This Cold Spell

This is a short story I did for college back before Christmas. Edited a bit since then. Enjoy, or not, whatever... 

This Cold Spell

The church was colder than usual this Sunday morning as Thomas stood behind his grandfather, trying to give the impression of assistance. His feet tangled while the hand which he offered as support hung limply in the air. The old man needed no such help and grasped the dark wooden pew with his usual determined strength.

 “Paddy, how’re things with you?” he said. His voice echoed through the church, causing the youngest of the Fitzgeralds to turn around and stare.  Thomas bowed his head, thankful that the church was still relatively empty. Paddy Morgan shifted himself from his position against the wall to greet them.

“Michael Thomas O’Brien, how are you?” Paddy said, stretching his hand out. Michael Thomas shook his hand while he lowered himself into the seat. Thomas allowed him to relax back for a few seconds before he felt it would be suitable to sit down also. He genuflected at the edge of the seat, making sure to touch his knee off the floor before rising again. He had often heard his grandfather complain about the young ones these days not genuflecting properly.

“You should see them in the middle aisle,” he had told him before. “They have no sooner bent their knee and they’re up again, talkin’ and gamin’ like they’re at O’Connell’s for a few.”

His grandfather had not kneeled down, and Thomas realised that it was quite likely that he had stopped because of his worsening back. Thomas’ father no longer wanted Michael going into mass on his own, insisting that he would only let him if Thomas accompanied him. Thomas had no problem doing this as he enjoyed his grandfather’s company, revelling in his old stories. He had always made a point of visiting him every Saturday after he had his homework done to fill him in on the week’s events. Despite the fact that he was doing his Leaving Cert this year he had kept up the tradition. As he settled himself in the seat he noticed his grandfather begin to move downwards. He shifted with some discomfort until he had one knee placed on the cushioning and then dropped the other knee.

“Are you ok?” Thomas whispered, gently supporting him.

“What?”

“Are you...?” Thomas paused, seeing that his grandfather was now comfortably kneeling. “It’s grand.”

He knew he had to stop treating him like an invalid. It was only natural, though, that he would worry. His grandfather was now ninety-four years of age but would not accept any sign of weakness. He was also aware that his attempt at supporting him as he knelt down was the last thing he should have done. An aching body did not need reminding. He looked at this grandfather’s hands as they joined together in prayer. They were the darkest pair of hands Thomas had ever seen with constant yellow bruising and giant protruding purple veins. Thomas could not imagine a rougher looking pair of hands, and their soft feel had always caught him by surprise. He remembered the time he had watched as his grandfather grabbed the live electric wire and looked back at him in a triumphant smile. “You couldn’t shock these hands now.” And indeed you couldn’t.

Thomas felt a soft pain in his arm and looked up to see Brian, his closest friend, smirking. He was about to return the punch but then thought better of it. Brian and his family sat about five rows ahead of them as usual. Thomas’ grandfather had always sat in the back row of the middle aisle while his grandmother never strayed from the third seat of the south aisle. It was a strange arrangement, and Thomas admired the blow-ins who sat wherever they pleased on any given day.

The grey stone walls of the church gave Thomas a chilly feeling. The radiators were rarely used, and coming to mass in winter was akin to an arctic expedition. Despite these setbacks the church had a homely feel, as his father would say. The ‘modern’ Stations of the Cross which had been put up recently felt totally out of place and Thomas had preferred the old wooden ones with their intricate detail.

