Northern California coast, 1972.
The old stone church stood on a high bluff, overlooking the rugged Big Sur coast of California. It was a hubub of activities with the visit of the Bishop, who came in person to attend a dying priest. Father Donovan had become a legend in the church, having spent over 50 years tending to the poorest of the poor in some of the most under developed countries in the world. He'd almost graduated from medical school in England, when he had the calling after a near death accident. Right after graduating the seminary, he'd been posted to a small church on the West coast of his native Ireland. But soon, he had asked the church to send him abroad, away from his native land. The church had done so, even though they were mystified by the sudden change in Father Donovan.
But now, the old Priest was dying from the cancer that had consumed him, and he wanted his last rights and confession from the Bishop. The bishop sat in a chair by the bedside of the dying man.
"Father, I want to confess my sins." the old man gasped, with the effort of speaking.
"Go ahead my son," said the Bishop, wondering what sins this most respected priest could be guilty of.
"I've sheltered a murderer of a British soldier from justice, and I have committed a murder myself, to cover it up." The old priest said weakly.
The Bishop looked at the young Father Clark who was attending the sick man, and was a trained doctor himself. Father Clark looked at the morphine drip and shook his head no, that Father Donovan was not out of his head. The Bishop motioned Father Clark to leave the room so he and Father Donovan were alone.
The Bishop leaned over the dying priest.
"Tell me about it, my son."
The West coast of Ireland, 1921.
Father Donovan stood in the small stone church on the rugged coast and admired his new domain. The new priest was a tall 6 foot strapping young man, who had been the star player on most of the sports teams of the university where he'd been a medical student. Cricket, rugby, he'd been a force to recon with on the playing fields. His powerful build made his priests black garb seem that much more imposing.
Suddenly, three men came into sight around the corner of the church, or rather two men dragging a man between them. The man in the middle, had a large bloodstain on his shirt.
"Father, you have to help us. Liam's been shot, there's a bullet in his shoulder, and he's in a bad way." said Danny Flynn.
"Get him inside, quick." said the priest, well aware of the cause of gunshot wounds in Ireland in that day and age.
They carried him down to a back basement room, and the priest shoved the few items on a table to the floor and they laid the wounded man down. The priest had a small medical kit, and he took out some bandage material and other items. He tore open the shirt and looked, and saw a puckered bleeding hole in the wounded man's shoulder.
"There's no exit hole," the priest exclaimed, turning the man over. "The bullet must still be in there!"
Father Donovan had the two men hold the wounded man while he probed the wound. He looked at the probe with a puzzled expression. Then he had them turn the wounded man over again, and he gently probed and felt the back of the mans shoulder.
"Good lord, I think I can actually feel it back here. It must have stopped just short of going all the way through. I think I can cut it out from back here. But we'll need more help in holding him down, I don't have any anesthetic. Danny, Sean, hold his arms." said the priest. Then Father Donovan called the old woman who took care of some of the cleaning and cooking for the church.
"Mary!" the priest yelled, and an old silver haired woman in black came into the room.
"Hold his hands, Mary, and talk to him. I need him to hold still as he can. It will take a few more men to hold down Liam O'Shay, but one woman can hold his hands. Ready Liam?"
The priest swabbed the area on the back of Liam's shoulder with some whiskey, then reached into his pocket. He took out a beautiful little pocket knife that his father had given him for a birthday gift. It was a swayback pattern jackknife by one of the best cutlery firms in Sheffield. The jigged bone handles were sharp and crisp, not having had the time to age yet from use. Father Donovan open the needle pointed wharncliffe blade and dribbled some of the hundred proof whiskey over the blade.
"Ah what a great waste of good whiskey." said Sean Riley, watching the amber liquid spatter on the stone floor.
"Shut up ya dammed fool! Oh excuse me Father." said Danny Flynn.
