the wedding dress did a jig of fury before shouting back. "Of course it has you loon? Why do you think were pressing the emergency button."

"Please stay calm, help is on the way," said the speaker as if she was dealing with a child.

"Thank God. How long?" the stressed out bride asked resting her hands either side of the speaker slot, letting her head hanging in apparent exhaustion.

"They are coming as quickly as possible. Please remain calm, you are in no imminent danger."

"I think I might be," mumbled Brian.

"I understand this is inconvenient, but we are doing all that can be done," said the speaker in such a telly sales manner that Brian expected hold music to appear at any minute.

"Do it quicker, I have a wedding to get to," snapped the woman knocking her head against the car wall. This time the voice in the box said nothing. The crazy girl in white pushed herself away from the wall and stood swaying on her six-inch heels. Brian watched as the redness of rage dissipated, and the corners of her mouth turned down. It was like watching a wax figure slowly melt. Brian was shocked to see this grown woman drop down on her bum like a toddler and begin weeping. A crazy woman he could deal with, a crying one was out of his comfort zone. He moved to the panel and pushed the call button again and again.

"Hello? Are you in there?" Brian said into the speaker. Nothing happened so he kept his finger on the button like the girl had done. After an age there was a click and the woman's voice came back on the line.

"Please be patient, you will be out in no time at all," not quite so nicely this time.

"I don't think you understand, this girl is going to a wedding, her wedding by the look of it."

On hearing the words tumble out of Brian's mouth the girl's cries got even louder, like an old episode of We Love Lucy.

"I do understand, help is on its way," said the woman in such a deadpan way that it may as well have been a recording. There was a click and silence followed. Brian looked at the woman sitting in a puddle of white satin and felt terrible for her. He hunkered down and said," I'm sure they will get us out in plenty of time."

"It's a disaster, the whole thing has been a disaster!" sobbed the girl, throwing her hands in the air. "The flowers came in bowls when they should have been in tall vases, the wedding chapel double booked our time so we had to move the ceremony forward two hours and because of that I couldn't have the car I wanted. They gave me a limo, a black one of all things. How tacky is that? It's like someone up there doesn't want me to get married."

Brian lowered himself down on the ground to sit beside the girl, at least the flow of tears was drying up. He held out his hand and said, "I'm Brian, by the way."

She didn't take the hand but instead wiped away tears with the back of her's, trying not to smudge her makeup too much. "Diane," she sniffled.

"So, how long before the ceremony?" he asked.

"Forty minutes," she said sadly.

"Forty minutes, that is great. They will surely have us out long before that. How hard could it be?"

"I guess," she said, not sounding convinced at all.

"The important thing is, the man of your dreams is waiting for you, even if you end up being a little late. In the end it won’t matter what the flowers look like or the car for that matter," said Brian trying to be as comforting as he could be.

"Hump, shows what you know," she said as if he’d said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"Sorry?"

"You men, think it’s all about you, don't you? I have been dreaming of this day my entire life. Get it, since I was about nine years old! I had it all planned out in my head, the perfect dress which made me look like a movie star, an ivy encased church in the Hamptons, a horse drawn carriage with two stunning white stallions trotting in unison, me being walked up the aisle on my dad's arm to the one true love of my life. That was the dream, my dream. Instead I have this, stuck in a lift in Las Vegas with a complete stranger."

"It's not quite the same, I guess, but at least you have someone you love waiting."

"Las Vegas was his idea. It was more convenient for his family. I never wanted Las Vegas," she said, fresh tears appearing in the corner of her eyes. Brian had no idea what to say, so he said nothing. As it turned out, silence seemed to be exactly what the crying woman needed.

"I only think he asked me to marry him because he was about to turn forty. I guess he thought his wild oat's days were coming to an end. We've only been seeing each other for two years," she said sadly.

"So why are you marrying him if you have doubts?"

"I'm not getting any younger either you know?"

"You're not old."

"Thirty three is old! All my friends are married, some are even married divorced and married again. It seems like I was twenty five only yesterday, with a bar full of hot guys trying to buy me drinks and not a care in the world. One morning I woke up, single, over thirty, and I realised my big day was going to slip right past me unless I did something about it. So I did."

"Why are you telling me all this?" asked Brian, not feeling one bit comfortable.

"Because you’re a nobody and I got to tell someone."

"That's not very nice."

"You know what I mean," she said sadly, and the truth of the matter was, he did. He remembered back to the day of his wedding and how nervous he had been. How his mind has been in a fog and his stomach churned like a concrete mixer. He did know what she meant.

"Did I tell you I'm married?" he asked after a while.

"No," she said sadly.

"Yes, six years now. On the morning of my wedding, I nearly didn't turn up."

"Really? Why?" she asked, dragging herself out of her pool of self-pity to snatch as the titbit dangled in front of her.

“Yes, Really. Cold feet or second thoughts, call it whatever you like but I nearly chickened out and left her at the altar."

"But you didn't?"

“No.”

“Why?”

"Stuff, I guess. Stuff kept pushing me forward. My best man came around and cooked me breakfast, making me get out of bed whether I liked it or not. The suit came from the dry cleaners, so I put it on. The car turned up at the front gate so I just got in it, but all the time this voice inside my head was asking, “What the hell are you doing?"

"So stuff made you get married?"

"No. Stuff stopped me being a coward. What made me get married was simple. I was standing at the top of that church when the organ started to play. Even then, I was ready to say I don't, and run as fast as I could. But when those notes filled the air I looked over my shoulder and there she was, my princess, the only woman I had ever really loved, would ever love, and she was walking right toward me.  In that moment I knew that saying yes to this wonderful creature would be the best thing I would ever do."

"And has it? Was it the best thing ever?"

"It's not been easy but we have had more good days than bad. Marriage is hard, it’s maddening at times but there's never a day I regret being her husband."

"So you are saying I'm stressing out over nothing, it's all nerves."