Thomas’ heart skipped as he realised that he had spent the last minute daydreaming instead of kneeling down. He flung himself down onto the cushioning and crossed himself. What would his grandfather say? In front of Paddy Morgan as well. Would he think that his grandson was as bad as all the other young ones who showed such disrespect to the Church? He dared not look up at him for fear his face would betray his emotions. Probably best to move his mouth as well to show that he was at least saying some form of prayer. There was a time when he would never have forgotten to pray. The hour he used to spend only a year ago at his night-time prayers seemed absurd to him now. The red knees used to stand as a testament to his faith. Something had changed in the last few months though. It must have been those books that his History teacher had recommended. He had brushed over the uncomfortable parts at first, but over the last few months they had been constantly buzzing around inside his head, like a swarm of irritating flies, destroying the peace of a summer’s day. It had started with his mind trailing during prayers, and now he barely ever said his morning and evening ones anymore. Even his friends who had never had his strong faith still said they believed. Why did he have to question it? Could he not just be normal and accept the beautiful story? Even if it was just for the sake of his grandfather...  

Michael Thomas rose with difficulty from his position. Probably should wait a minute or two before getting up to show he wasn’t pretending to pray. The church was filling up now. His watch said that there was still ten minutes before mass would start. Now that his prayer was finished, his grandfather turned to Paddy Morgan.

“It’s getting colder alright Paddy.”

Paddy looked up with a grave expression. “Jesus but it is Michael Thomas. Tis.”

An agonising silence fell between the two before Paddy spoke again. “Won’t be long at all now till we have the stove blazin’ again.”

“Jesus then it won’t!” his Grandfather laughed. Thomas began to turn red and imagined his Father hearing every word of the conversation in the side aisle. He certainly couldn’t tell them to quieten down. Another longer silence fell before his grandfather spoke.

“Tell me Paddy, does it be lonely these times in the house?”

Paddy’s smile turned into a more solemn expression and he whispered “Tis then. Tis.”

“How long is it now Paddy?”

Paddy looked up to his right and muttered a few numbers. “Suppose ‘twill be four and the half year this winter.”

“Jesus but where do the years go?”

“I know man. The years go fast and the days slow.”

“True for you.”

Another silence. Thomas was now very conscious of the ever-filling Church. He sat up in the seat and hoped that the conversation would end or the topic change.

“You remember the day of her wake?” Paddy said.

“I do then”

“Wait till I tell you a good one.” He shifted with excitement in his seat. “Well if a friend of Mary’s from school didn’t come into me, and what does she say but that she thought I was dead with a number of years.”

“She never did!”

“She did. Well then I says, ‘it wasn’t too worried you were in any case ma’am for you didn’t come to my funeral.’”

The two men burst out laughing, causing several heads to turn around and smile. Thomas lowered his head once more, trying to hide his blushes. What could he do?  Paddy looked across and made eye contact with Thomas.

“Is this your grandson?”

“Tis. He’s John’s eldest. Going into Leaving Cert now.”

“Oh,” he nodded his head. “He has the farm so.”

His grandfather looked across at him with a kind smile.

“Ah no. This is a man for the books.”

“Is he? More power to him.”

“Oh faith, there’s no fear of him. He’s one of the good young ones.”

Thomas was now bright red. He could no longer care about the volume of the conversation. His sighed to himself at the saintly image his grandfather had of him. He knew he must never allow his eyes to gaze upon the true one.  

The jingle from the sacristy signalled the start of mass. Thomas watched as his grandfather struggled to raise himself. The clicking of his knees worried Thomas. He had heard his father mention this before. He was to make sure that he didn’t wander up to communion. Old Fr. Conway today. They were in for an extended show this week so. Thomas tried to make out who was serving through the maze of heads in front of him. Noel’s brother and one of the Driscolls; he could never remember their names. Five years it was since he had served. Christ, a lot had changed since then. The whole thing had seemed so different. Somehow it had all made sense, felt real and lucid. Lucid. That was one of his new words. He had written it into his little notepad alongside ‘recalcitrant’ and ‘iconoclast’. He would need these words now if he was going to do well in his exams.

Fr. Conway stood very still, resting his hands on the sides of the pulpit. He always had a far away gaze, looking right down the centre of the aisle at no one in particular. His monotonous drone filled the church, and Thomas immediately felt his shoulders slouch under the familiar weight of didacticism.