The priest stopped for a moment, and then pressed the fine point of the blade into the Flesh of Liam's shoulder. The man bellowed in pain, and Danny and Sean held onto his arms and the old woman held his hands and muttered to him in Gallic. Liam continued to yell in his pain as Father Donovan cut into the back of the shoulder, digging as gently as he could for the bullet. Liam's loud bellowing was in gallic, and young Sean asked the old woman what he was yelling.
"Ohhh, he's blaspheming himself something terrible, he is." said the old woman.
Finally there was a sound of a metallic tink, and the bullet was laying in the metal pan under the cut in Liam's back. Father Donovan packed the wound, and they put a pillow under Liam's head.
"He'll have to stay here and not move for at least a day." Father Donovan told them. "Keep the door closed and him quiet, and it should be alright."
Father Donovan had mixed feelings about sheltering a wanted IRA gunman. He'd heard the not too distant gunfire shortly before the wounded man and his friends appeared at the church, and it didn't take a vivid imagination to picture what had taken place. Yet another IRA ambush of British troops on patrol.
Thinking about it, he almost walked right into the British army sargeant who was walking through the doorway from the main church to the stairway leading down to the basement rooms. The stocky built sargent had an Enfield .38 revolver in his hand.
"So I find some blood drops on the steps of the church, and now I find a priest coming from the back with blood on his hands. On the way to the wash tub were ya, Father? I'll be having a look around to see what there is to see, and maybe finish off the black Irish pig I got a shot at a while ago. Stand aside priest!" said the English soldier as he shoved Father Donovan aside. The priest staggered against a table, and the soldier went to the head of the stairs.
A sudden mix of emotions took over the young priest. Fear of being discovered, fear for the man laying on the table in the room below, anger that this man had invaded the sanctuary of his church to finish off a wounded man. Without thinking about it, Father Donovan grabbed a large brass candle stick from the table he'd been shoved against, and swung it with all his might.
"Noooo!" he yelled as he swung at the English soldier. The sargent hearing the yell behind him started to turn with his revolver leveled, but the candle stick struck the side of his head a mighty blow. He dropped to the stone floor like a sack of oats.
The commotion had drawn Danny Flynn and Sean Riley and the old woman. Father Donovan was in shock, stunned by his own actions.
"My God, what have I done?"he asked.
"You've saved one of our own, that's what. He'd have had us shot or at the end of a British hangmans rope if you hadn't stopped him." Said Sean.
"He'll report us all, he knows."said Father Donovan.
Danny looked up where he'd been feeling for a pulse.
"He's not telling anyone a thing, Father, he's dead!"
Father Donovan stood in shock for a moment, then stumbled out the side door of the church to the quiet churchyard, and doubled over and vomited in the wet grass. That he killed a man in his own church left him in a hysterical state. Dedicating his life to helping, he'd become a murderer in an instant that changed his world forever. He was not to be comforted by Danny or Sean, but it was the old woman who brought him down to earth.
She walked over to him, her black shawl pulled up over her head in the light drizzle of rain falling. Standing in front of him, suddenly she slapped him hard right across the face, the crack loud in the quiet churchyard. Father Donovan stared down at her.
"I'm sorry father, priest ye may be, but dammed young fool you most certainly are as well. So you've killed a man this day. You've also saved a life, maybe twice over as well. He'd have killed Liam, and these two young boys as well. So now you want to do right, maybe even give yourself up to the Brits. How much will that accomplish"? She scolded him.
"Dangling at the end of a hangmans rope is a poor way to redeem yourself." she continued to scold him. " You're young and strong, with a long life ahead of you, if you have the sense to live it. Want to satisfy your wanting to redeem yourself? Well go and serve the church where you're really needed. You're almost a doctor, that's a lot better than most poor people get in some parts of the world. Go and minister to their souls, and heal their sick and injured, you can do that can't you?"
Father Donovan hesitated for a moment.
"But what about the dead man? We can't just ignore him and hope he goes away!" he said.
Danny Flynn glanced at he sea, and said, "Is it true the sea shall give up the dead at the resurrection? I reckon that will be long enough for our use, father."