"I wish I could say, Diane. In my case, stuff happened to keep me going when my feet got cold. Stuff seems to be stopping you and your feet are so hot you are literally running to the altar. It could be that stuff is giving you time to have a think, to ask yourself, is this your dream?"

"You're a romantic, aren't you?" she said looking at him sternly.

"I guess, I might be, in a clumsy kind of way."

"The one thing life has taught me is that romance is for movies and books," she said coldly.

Just then, the car moved a little. It jerked and started to go up. It jerked again, and then once more. Both of them got to their feet, Diane checked her makeup in the car mirror. They watched the door and waited. Something clicked and the tips of chubby, grease covered, fingers forced the doors apart and a smiling dirt smeared face appeared.

"Let’s get you folks out of there," the maintenance man said holding out a filthy hand toward Diane. She slapped it away before it could touch her dress and ruin one more thing on her big day. She hitched up her hem and stepped out of the unlevelled elevator. By the time Brian had climbed out, she was already heading for the stairwell.

"Diane!" he called. She stopped and looked back with sad eyes. He didn’t know what he should say. She looked so lost, but she may well have a point, not everyone gets to be a princess, but everyone should.

"Good luck," was all he could offer. She gave a smile and a wave before vanishing from sight.

For the rest of the day he couldn’t get the sad bride out of his mind. He hoped she turned up at the church, like he had done, to find her prince had been waiting all the time, but some tiny part of his brain feared she may well have said yes with disappointment in her heart. That thought was like a boil on his soul. It was getting dark by the time he picked up the bedroom phone and dialled home. She was sleepy when she answered, he had forgotten how late it would be back in Ireland but she still sounded happy to hear from him. He lay in the dark of the night, watching the Las Vegas lights twinkle in their neon brilliance and let the sweet sound of his princess's voice heal the wounds of the world.  

The Blacksmith and the Ruby

Morning mist hovered above the meandering river undisturbed by even a breath of air. Kingfishers darted from the overhanging trees to spear minnows through the crystal-clear water. Over rock and around root the torrent babbled, filling the air with nature’s music. In the sky, birds sang to welcome the coming day as they danced on invisible currents, snatching freshly hatched insects from the sky.

In the distance, another noise joined this morning chorus. The faint sound of a horse and rider approaching, but the timing was askew. Cling, cling, cling, clang, rang the falling hooves. Cling, cling, cling, clang, in lazy repetition. High on the hill above the river a lone horseman appeared, his cowl drawn up to ward off the dew; his mount seeming to favour one leg, laying the hoof more gently than the others.

The rider paused and looked down on Rosendale, a tiny community built on an ancient fording point. Smoke from early morning cooking fires was beginning to pool above the thatched roofs. He gently urged his mount forward, demanding no more than the animal was comfortable to give. Their progress was slow, but it was determined. Before long he clopped betwixt the sleepy houses. He rained his steed to a halt when a rangy boy appeared in a doorway.

"Good morrow, Lad. Do you have a Smithy near about?" he asked, folding back his hood and the morning sun glinted on his long golden locks. The boy looked at him with awe. It was a reaction he was accustomed to. He radiated power and vigour, his face was so handsome it could stop time itself, and his smile was so beguiling the birds would fall from the trees at the sight of it; or so he had been told. The boy stood slack-jawed which made him laugh good-humouredly.

"I see the cat has been away with your tongue," he teased, which broke the spell fallen over the child.

"Aye, Mr Shipman is our Blacksmith. Yonder is his yard," said the boy, pointing to a cluster of mud-walled buildings near the banks of the river.

"Much obliged, young Squire," said the rider and he dismounted to lead his horse the last stretch of the journey. When he reached the Blacksmith's forge, the fire had not yet been stoked for the day, so he tethered his mount to a post. He stroked the beast’s neck with affection, blowing air across its mussel, something he knew she loved. The animal whinnied and nuzzled his neck.

"There, there, Girty. We'll have you fixed up in no time," he said, stroking the horse’s velvet ears with the touch any lover would envy. 

"A fine animal," called a voice, making him jump slightly. A bear of a man stood behind him, watching. He was powerfully built, if not overly tall, with a thick growth of curly-black hair on his chin, and more to match across his ham hock shoulders. The man smiled kindly, offsetting what might otherwise be an intimidating stature.

"Mr Shipman?"

"The very same."

"My mount has thrown a shoe. Can you accommodate us with a few hours rest and a new set of iron for my friend?" he asked, patting the animal on the neck.

"You're a stranger to these parts," said Mr Shipman. It was not a question but an observation.

"I've travelled a long road, with longer to go, but my journey is my own, so I have time, and coin to spend," he said, taking the man’s questioning with good humour.

"Coin be coin, no matter what quarter it travelled from. You are welcome, Mr ...?"

"Lonsdale."

"You're welcome to my home, Mr Lonsdale. Come, you must be hungry," said the Blacksmith, gesturing toward an open door.

"It's hospitable of your sir."

"There is pottage on the fire, but I can't attest to its quality. I'm a fine worker of iron but there my talents die."

"Is there no Mrs Shipman?"

"Sadly, she was taken by a fever seven winters back."

"You never took another wife?"

"If you knew my Mrs, you'd know there could never be another. She'd come back and haunt me should another lass ever cross my threshold," said the Smithy, his voice full of good humour and giddiness.

The rider nodded, as if happy with the reply, then entered the home. The two men warmed themselves in front of the cooking fire while they ate oats stewed in goat’s milk, and they drank a tankard of cloudy ale.

When the meal was finished, the Blacksmith set about examining the horse's leg. She was holding it slightly off the ground, putting as little weight on it as possible. The bushy ironworker cooed soothingly as he took her forelock on his aproned leg. He cleaned the area with a pick and nodded sagely, before gently resting the foot back on the ground.

"She's not yet lame, but not far off either. The shoe was badly fitted if you ask me. It has come loose and has been chafing the poor thing with each step. We'll make a new set for your girl, but she should rest two nights, mayhap three, before being shod again."

