Father Peter's reputation was woven into the fabric of life in the town.  He had an appetite enough to feed his fifty inch girth and a laugh that filled the parish from the church to the White Horse Inn.  It was no great surprise to his parishioners when he was found late one winter evening slumped against the front wall of the post office - fortunately just a mild heart attack this time. 

 

After a brief period of recuperation and abstinence he was back on his rounds, slurping Saturday teas with the O’Brians and tucking into long, late, Sunday lunches with the widows Shaughnassy and Maguire.  He was never seen in the taverns but it was rumoured that the local off licences had became frequent ports of call. His kitchen light could be seen burning long into the night. His once sharp, black cassock was turning a tired grey, fraying badly at the cuffs and hem.  The heels of his battered, black shoes were worn flat to the road and his sparse, grey hair hung lank and unkempt. 

 

Father Peter's pride would not allow him to share his problems.  After all he was the Lord’s appointed shepherd to his flock - responsible for ministering to other people’s problems.  The drinking had led to pecuniary embarrassment and this in turn had created quite a serious shortfall in the revenues of the church, even occasioning the disappearance of some small silver, religious relics that would, after all, scarcely be missed in the general wealth of a prosperous church.  Time was not on his side and he knew that if he could not redeem his pledges at the Dublin pawnbrokers by the end of the month, the 'miracle of the vanishing artefacts' would be evidence of the actions of a corrupt and dissolute priest.  He was keenly aware that he was barely tolerated by those above him and that the occasional surprise visit by a passing senior cleric was no social call.  He was being watched.

 

On one of his 'business' visits to Dublin in December he mingled with the students in the Stag's Head beneath the disapproving glare of the long deceased stag, beneath the fateful ticking of the white faced clock. The students enjoyed his company and proffered good natured hospitality to this gregarious man of the cloth.

 

There he met Francis, a man with a smile to melt the butter on your plate. “It's a cold night Father,” he said, gazing distractedly into his pint. Peter, disarmed by the smile and befuddled enough already by the contributions of his student benefactors, slipped an elbow on the old wooden bar and jerked in surprise at being addressed by the stranger.

“ 'Tis a cold city with a cold heart.”  The two men fell into easy conversation lubricated by the thrum of general good will and humour around them.  After a few more ales they might have known each other for years. Francis sensed Peter's troubled mind and engaged him in deeper conversation.  The stranger soon learnt of the priest's poor luck and a bit more besides. “ A holy mess all right,” murmured Peter, with a deep sigh.  He smiled weakly and ordered himself another Black Biddy, offering the same to his new acquaintance. 

 

It was after midnight when the two men walked back to the priest’s hotel room to finish the half bottle of whisky that Francis had produced to pursue a conversation which had grown more muted and solemn as the evening wore on.  By now Francis had heard of the collection plate and the silver figurines. He knew of the large tab that had grown at, not just one, but both of the off licences in the town.  He sympathised and looked to comfort his companion with yet another glass.

 

“Father I want you to hear me out.  This will sound ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous but just hear me out.'  He paused and eventually the priest nodded.  'For years, I have been able to perform a certain, how shall I put it, ‘function’ that has allowed me never to need to look for work or worry about money.  I do not abuse this 'gift' for I was told, as a child, that if I became greedy I would lose it.”

 

The bemused priest rocked on his chair.  He smiled incredulously but the combination of the whiskey, stout and his dire circumstances, as well as the undeniable fact that he was quite taken by this young man’s cheek and knavishness, all conspired to let him play along with the game. “Now what would this gift be?” he asked.  His tired, brimming eyes looked searchingly into the younger man’s face.

 

Francis slowly rose to his feet and reached for a coat thrown on the bed in the corner of the room.  From the depths of one of the pockets he produced a small velvet box with gold hinges that looked as if it had once contained a smart fountain pen.  He carefully brushed the dark blue surface and opened it. Inside was a small silver ingot.  The damp wood in the fire crackled and spat loudly.  The shutters that had been rattling in the wind ceased to clatter and the noise of the world stopped as Father Peter looked in wonder, first at the object and then at the suddenly serious face of his new friend.

 

“What's this?” he inquired, his breath coming in shorter bursts.

 

“Watch,” said Francis as he snapped the box shut and raised it gently to his lips.  His eyes closed as he kissed the soft surface soundlessly.  In one smooth action he opened it again. Peter was gazing at a similar bar of metal but this one was solid gold.

 

 “A conjuror’s trick is it?” he asked staring at his companion in the dim light.