So Father Donovan did what the old woman said. For the next half century, he went to the worst parts of the globe, healing and ministering. Darkest Africa, India, South America. While in India, he taught a young sister Teresa how to disinfect wounds, treat fevers. Later, Mother Teresa told how much she had learned from Father Donovan. Then when an old man, he saw the little stone church on the rugged California coast, and it so reminded him of his native Ireland. The church, seeing the old priest in failing health, let him live out his last couple of years there.
Northern California coast, 1972.
The old priest lay back, exhausted from telling the tale. His breath rasped as he tried to get air. The Bishop sat back in his chair, stunned by the tale of murder in the church, and of 50 years of trying to make up for the sin. Father Donovan looked up at the Bishop with a plea in his eyes, and the Bishop knew there was but one thing to do for the dying old man.
He leaned over Father Donovan and made the sign of the cross.
"God forgives you, and absolves you of your sins." He told Father Donovan.
Then he leaned down and kissed the old priest gently on the forehead.
"Go in peace, my son."
"Thank you, Father." the old priest gasped, then closed his eyes. Later that night, Father Donovan passed on.
The next morning, the Bishop was walking outside, admiring the view of the blue ocean beyond the cliffs when he saw young Father Clark standing in the pine shaded church yard. The young priest was holding a small object in his hand. A very old pocket knife.
"What have you got there? asked the Bishop.
Father Clark handed the bishop a small worn out pocket knife. The smooth bone scales had barely a ghost of outline where the jigging had been, and both blades were sharpened down to steel toothpicks. It was so badly worn, most men would have replaced it long ago.
"Father Donovan gave me his watch and pocket knife a few days ago. He said he was grateful for my aid in his last days." said the young priest. "Can you imagine how long Father Donovan carried this knife? I mean, he was all over the world. If an inanimate object could talk, can you imagine what kind of tales this old knife could tell?"
The Bishop gave the little jackknife an enigmatic look.
"You would be truly amazed, my son." was all the Bishop said.
The old stone church stood on a high bluff, overlooking the rugged Big Sur coast of California. It was a hubub of activities with the visit of the Bishop, who came in person to attend a dying priest. Father Donovan had become a legend in the church, having spent over 50 years tending to the poorest of the poor in some of the most under developed countries in the world. He'd almost graduated from medical school in England, when he had the calling after a near death accident. Right after graduating the seminary, he'd been posted to a small church on the West coast of his native Ireland. But soon, he had asked the church to send him abroad, away from his native land. The church had done so, even though they were mystified by the sudden change in Father Donovan.
But now, the old Priest was dying from the cancer that had consumed him, and he wanted his last rights and confession from the Bishop. The bishop sat in a chair by the bedside of the dying man.
"Father, I want to confess my sins." the old man gasped, with the effort of speaking.
"Go ahead my son," said the Bishop, wondering what sins this most respected priest could be guilty of.
"I've sheltered a murderer of a British soldier from justice, and I have committed a murder myself, to cover it up." The old priest said weakly.
The Bishop looked at the young Father Clark who was attending the sick man, and was a trained doctor himself. Father Clark looked at the morphine drip and shook his head no, that Father Donovan was not out of his head. The Bishop motioned Father Clark to leave the room so he and Father Donovan were alone.
The Bishop leaned over the dying priest.
"Tell me about it, my son."
The West coast of Ireland, 1921.
Father Donovan stood in the small stone church on the rugged coast and admired his new domain. The new priest was a tall 6 foot strapping young man, who had been the star player on most of the sports teams of the university where he'd been a medical student. Cricket, rugby, he'd been a force to recon with on the playing fields. His powerful build made his priests black garb seem that much more imposing.
Suddenly, three men came into sight around the corner of the church, or rather two men dragging a man between them. The man in the middle, had a large bloodstain on his shirt.
"Father, you have to help us. Liam's been shot, there's a bullet in his shoulder, and he's in a bad way." said Danny Flynn.