The rider nodded, and although the length of the wait pained him, he said, "What you think best, Mr Shipman."

The Smithy pointed to an open-sided hay manger. "You may loge in yonder rick, if it would please yea."

"It looks as fine as any tavern I've ever encountered," he said, smiling through the lie. He slipped the saddle from Girty and rested it on the fence. Mr Shipman led the horse into his paddock and left her there with a friendly pat on the rump.

The hay was soft and mostly free of insects. He lay back and drew his cowl around his body, feeling every mile of the road he’d travelled pushing down on his eyes. He gladly fell into a dreamless slumber.

The sun was in its final quarter when the sound of hammer on metal roused him. He stretched himself and rose, calling a cheery greeting to the sweat covered Mr Shipman before strolling into Rosendale. The village wasn't big, but it was beautiful. Pigs squealed in pens as they nosed through the mud for remnants of their last feed. Chickens ran wild in the spaces between houses. He could see children minding sheep, goats, and a few thin cattle, in the surrounding grassland. Women waded in the babbling river, slapping sodden garments against the rounded rocks. The air over Rosendale was heavy with happiness which infected everyone who called it home. It was a tonic for his heart.

He purchased eggs, a creel of potatoes, a chicken for the pot, and a skin full of ale. He knew Mr Shipman would insist on offering him vittles, sadly he had been right about his cooking abilities, and the rider had seen just how bare his cupboards had been. Once back at the forge, Mr Shipman had made a good show of refusing the offered supplies but not good enough to make the refusal anything more than politeness. Later, they shared a meal and anyone would have guessed they were life-long friends.

***

Being a Blacksmith is a proud profession, but it’s a hard one. When he’d first seen the tall, handsome man standing at his forge, he felt uneasy, but when he smiled, he did so with both his face and his eyes. He saw the way the rider dotted on his animal, and that more than anything told him the rider was a good man. When Lonsdale appeared, laden down with food, this virtue was placed beyond doubt.

They shared meals, and good conversation, for three days, but his guest had an otherworldly quality. Perhaps it was his beauty. On the riders last night with him, he was woken by a sound he knew as well as his own heartbeat; the sound of his bellows breathing life into his forge. He rose from his sleeping mat and crept to the window.

The night was moonless and the tall stranger stood before the forge, warming himself against the chill of the night. He had stoked the coal into a fiery glow and shadows danced across his face. He appeared to be speaking, but to who? He was alone. A fountain of sparks rose from the forge while the tall man spoke. Perhaps he was praying. That was when something strange happened.

One glowing spark didn't rise like all the rest. It seemed to dance around the rider’s head; glowing brilliantly, and growing by the second. When the spark reached the length of a man’s middle finger, the Smithy finally recognised it for what it was. A fairy. Everyone knew such magical creatures existed. They were responsible for both good and bad fortune, but he had never seen one before. His heart raced, and his eyes remained glued to the unfolding scene. The fairy darted in and whispered into the rider’s ear, causing the tall man to nod and scratch his chin. The riders winning smile was nowhere to be seen, if anything, he seemed to be brooding. The fairy and the man conversed; the magical creature seemed deferential to the rider. In the Smithy's mind, the pieces of a puzzle clicked together, and it was with fear and trepidation he realised who he’d been sharing his days with. The man standing at his forge was the Fairy King!

The Blacksmith watched as the rider held out his palm and the fairy flew down to land there. Without anger or compassion, the man closed his fingers, crushing the tiny being. The blacksmith was shocked, why would he do such a terrible thing. The rider squeezed his hand for ten ticks of any clock, then opened his fingers. Something glimmered in the light of the forge as the rider looked at it. He seemed satisfied, and stowed whatever he held in his cloak. Shipman moved to get a better look and the rider looked in his direction; as if he’d heard the him. The man’s eyes searched the darkness for the one who spied on him.  Shipman dropped to his knees and scurried back to his sleeping mat. Whatever the Fairy King was up to, it was no business of his. That night, he failed to find even a moment’s sleep. 

In the morning, he completed shoeing the chestnut mare in record time. The man, or whatever he was, complimented him on a fine job and held out three silver coins for his work, and his kindness. The Blacksmith took the coins, gushing his thanks, but the truth of the matter was he'd gladly forgo the money just to get rid of the stranger. Every moment the rider took to saddle his beast seemed to last an age. The man finally placed his foot in the stirrup and swept his leg over the horse's rump causing his cloak to flare. Something flew from it and landed in the hay where the stranger had been sleeping. He thought about telling the rider but the truth was, he wanted the man gone. Instead, he raised a hand in salute as the man rode away.

Once he was alone, he sifted through the straw and his hand found something hard. He hoped it was another silver coin but when he opened his fingers, he got the shock of his life. Sitting in his hand was a ruby, as big as a robin’s egg and a red as blood. The value of such a jewel was beyond imagining. He stood there, dumbfounded. He considered racing after the stranger to return the gem, but the thought of chasing down a being from the underworld strained his bravery. He rolled the ruby across his fingers and let the light play across it. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

He started to walk down into the village, eager to show off his prize but doubts crowded his mind. Would they make him give it back? Would they want him to share his fortune? Would one of his neighbours steal up on him in the dead of night, to stave his brain in? In the end, he turned around and walked back toward his house. The rider may well return for the jewel, so he’d better keep it safe. There was no point in telling anyone else. He lifted the hearthstone and scooped a tiny hollow in the dirt below. He put the jewel in the hole and replaced the granite slab. All day he worked, but his mind was filled with dancing red light and the desire to hold the gem once more.

The day passed, and the stranger failed to appear. That night, the Blacksmith bolted his door, a thing he had never done before, and removed the ruby from its hiding place. Late into the evening, he watched flames dance through the gem. That night his dreams were filled with castles and banquets, fine horses and silken robes. When he unlatched the door in the morning, his treasure hidden once more; the yard was empty. As the hours passed and the stranger failed to appear, he began to believe he might get to keep the stone.

