An Immortal Descent

Still standing on the crate, Mrs. Murphy started to cry in earnest. “‘Tis true. She healed your old mam.”

 

 

The villagers burst into cheers, and the word “miracle” buzzed from mouth to mouth.

 

“Well done,” Ailish murmured. “You saved our skins, all right.”

 

My shoulders slumped forward, more from relief of averting a disaster than the actual work of healing.

 

Calhoun chuckled just below the window. “Here, take me hand. Careful now, one foot at a time, Mrs. Murphy. No sense breaking your neck...” He paused for a moment. “Here, lass, come help your mam indoors for a glass o’ wine. The miracle has turned her legs to jelly.”

 

“Move aside,” a man shouted above the crowd. “I’ll take me turn next on the crate.”

 

“Hold on,” a woman answered. “It won’t take but a second for Brigid to heal me aching joints.”

 

“Your rheumatism, can wait, Mary Gibbons,” the man said. “I’ve an abscessed tooth that’s to poison me head if’n it’s left to rot any longer.”

 

Mary snorted her opinion of the tooth. “Ladies first, you ole’ fool. Now budge out of me way afore I knock you to the ground.”

 

The sound of jostling bodies and angry grunts passed through the curtain. In a matter of seconds, the grunts turned to shouts, and I began to envision all manner of chaos, when the caravan swayed from a sudden press forward. Ailish fell back onto the bench with a surprised squeak. I stumbled to the side, catching myself on the cabinets.

 

“Calm down!” Calhoun shouted. “There be no need for shovin’. We’ve time enough for everyone.”

 

“What about me joints?” Mary asked.

 

“Very well,” Calhoun said. “Anyone wanting to speak through the window, please stand in an orderly fashion behind Mrs. Gibbons.”

 

The caravan swayed again, though with less force this time.

 

“Keep it orderly,” Calhoun yelled. “And have your silver ready, mind you.”

 

A heartbeat passed for this last part to sink in. Once it did, the protests took a different tone.

 

“What say you, Calhoun?” a man asked. “Have you a mind to profit from Saint Brigid?”

 

I rolled my eyes at so na?ve a question. Profit indeed. The black-hearted scoundrel would bleed these people dry before picking the flesh from their bones.

 

“It’s not me intention to get rich from miracles,” Calhoun protested. “I’d live on air alone to please the blessed lady. But a man’s got to fill his belly at the end o’ the day, same as everyone else, and to keep his horses in feed.”

 

The protests grew fainter.

 

Emboldened, Calhoun continued with growing fervor. “Do you think it would please Saint Brigid if’n her servant died for lack o’ nourishment? And after all I’ve endured to bring miracles to the folks of Dunmore? Pay me what you will, but remember the miser’s farthing reaps a miser’s reward.”

 

“How much do you want then for a swig o’ water and to touch the relic?” a man asked.

 

“Well, the people o’ Dublin paid two crowns for the privilege, but as I owe a debt to some folks here, I’ll settle for a single crown and call us square.”

 

“Greedy bollix,” Ailish muttered. “‘Twould serve him right if’n they tossed him to the sea.”

 

I waved a frantic hand for quiet while straining my ears for the villagers’ response.

 

“Don’t seem unreasonable once you think on it,” someone said at last. “Even the priests get paid for doing God’s work.”

 

“Right you are,” Calhoun said, obviously pleased by the comparison. “And who can dispute God’s work be done today.”

 

There was a smattering of grudging assents.

 

“We’ll pay you, Calhoun. Half a crown for the water, and another to touch the relic.”

 

Calhoun clapped his hands together, and I could just see the greed shining on his pudgy face. “Saint Brigid be pleased for certain by the good hearts o’ Dunmore...”

 

“And lighter purses,” Ailish scoffed.

 

“Take mine first,” Mary Gibbons called, her anxious voice followed by the clink of coins. “Now give me a drink o’ that water afore me joints swell stiff as a board from standing out in this cold.”

 

“Very good, Mrs. Gibbons... Take the bottle just so, then Calhoun will help you onto the crate... The rest o’ you will stay orderly like and wait your turn. Ladies first, and don’t be shoving too close.”

 

Short, fat fingers poked through the curtain. When the rest of her hands appeared, I pressed my palms upward.

 

Mrs. Gibbon’s giggled with delight. “I feel it!” she squealed.

 

Yawning, Ailish stretched out on the bench. “I see you’ve got it from here, Selah.” She snatched a pillow from the floor, tucked it under her head and pulled a blanket to her chin. “Wake me if’n you need any help.”

 

Mrs. Gibbon’s voice cut across Ailish’s last words. “Blessed Brigid, patron saint o’ the Irish, please help an old woman. The rheumatism be a constant plague to me joints.”

 

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