"Get him inside, quick." said the priest, well aware of the cause of gunshot wounds in Ireland in that day and age.
They carried him down to a back basement room, and the priest shoved the few items on a table to the floor and they laid the wounded man down. The priest had a small medical kit, and he took out some bandage material and other items. He tore open the shirt and looked, and saw a puckered bleeding hole in the wounded man's shoulder.
"There's no exit hole," the priest exclaimed, turning the man over. "The bullet must still be in there!"
Father Donovan had the two men hold the wounded man while he probed the wound. He looked at the probe with a puzzled expression. Then he had them turn the wounded man over again, and he gently probed and felt the back of the mans shoulder.
"Good lord, I think I can actually feel it back here. It must have stopped just short of going all the way through. I think I can cut it out from back here. But we'll need more help in holding him down, I don't have any anesthetic. Danny, Sean, hold his arms." said the priest. Then Father Donovan called the old woman who took care of some of the cleaning and cooking for the church.
"Mary!" the priest yelled, and an old silver haired woman in black came into the room.
"Hold his hands, Mary, and talk to him. I need him to hold still as he can. It will take a few more men to hold down Liam O'Shay, but one woman can hold his hands. Ready Liam?"
The priest swabbed the area on the back of Liam's shoulder with some whiskey, then reached into his pocket. He took out a beautiful little pocket knife that his father had given him for a birthday gift. It was a swayback pattern jackknife by one of the best cutlery firms in Sheffield. The jigged bone handles were sharp and crisp, not having had the time to age yet from use. Father Donovan open the needle pointed wharncliffe blade and dribbled some of the hundred proof whiskey over the blade.
"Ah what a great waste of good whiskey." said Sean Riley, watching the amber liquid spatter on the stone floor.
"Shut up ya dammed fool! Oh excuse me Father." said Danny Flynn.
The priest stopped for a moment, and then pressed the fine point of the blade into the Flesh of Liam's shoulder. The man bellowed in pain, and Danny and Sean held onto his arms and the old woman held his hands and muttered to him in Gallic. Liam continued to yell in his pain as Father Donovan cut into the back of the shoulder, digging as gently as he could for the bullet. Liam's loud bellowing was in gallic, and young Sean asked the old woman what he was yelling.
"Ohhh, he's blaspheming himself something terrible, he is." said the old woman.
Finally there was a sound of a metallic tink, and the bullet was laying in the metal pan under the cut in Liam's back. Father Donovan packed the wound, and they put a pillow under Liam's head.
"He'll have to stay here and not move for at least a day." Father Donovan told them. "Keep the door closed and him quiet, and it should be alright."
Father Donovan had mixed feelings about sheltering a wanted IRA gunman. He'd heard the not too distant gunfire shortly before the wounded man and his friends appeared at the church, and it didn't take a vivid imagination to picture what had taken place. Yet another IRA ambush of British troops on patrol.
Thinking about it, he almost walked right into the British army sargeant who was walking through the doorway from the main church to the stairway leading down to the basement rooms. The stocky built sargent had an Enfield .38 revolver in his hand.
"So I find some blood drops on the steps of the church, and now I find a priest coming from the back with blood on his hands. On the way to the wash tub were ya, Father? I'll be having a look around to see what there is to see, and maybe finish off the black Irish pig I got a shot at a while ago. Stand aside priest!" said the English soldier as he shoved Father Donovan aside. The priest staggered against a table, and the soldier went to the head of the stairs.
A sudden mix of emotions took over the young priest. Fear of being discovered, fear for the man laying on the table in the room below, anger that this man had invaded the sanctuary of his church to finish off a wounded man. Without thinking about it, Father Donovan grabbed a large brass candle stick from the table he'd been shoved against, and swung it with all his might.
"Noooo!" he yelled as he swung at the English soldier. The sargent hearing the yell behind him started to turn with his revolver leveled, but the candle stick struck the side of his head a mighty blow. He dropped to the stone floor like a sack of oats.