Days turned into weeks, and people started to comment on the changes in Mr Shipman. He never came to the village to share a tankard of ale with his friends anymore, in fact, he never strayed more than a few yards from his home. His naturally friendly demeanour soured, and those who turned up with something to mend were dealt with brusquely. None were invited to share an ale or a meal. Slowly, fewer and fewer people called to the forge. Then came the day when the coals weren't lit at all, and Mr Shipman's door failed to open.

The darkness that hung over the Blacksmiths home deepened and started to spread. One by one, misfortune fell on all the houses of the village. Small things at first, like a lame calf or hens refusing to lay, but early in September there came a night so cold it froze the ground solid for two days. By the time it thawed, every vegetable waiting to be harvested was black and rotting in the ground.

With no crops to gather, the villagers had to resort to killing or selling their livestock. By mid-winter, famine had settled on the inhabitants of Rosendale. Over those long dark months, every family lost people to starvation or sickness. Even Mr Shipman was suffering, he’d eaten the last of his hens and was on the brink of starvation, but he refused to speak about his treasure. His soul was devoured by greed, his mind as black as the spuds rotting in the fields. He had the power to save himself, and all his neighbours, but he couldn't make his fingers release the ruby.

It was the darkest night of January that the storm came. He lay on his sleeping mat, floating in and out of dreams, while the roof above his head creaked in the fury of the gale. Something made him open his eyes and was shocked to see the rider standing over him. With a flick of his elegant wrist, every candle in the room burst into life, and the fire embers roared upward, renewed by fairy magic.

"You have something of mine?" said the man sternly, standing over him. In his withered state, he had no hope of defending himself. He was powerless to stop the man taking his precious ruby. Lonsdale, or whoever he was, held out his hand and the flagstone flipped into the air. The ruby floated across the room to land softly in his palm. The tall man closed his fingers on the gem and hunkered down to glare into his eyes.

"Did you think I'd be so careless with such a thing? Did you not imagine I knew you had it all this time? You're truly are a foolish man, Mr Shipman."

"I was keeping it for you," he said, levering himself up against the mud wall of his hut. Thunder split the sky, and the hut was lit up by lightening.

"You take me for a fool? You kept this for yourself, even when it could have saved your friends and your neighbours. You let so many die, and for what? A pretty pebble? I gave you the chance to be different, Mr Shipman, an opportunity you squandered. You would be suffering still, but for Girty. You can thank her for my compassion. She said you had gentle hands."

Fat tears ran down the Blacksmiths face, unsure if he was going to live or die. The rider stood to leave and he couldn’t help crying out for his treasure. The Fairy King stopped and turned, "What was that?"

"Please, don't take it from me," he sobbed.

"This thing?" asked the rider holding out the ruby.

"Please," he snivelled, holding out his hands, begging.

"So be it," said the tall stranger with a sorrowful look, and tossed the gem to him. He fumbled, but managed to catch the gem, clutching it with both hands to his chest.

"Thank you, Sire," he croaked and fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was really his to keep.

"Look again," said the rider.

Shipman opened his fingers, and his face was bathed in golden light. There in his palm stood a tiny fairy, with gossamer wings. The creature stuck out it’s tongue and zoomed away, leaving a trail of sparkles in its wake. It shot up the chimney and was gone.

The Blacksmith cried out in agony. "Things are not always as they seem," said the rider striding out into the storm.

The next morning the tempest had passed. The village was damaged, but it still stood. Every house would need repair and fences were down, but with no livestock to keep penned, that was a job that could wait. Trees had been uprooted, and the river was in flood. In the heart of such devastation, cries of delight echoed. The rangy boy who had directed the stranger toward the Blacksmith all those months ago had discovered huge wagon, filled with food, abandoned in the middle of the village. The whole community gathered and discussed what to do. Hunger might have had something to do with their decision because they declared the wagon, a gift from God.

It was decided that every man woman and child in the village would receive an equal share of the bounty, and should an owner appear, they would all work in unison to pay off the debt. Even Shipman, who still remained locked in his house, was allocated a fair portion. His oldest friend offered to bring the Blacksmith his food.

When the man pushed open the Blacksmith's door, he found Mr Shipman sitting up on his sleeping mat. His body was as cold as ice, his face seemed to be frozen in a scream. In his outstretched hand, he held a lump of dirty grey stone, as if offering it up in his final moments.

The Lovers - A Father Tom Story

Father Tom carried two kitchen chairs outside and positioned them in a pool of bright sunshine. The meadow beyond the dry-stone wall was ripe for a hay harvest, and the gentle breeze made the grass blades sing as they danced in celebration of the summer. He closed his eyes and let his ears do the seeing while cosmic rays warmed the few exposed parts of his skin. He could hear children playing in the distance, cry's of excitement grew and fell depending on the whim of the wind. Somewhere in the hedgerow a pair of sparrows chattered as fat bumble bees hummed while they hopped among the clover.

"I've never seen a happier man," said Jane, and he opened his eyes lazily. He smiled at her and took the mug of tea she was holding toward him. She sat on the second chair and straightened her apron before turning her face to the sun, it was as if she were washing in it.

"That is a glorious feeling," she said and sipped her tea.

"That it is," he agreed and closed his eyes once more.

After a time Jane spoke, "Would you not think of putting on a pair of shorts, you must be baking in those black trousers."  Tom looked down at himself and agreed he wasn't dressed for the weather but he had become so accustomed to his uniform that he barely noticed it any more. To feel the touch of the sun on his legs would be lovely but his legs were not something he wanted to share with the world, and definitely not with Jane. Anyway, he didn't own a pair of shorts.

"I don't think that would be appropriate," he said with a smile and was surprised at the frown that crossed Jane's face.

"Who says?"

"What do you mean, who says?"

"Who says its inappropriate for a priest to wear shorts on a hot day?"

Tom had to think a bit. There's no rule saying shorts were forbidden, and plenty of priests wore them on holidays, but this was not a holiday, it was just a particularly warm summer evening and he was sitting in the middle of his parish with one of his own parishioners for company.