 

“Father do you still believe in miracles?  This is no trick. This is a gift that is a burden to me.  I have carried it for too long and it makes me weary.  Each time this miracle happens, and don’t ask me how it works, I just don’t know, I become that much weaker.  I pay a price, for I feel sure that I kiss away a year of my life each time I do it.  I’m no saint and I’m no evangelist.  I’m just a simple man who when I was a child was shown the way by the strangest woman I have ever met.  She appeared at my mother’s gate and asked for food.  I took her some bread and milk and she kissed her fingers and laid them on my lips.  I swear Father it was like an electric shock. My legs went limp and I fell to the floor. When I rose again she had disappeared in the mist of the morning.  I heard her voice calling that if I abused the gift I would lose it.  Her voice seemed to hang in the air.  I had no idea then what she had done. 

 

It was days later when I kissed the silver cross around my neck before church that the same shock ran through my body and brought me to my knees. I was nauseous and winded, disorientated and frightened.  I stumbled my way to the service.  The voices echoed in the church.  The smell of incense burned in my throat and my eyes were blurred with tears.  I attracted strange glances from the congregation but I somehow managed to get through the mass.  On returning home I saw in the mirror my cross had turned to gold and then I understood.”

 

“I can help you father and you can help me.  I can turn some of your silver into gold and by helping you I believe I will be able to buy back some of the lost time that I have sold for the riches I have spent over the years.  I’m exhausted father and the burden is growing harder to bear.” 

 

The priest’s mind raced as he thought about how he could pay back the church, clear his debts, save his good name and help this tormented boy. He felt as though God’s hand was upon his shoulder, pulling him back from the brink.  He had nothing to lose.

 

The credulous priest was in turmoil.  His befuddled brain struggled to work out who was going to suffer from all this.  In his inebriated state he believed he had found his answer and that their meeting was serendipitous.  It was indeed a miracle he had seen.  Francis was not in any way offended when he had asked to inspect the box. He examined it carefully.  He checked every inch and there was no trickery, just the single, gold ingot gleaming inside.  There were no hidden catches or compartments, The man had even repeated the trick with a large and unusual silver ring that Peter pointed to on his friend's hand and asked him if he could turn that into gold too.  Without hesitation the man removed the ring, which slid off easily and placed it, not in the box but on the low wooden table in front of him.  He held his shaking hand over it.  He trembled, groaned and beads of sweat fell from his shaking brow.  The priest looked into his eyes to see tears running down his cheeks.  The ring had transmuted.  It was undeniable.  He trembled despite the heat of the fire.  He took another drink and the alcohol surged as a tide through his blood.

 

They met again the following day and travelled together on the slow train south.  In the cold light of morning a piercing winter sunshine cut through the trees. The story had brought a ray of hope to the confused heart of the old priest.  He shifted restlessly, willing the journey to end. Turning towards the window of the carriage, he crossed himself and murmured beneath his breath, “But he knoweth the way that I take: when he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold..”  Francis gazed out of the window impassively. 

 

By early evening Father Peter had collected the remaining valuable pieces from the church.  Amongst them a simple silver cross, a foot high, lifted from the altar. He had been embarrassed on bumping into the widow Shaughnassy attending her husband’s grave and hurriedly made his excuses, scuttling away down the gravel path, his hoard clanking against his thigh as he puffed his way home. The fire that burnt in his grate was banked high and the room seemed full of warmth and hope. The priest was attentive to his guest and plied him with good drink and rich food.  As both men sat happy and rested expectation grew. Francis was quietly preparing himself for the miracle of transmutation. 

 

They moved to the two arm chairs beside the smoking fire.  “Sit down Father.  Sure there’s nothin' to worry about.  If you’ve lost a little faith then prepare yourself for a fresh start.”

 

Francis walked back to the table, lifted the heavy cross from amongst the other items and walked briskly and with murderous intent towards the priest.  The old man sensed this sudden disturbing change in the manner of his guest and vainly struggled to rise from his seat.  He was pushed back with force and stared in horror as he saw the visitor raise the heavy object purposefully above his head. 

 

It was just at that moment that the good Lord chose to take Peter’s soul.  His poor, tired heart, so stressed of late, stopped in an instant. He crumpled back into the chair with a soft moan, shuddered violently for a few seconds and was still.

 

I sometimes feel the Lord does not look after his own.  I don’t why but I kept the cross.  It stands on the marble mantelshelf of the Queen Anne fireplace next to a blue velvet box containing one gold and one silver ingot and one silver and one gold ring.