The commotion had drawn Danny Flynn and Sean Riley and the old woman. Father Donovan was in shock, stunned by his own actions.
"My God, what have I done?"he asked.
"You've saved one of our own, that's what. He'd have had us shot or at the end of a British hangmans rope if you hadn't stopped him." Said Sean.
"He'll report us all, he knows."said Father Donovan.
Danny looked up where he'd been feeling for a pulse.
"He's not telling anyone a thing, Father, he's dead!"
Father Donovan stood in shock for a moment, then stumbled out the side door of the church to the quiet churchyard, and doubled over and vomited in the wet grass. That he killed a man in his own church left him in a hysterical state. Dedicating his life to helping, he'd become a murderer in an instant that changed his world forever. He was not to be comforted by Danny or Sean, but it was the old woman who brought him down to earth.
She walked over to him, her black shawl pulled up over her head in the light drizzle of rain falling. Standing in front of him, suddenly she slapped him hard right across the face, the crack loud in the quiet churchyard. Father Donovan stared down at her.
"I'm sorry father, priest ye may be, but dammed young fool you most certainly are as well. So you've killed a man this day. You've also saved a life, maybe twice over as well. He'd have killed Liam, and these two young boys as well. So now you want to do right, maybe even give yourself up to the Brits. How much will that accomplish"? She scolded him.
"Dangling at the end of a hangmans rope is a poor way to redeem yourself." she continued to scold him. " You're young and strong, with a long life ahead of you, if you have the sense to live it. Want to satisfy your wanting to redeem yourself? Well go and serve the church where you're really needed. You're almost a doctor, that's a lot better than most poor people get in some parts of the world. Go and minister to their souls, and heal their sick and injured, you can do that can't you?"
Father Donovan hesitated for a moment.
"But what about the dead man? We can't just ignore him and hope he goes away!" he said.
Danny Flynn glanced at he sea, and said, "Is it true the sea shall give up the dead at the resurrection? I reckon that will be long enough for our use, father."
So Father Donovan did what the old woman said. For the next half century, he went to the worst parts of the globe, healing and ministering. Darkest Africa, India, South America. While in India, he taught a young sister Teresa how to disinfect wounds, treat fevers. Later, Mother Teresa told how much she had learned from Father Donovan. Then when an old man, he saw the little stone church on the rugged California coast, and it so reminded him of his native Ireland. The church, seeing the old priest in failing health, let him live out his last couple of years there.
Northern California coast, 1972.
The old priest lay back, exhausted from telling the tale. His breath rasped as he tried to get air. The Bishop sat back in his chair, stunned by the tale of murder in the church, and of 50 years of trying to make up for the sin. Father Donovan looked up at the Bishop with a plea in his eyes, and the Bishop knew there was but one thing to do for the dying old man.
He leaned over Father Donovan and made the sign of the cross.
"God forgives you, and absolves you of your sins." He told Father Donovan.
Then he leaned down and kissed the old priest gently on the forehead.
"Go in peace, my son."
"Thank you, Father." the old priest gasped, then closed his eyes. Later that night, Father Donovan passed on.
The next morning, the Bishop was walking outside, admiring the view of the blue ocean beyond the cliffs when he saw young Father Clark standing in the pine shaded church yard. The young priest was holding a small object in his hand. A very old pocket knife.
"What have you got there? asked the Bishop.
Father Clark handed the bishop a small worn out pocket knife. The smooth bone scales had barely a ghost of outline where the jigging had been, and both blades were sharpened down to steel toothpicks. It was so badly worn, most men would have replaced it long ago.
"Father Donovan gave me his watch and pocket knife a few days ago. He said he was grateful for my aid in his last days." said the young priest. "Can you imagine how long Father Donovan carried this knife? I mean, he was all over the world. If an inanimate object could talk, can you imagine what kind of tales this old knife could tell?"
The Bishop gave the little jackknife an enigmatic look.
"You would be truly amazed, my son." was all the Bishop said.
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