"I guess the people, what they would think, I think," Father Tom was getting muddled up with all the Thinks.

"And what about you? What do you think?"

"I think there is nothing wrong with a priest wearing shorts if he wants to, which I don't by he way. Anyway, I don't own a pair of shorts," said Tom taking a sip of his tea and looking away into the sky.

Jane sat silently but he knew what she was getting at. The other day they had a particularly heated discussion about some of the more archaic rules of the church. Jane was in favour of a more liberal interpenetration of cannon law, a point of view that Tom actually favoured but something had made him argue the churches stand on matters. As the discussion progressed they each became more intent on making their point and Father Tom feared he may have gotten too feverish.

As the minutes ticked by, the heat was building and Tom felt beads of sweat form between his shoulder blades. Without thinking he undid his collar and opened the top two buttons of his shirt.

"Careful now Father, what would people think?" said Jane taking the empty mug from his hand and walking toward the kitchen. She can be a right strap that one, thought Father Tom to himself and opened another button in silent protest.

***

Sunday arrived and Father Tom said Mass in what can only be described as a heat wave. By the time he was half way through he would have gladly opted for a pair of shorts under his robes, even if it would have given Jane bragging rights for a year. The folks in the congregation were fairing no better as they sweltered in their Sunday best. The ladies had it slightly better than the men, at least they had the option of wearing those light flowing summer dresses that were in fashion. One young lady in particular stood out among the crowd as she wore a bright yellow dress which danced above her knees every time she changed position. The whole thing was held up by nothing more than a few gossamer threads of material curving over her tanned shoulders. She was the picture of youth, health and vitality, a condition not lost on the young man seated by her side. He couldn't keep his eyes off her and they spent most of the time holding hands, whispering sweet nothings and looking deeply into each others eyes. Father Tom envied the young couple their zest for life and was not the slightest bit put out that they paid little attention to what he was saying. In Tom's eyes, young love was the closest thing to Gods paradise on this earth.

After the end of Mass, Father Tom went to mingle with the people exiting the church and was just in time to see the lovers running hand and hand towards Brennan's Glen and the brook which babbled in the shade of it's overhanging trees. He was so caught up in the magic of that moment he didn't see Michael O'Brien coming. When the little man tapped him on the shoulder Father Tom nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Mr O'Brien, you startled me."

"Sorry about that, Father. You were miles away, you must have a lot on your mind," said the tax man, his substantial belly stretched the buttons on his waistcoat to their limit.

"I guess I was," said Father Tom regaining his composure.

"Was it about those two?" asked Mr O'Brien nodding his head at the young couple vanishing into the distance.

"As it happens, it was."

"I knew you'd have noticed. It's just not right you know."

"What's that, Mr O'Brien?"

"Them, and they way they were carrying on."

"Oh?" Father Tom said not understand exactly what the man in front of him was getting at. Father Tom didn't particularly like Mr O'Brien, he thought he was a bully if the truth be know. Father Tom had never forgiven him for the way he treated Tony Ryan. But as Father Tom was in the business of forgiveness, it was not a feeling which rested well with him.

"Canoodling," he said snidely, wrinkling up his pudgy face.

"Canoodling?" asked Father Tom, not that he was confused, but the use of the word canoodling seemed very prissy coming from the lips of Michael O'Brien.

"Disgraceful, at Mass of all places," O'Brien said, hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets putting ever more strain on the fabric.

"Ah, I see."

"Not right is it, Father? Not the place."

"I guess not."

"I knew you would take it in hand. Have a word there, Father, like a good man," O'Brien said smiling believing their thoughts were in accord, and slapping Father Tom on the shoulder like some good old boy. Father Tom felt his dislike of the man solidify into a cold hard lump in his gut. As Mr O'Brien walked away, Father Tom tried to catch a last gimps of the lovers but they were gone.

***

Over dinner Father Tom recounted the story of the young couple to Jane, including what Mr O'Brien had said after Mass. Jane chewed her food thoughtfully as she considered the issue.

"I don't see what they did wrong," she said at last.

"It's not so much what they were doing but the way they were with each other."

"What way were they?" asked Jane, raising an eyebrow as if knowing Father Tom was holding something back. She watched him intently as he mentally tried out ways of explaining himself before discarding them as inadequate.

"It's hard to explain. They glowed."

"Glowed? Really?"

"Well, yes." Tom looked at Jane but she didn't say anything, she just smiled a knowing smile and watched him with twinkling eyes. Father Tom felt a blush rush up his neck and duck under his beard. He knew he had said too much, and she was looking at him like he was a giggling teenager. He felt like a giggling teenager. Why had he ever told her at all?

"Glowing or not, its not appropriate behavior at Mass. I'll have to have words with them before the next service, stern words," said Father Tom, sawing at his meal with vigor and avoiding the mocking eyes of his companion.

"Tea?" she asked after a few moments, signaling that she had moved the conversation on. Tom sighed inwardly and nodded.

"That would hit the spot," he said and Jane cleared the plates. As she walked through to the kitchen he herd her mumble happily to herself, "Glowing, by God."

Tom felt his blush reappear with a vengeance.

***

At the following Sunday Mass Father Tom made it his business to be around the gate as people arrived. A few minutes before the service was due to begin he saw the youngsters turn the corner and walk down the street. Thankfully some of the heat had been blown out of the summer by a stiff westerly wind and the young lady's dress was far more modest than before. Tom felt his face break into a beaming smile as they approached. 

"Good morning to you," he called.

"Good morning, Father. Unusual to see you out here, shouldn't you be getting ready?" said the young man with honest good humor.

"I'm just on my way in as it happens. You're Cillian Duffy, aren't you? Sally Duffy's lad?"

"The very one, don't say you've forgotten me? Its not been that long," he said with a beaming smile that was just as infectious as Mr O'Brien's nastiness

"And who is your lovely companion?" asked Father Tom extending his hand to the young lady.

"Father Tom this is Ellen, my fiance," said the young man with immense pride. The young girl radiated at the word and looked adoringly at her fine young man, and Father Tom felt his heart melt.

"Congratulations!" he said with genuine delight and pumped the girls hand even harder while placing a paternal arm around Cillian Duffy.

"It's a lucky thing we've bumped into you, Father, because we're not just home for a holiday. We wanted to ask you if you'd do the honor of marrying us?"

"Me?" 

"Please say yes," chirped the young lady gripping Tom's huge hand with both of hers. "It would mean so much to both of us. Cillian never stops talking about you. I was sure he was making half of it up but now I've met you in the flesh I know nobody else would do for the biggest day of our lives. Please Father," she blurted out without taking a breath.

"Well… of course!" 

The three of them stood laughing at the door of the church until Father Tom remembered he had to get ready for Mass. "Goodness gracious, I'm so late, call round to the house tomorrow and we'll work out the details." Father Tom raced away around the back of the church, flustered and very very late.

When Mass eventually started, Father Tom was in rare form and delivered it with gusto. About half way through he saw Cillian lay his arm along the back of the pew where Ellen sat and he saw the scowl which landed on Mr O'Brien's face and refused to budge. That look was like a tiny black cloud hanging in a perfectly blue sky, and Father Tom knew he would have to talk with Mr O'Brien afterwards.

As it happened Mass was only just over when the door of the sacristy opened, Father Tom hadn't even had a chance to disrobe before the livid civil servant barged in.

"I thought you were dealing with those two?" he demanded.

"Really, Mr O'Brien, don't you think you are over reacting slightly?"

"Over reacting? I don't believe you are condoning this behavior?"

"What behavior, what have they actually done, Mr O'Brien? Its not like they are …"

"What about all the cuddling and whispering and all that. It's disgraceful and I bet they're not even married. You'd never catch me and the Mrs doing anything like that and I don't appreciate having it shoved down my throat at Mass either."

"As it happens, they're engaged."

"Engaged is not married and I'd expect you to under stand the difference. That's what's wrong with the world today, they are all at it." 

"Pardon?"

"At it, that's what they call it these days," ranted the red faced man. "Sex! Fornicating! Lusting! Debauchery! FUCKING! It must be stopped and stopped now!"

"Oh, come on, you're being ridiculous."

"Don't call me ridiculous!" ranted Mr O'Brien buffing out his chest and talking down to Father Tom in his most demeaning manner.

"Mr O'Brien, would you please keep your voice down."

"I will not, Father. I most certainly will not!" The fat little man turned on his heel and flounced out the door not even bothering to close it behind him.

"Oh, dear," sighed Father Tom turning away only to be confronted by a pair of grinning alter boys.

"He said fucking," giggled the ginger haired one and savored the word on his tongue. Father Tom looked to heaven and said a silent prayer for patience.

***

Cillian and Ellen arrived bright and early at Father Tom's house, bubbling over with enthusiasm for their coming nuptials. They all sat in the kitchen discussing dates, and venues for the wedding while Jane fused over the young couple with tea and cake. After an hour filled with joy and laughter, Father Tom had no choice but to broach the issue of Mr O'Brien.

"Cillian, you grew up here and you know how conservative some of the people are?" said Father Tom with a face so long he looked like a blood hound. He paused and prayed that the young man would save him from this misery.

"Yes?" he said, clearly not knowing where Father Tom was going with his halting ramble.

"Well…"

"Well?"

"Well, there has been a complaint that during Mass…"

"What are you trying to say, Father?" asked Cillian, as the couple looked at him with doe eyes. Behind them he could see Jane's worried face as she shook her head in the negative. But he knew he had to do it, it was his duty.

"Well, some people seem to think you are too, well, affectionate." On hearing the words ringing in his own ears, Father Tom felt as if he had pulled the trigger on Bambi. The look of perplexity floated on their faces. Slowly their smiles melted and were replaced with shamefaced embarrassment. It was then Cillian seemed to remember their clasped hands were resting on Father Tom's kitchen table and he released his grip. His hand vanished under the table, folded into his lap like a scolded puppies tail. Father Tom stared at Ellen's abandoned fingers, floating on an ocean of crouched tablecloth, and felt his heart break.

"It's nothing …" said Father Tom trying to rescue the situation but the light which had shimmered so wonderfully between the young lovers dimmed before his eyes until only hollowness remained.

"It's fine," said Cillian, slowly getting to his feet. "I understand, honest. We better be getting along," he said and went to touch Ellen on the shoulder but his fingers stopped short as if Father Tom's words formed a physical barrier about this lovely woman. Jane jumped to the rescue and ushered the young couple out, cooing soothing words as she went, while Father Tom sat impotently at the table.

When Jane returned she gave him the most withering look and the silence of her lips lashed out with a fury that no words could match. In the hall, the telephone erupted into life and Jane seemed glad of the interruption. When she returned, her eyes had softened as if the gravity of her feeling had been eclipsed by an even greater doom.

"It's the Bishop, and he's hopping mad."

***

Hopping mad had been a pale description of the Bishop's mood. Mr O'Brien had been burning his ear off about a house of disrepute masquerading as a house of God and had even threatened to launch an audit into the accounts of the diocese. Once the Bishop's fury had burned itself out, Tom explained as best he could what had actually taken place and said he had just spoken with the young couple in question.

It wasn't good enough. Something had to be done about Mr O'Brien before he unleashed the full power of the Internal Revenue on them all. The Bishop told Tom he was to do a strongly worded sermon the following Sunday on the importance of chastity and morality in modern society. Tom tried to reason with him, but the Bishops mind was set.

Night after night Father Tom worked into the early hours trying to pen something that would satisfy the Bishop and Mr O'Brien, while at the same time soothing his own conscience. In the end he came up with a relatively mild rendering of the churches moralistic teachings.

When Sunday arrived, Father Tom walked the short distance to the church with a heavy heart. He sat robed in the sacristy for such a long time that the same ginger haired boy who had giggled so much the week before, tugged on his sleeve and said in a worried voice, "They're waiting, Father."

Father Tom stood and made his way to the alter. He looked over his gathered friends and saw Cillian and Ellen half way back the church, seated side by side but with their hands held demurely in their laps. They smiled warmly at him but that golden glow which had enveloped them, and all around them, was sadly missing. On the other hand, Michael O'Brien perched himself in the very front row, with a smug grin plastered over his face. Father Tom blessed all that had gathered in the name of the Lord and felt alone for the first time in his father's house.

Eventually he neared the gosple and asked people to stand.

"Peace be with you," he said and raised his arms in the normal manner.

"And also with you," everyone answered in unison.

"Let us offer each other the sign of peace." As he watched people turn to each other and shake hands along the rows, he felt like Judas. He saw Michael O'Brien pompously squeeze every hand within reach.  

The Gospel seemed to be finished in a flash and it was time for his sermon. He drew out the two pages filled with his scrawl and read the first words, What is love? Father Tom could not rip his eyes from those words and he felt his hands grip the sides of the podium with such force he felt his nails dig into the timber. After a long time he looked up at a sea of confused faces.

"I have a confession," he said, and murmur ran through the room. 

"I stand up here every week and tell you how to best live your lives. I tell you to forgive those who do wrong, when I don't always do it myself. I tell you to be charitable and to be kind to your fellow man. I tell you to honor the Lord in your actions and live in the light of his love. I am a fraud!"

A gasp went up from the crowd and people began to whisper as Father Tom walked from behind the podium taking with him his sermon. Father Tom held it up and shook it, "This is my what I came to tell you today and it starts with the words, "What is love?" but its all a lie. It's not a sermon which was written with love in my heart, it was one which was written with sorrow, pain and fear at its core." 

Father Tom gripped the sheets and ripped them to shreds and when they were the size of confetti he threw them high in the air where the pieces rained down on the front few pews and the odious Mr O'Brien. By now everyone in the church thought Father Tom must be having a breakdown or something but he had never been surer he was doing the right thing and that the man above would be smiling.

Father Tom climbed down from the alter and stood in the middle aisle. "What is love?" he asked, and gazed around at the stunned people. "Love is doing the right thing even when its not popular, love is standing up to bullies and defending the weak. Love is when you hold others in your heart so tightly that you make the worst days better by just being together." Step by step he moved further down the church until he was speaking to a circle of faces trained on him from every side. He had stopped in front of Cillian and Ellen, who were as stunned and shocked as anyone in the room.

Father Tom continued in a softer tone, a tone that spoke directly to them while addressing the room in its entirety. "Love is never letting go of that hand, no matter what anyone says." Then he smiled. It was the smile that broke the spell and Cillian took Ellen's hand in his and kissed her delicate fingers. Big fat tears rushed down her cheeks and her chest fluttered as she did her best to keep her happiness inside but she clung to her man as if she had just been plucked from a deserted island. Tom turned and strode to the front of the church and mounted the steps to the alter.

"There is so much pain and sorrow and loneliness in the world, this is the one place where we come to feel loved. Loved by our Lord and loved by our neighbors. Reach out, make a difference in someones life today, don't let the tiny minded people stop you showing affection." The room was completely silent when Father Tom raised his hands and said, "Please stand."

As one, the room rose.

"Let us offer each other the sign of peace."

People looked around at each other, not sure what to do, all except for Cillian and Ellen who knew exactly what to do. They wrapped their arms around each other and hugged as if there was nobody watching. The silence was broken by a single person clapping manically at the back of the church. There, standing in the doorway as proud as punch was Jane, applauding as if  her life depended on it. One by one others joined her until the noise was deafening, but that was not the end of things. Wrapped up in the emotion people began to follow the young lovers example until the whole room was a laughing clapping hugging frenzy.

From the corner of his eye, Father Tom spied the boiling face of Mr O'Brien, that was until he was nearly knocked on his backside by the flying form of Mrs O'Brien. As he stood there with his wife hugging his neck and laughing uproariously, his daughters trying to encircled them both with their ample arms, the true miracle of the day happened, he smiled and hugged them back.




If you enjoyed this story, you can find more of Father Tom's adventures in one volume.

https://www.amazon.com/Misadventures-Father-Tom-Squid-McFinnigan-ebook/dp/B01AGW4PU2

What remains in the dark of the night

Life is fleeting. It runs through our fingers like fine dry sand. The harder we grip, the more tiny grains float away on the endless winds of time.

The sad reality of our existence is that nothing is permanent. In the beginning, the well of youth seems vast, too vast to ever exhaust. Tentatively we lower the pail of our innocence into those black waters and take a sip of adventure.

As the years' pass, we dip our bucket quicker and faster, sloshing that vital elixir carelessly in our haste for gratification. We draw more and more from the well until one fateful day we see a glimmer of stone shimmering below the surface. Some suffer a moment of dread, some refuse the truth of their eyes, some bow their head in resignation. There is an end after all. Now, we hesitate with our hand on that frayed rope, knowing there are so few fills left. In that moment we know what we have lost.

Parents vanish from our lives, siblings are mislaid among harsh words and caustic looks. Treasured belongings tarnish and rust, lovers grow weary, skin creases and folds, while lushes locks turn grey and adorn morning pillows. The only thing which remains constant is our honour. In the cold dark of night, when we see only a hand full of drops in our bucket, the deeds of our past come to stoke the fire in our soul.

Will we be comforted by a lifetime of love? Will we feel reassured by the way we treated our fellow wanderers on this path of life or will we be haunted by envy, gluttony and greed? Will abandoned friends, jilted lovers and resentful family be the people that litter our memory?

Who knows, perhaps a little of both.

Life is fleeting, so while there's water in your pail, drink carefully, and in the dead of night may your honour keep you forever warm.

The Embrace

The early morning sun breaks through a chink in the curtains and lies heavily on my eyes. The urge to hide is unbearably strong. In here, I’m warm and safe from the trials of the world. Nothing is lurking among the crinkles of my duvet to bring me sadness, or pain, or disappointment. Is it any wonder we run here when we are sick, when we’re in need of blessed rest, allowing our bodies repair the wounds of flesh and soul.  I feel the embrace of goose feathers and surrender myself for a moment.

In the end, I crack my eyes and languidly push away the covers. I draw the curtains aside and let the daylight flood my room. Out there, the world is waiting for me and I feel a surge of mixed emotions.   

Beyond this glass lies the unknown. Countless opportunities for anger, sadness, strife and trouble. Oh yes, there have been fleeting moments of bliss, moments of unbridled joy, but what is left when they pass?  A gaping hole is what. One which seems to linger endlessly.  Joy is a magnificent serpent, a wonder until you feel the prick of its fangs. Why would you try and stroke that particular viper if you’ve been bitten already?  

The answer is life.

Life is our most precious possession, precisely because nobody can say how long it will last or what it might bring. Yes it’s tempting to take the safest road, the one that assures no upset is coming our way. But that is an empty road to travel.

By contrast there are paths which reach for the sky. Tracks which tend to be narrow and filled with pot holes. Those routes take work and bravery to attempt. To climb a mountain you must endure the occasional stone in your boot, or scraped knees a plenty, but the feeling of reaching the summit is heaven.

Sadly we can’t stay perched upon that point forever. Eventually we must begin the climb back down.

So, as I look on a breaking day, a precious few hours of life, I refuse to morn for summits past. I straighten my back and embrace the journey ahead. By the time the sun sets on this day I may have found a new mountain to challenge or even be gazing fondly at a well-remembered view. I refuse to fear the unknown, I will not be beaten by self-pity or angst. No turned ankle or winter squall will stop me, for the journey is the true gift, not the destination.

Today is all there may be.  Tomorrow is never guaranteed.  

The wrong side of the tracks

When I was about thirteen I started secondary school. Every lunchtime we'd spill out onto the streets of town like a herd of wild animals, roaming in packs, or lounging on walls to display our coolness to the world. The town happened to sit on a rarely used train-line which mainly carried slow-moving freight cars. Although it was completely off limits, some of us would climb over the fence and walk the tracks to the far side of town as a shortcut. To my teenage mind, I was thumbing my nose at the establishment, walking on the wild side, a fugitive from justice.

Although I'd never let on to my friends, there was one particular part of crossing the tracks that always made me sick to my stomach. The bridge. The ground dropped away until there was nothing between the sleepers but fresh air. A hundred feet below a river churned, fast running, but not particularly deep. Every time I placed a foot on the narrow maintenance walkway the same feeling of dread fell over me. What would happen if the train came?

As casually as I could, I'd listen for the rumble of a thousand horsepower engine bearing down on us. I'd rest my foot on the cold metal of the track and feel for vibrations. All the way across the bridge I'd imagine what I might do should tonnes of crushing locomotive trap us with no place to run. Would I jump into the water below, risking broken legs, back, or even drowning? Would I have enough room to lie on the walkway and let the train pass over my prone body. Every step of the crossing I'd replay the scenarios in my mind, imagining the water rushing up at me and the shuddering impact when I hit that churning surface, or the feeling of the undercarriage screaming inches from my nose, tugging at my jumber until some low-hanging piece of metal sliced me open from head to toe, spilling my steaming guts all over the bridge.

Those images were bad enough to have rattling around in my brain as we crossed, but I also had to contend with Barry. Sometimes your friends can be your biggest nightmare. Barry was a butty lad with a small brain and a big mouth, who was never happy unless he was showing us up, or slagging us off. Every time we crossed the bridge Barry would climb on top of the ten foot high metal balustrade and walk the narrow ledge the whole way across. If that was not exciting enough for him he would hop from sleeper to sleeper, with the yawning drop between each not bothering him at all.

One day, myself, Barry and a few others were starting to cross the bridge when all my fears came true. Around the bend ahead, a wall of fume belching death came thundering toward us. Barry was hopping as normal from sleeper to sleeper when we saw it. We turned and ran away from the train, back toward the end of the bridge.

"Come on Barry!" I shouted over my shoulder but noticed he was actually hopping toward the train, not away.

"BARRY!"

"I can make it!," he said and continued to race the train to the far end of the bridge. The driver must have seen us at that moment because the horn blared, once, twice, three times and then the scream of metal on metal breaks joined the din. By this time we were all off the bridge except Barry who was still a dozen sleepers from safety. The train driver was trying to stop but his efforts were having no affect at all, he was going too fast and the engine was far too heavy. 

Barry had stopped leaping and was now trying to run across the sleepers. His head was swinging wildly from side to side looking for a way to escape, his terror blatant as he relised these moments may be his last. That was the moment his foot skidded from under him on the greasy timber. He fell back ward and one leg vanished into the void. He managed to wrap an arm around the thick timber beam and stop his fall. His eyes were huge as the first train wheel hit the bridge, the howl of breaks, horn, and metal wheels, mingled with Barry's blood curdling scream until it was impossible to say where one started and the others finished. The train divers panicked face loomed huge and white in the glass. 

There was nothing anyone could do. I got one last look at Barry as the train rushed over him. I don't know if I was yelling or not, I cant remember. It seemed to take forever for the spark spitting wheels to pass by us. When the last carriage cleared the bridge: blood, gore, and mangled body parts should have greeted our eyes, but by a miracle two thin arms were still wrapped around the moss covered sleeper with Barry's tear streaked face hovering inches above it.  We all ran over and dragged Barry onto the bridge as quick as we could before escaping the scene of our crime.

Barry didn't say a word for the rest of lunch time and was particularly quite during the afternoon classes, but by home time his natural boastfulness had overcome his fear. He ended the day standing at the bus stop bragging about taking on the train and winning. But between you and me, he never crossed the bridge again.