“Today we will look at the undeniable nature of human weakness,” said the priest. Thomas looked across at his grandfather, his wrinkles appearing like moving valleys in a distant arid country. His strong sea-hardened eyes shone through the crowd focusing in on the priest.

“Human weakness,” he continued, “is an undeniable fact that we must all accept in today’s world. It is true that many people would prefer to ignore this and live in the blissful ignorance that popular culture encourages. Today we will look at how our weakness contrasts with the almighty power of our Creator, and how if we do not accept this undeniable fact, we can never overcome our inherent weaknesses.”

The arched knuckles of that brown leathery hand were wrapped around the pew, almost causing it to shake. Thomas looked down at his own and tried to imagine clutching it in the same way. He focused all his strength until the small veins on his hand quietly surfaced. Pathetic. An ‘undeniable fact’ indeed.

“Think of our Lord’s strength. Think of the strength we can obtain from Him by prayer. Anyway, I will return to this later on.” Fr. Conway lifted the Bible up from the pulpit to make way for the readers. The wine-red cover was frayed around the edges and reminded Thomas of the book on Greek Classics he had read about two months previously. You were supposed to know your Greek Classics going into College but he had failed to get through even half the book. The only story he could remember involved some God stealing fire from Zeus. Something to do with mortals being given fire. What could that possibly mean?  He could never understand their attraction.  Fables for intellectuals was all they were. Prometheus! That was his name. Forsaken then, forgotten now. Probably looking down in bewilderment today at people’s gradual lack of interest after hundreds of years of worship. Almost an X-factor for the Gods. You had your week at No.1, now back to the till in Tesco.

“Lord hear us”

“Lord graciously hear us,” he whispered, sitting back down. Fr. Conway made his way slowly back to the pulpit. His walk had deteriorated in the last year or so. According to those who should know, the operation on his hip had not been a success, and his car was now rarely seen away from O’Connell’s. His heavy breathing was amplified by the mic as he organised his papers. “Human weakness...” he began.

But it was all so different from those Greek stories. We weren’t weak in them. How could we be if Prometheus had given us divine fire? Soaring down from heaven in a trail of light with flames in His hand, all so that we may share in the knowledge of the Gods. The ultimate act of altruism. Placing ember after ember into the mouths of the common man. Enlightening their eyes to their true potential. And Himself hadn’t been happy either. It mattered not for His job had been done. Even as that eagle picked morsels of His liver out, bit by bit, He must have sat back and marvelled at His work. No pain could affect Him then.

“We have been weak since the beginning of time. It was our weakness that had us thrown out of the Garden of Eden. Our weakness which makes us lose faith. Our weakness which allows the views of the vociferous secularists to remove our rights. Our weakness which makes us stammer and falter instead of standing tall at His right side and proclaiming the Good News.”

Why would it no longer fit neatly in alongside every other piece of the jigsaw? All other ears in the building listened blissfully to the music of hope, notes which grinded against his own, reaching an unbearable level. He was the billowing smoke from the oily factory, rising slowly in the background of an otherwise perfect landscape. Sarah McMahon stood in front him, her back straight and chin up, listening attentively. Conor Fennell was laughing to himself at the antics of his younger brother. Orlaith McGrath had a quiet smile across her face, content in the world. Paddy Morgan muttered incantations underneath his breath. And his grandfather, he stood strong as ever, eyes fixed ahead. It was only he, Thomas, who could not see it. Trying but failing to clear away the frost from in front of his eyes.

The priest held his hands over the bread and wine, mumbling the familiar lines. Thomas wanted to see the miracle happen, wanted to see the golden light glow from the hands onto the bread. “This is my body.” He stared at the mooned substance in the priest’s hands and saw only bread, felt only its stale taste in his mouth.

Sit down, stand up. Kneel down, walk up. Open mouth, close eyes. Open heart, close mind.

And so on.

“Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.”

He was numb. Instinct told him to link his grandfather out of the Church. He passed through the other parishioners in a daze.

            “How’re they all down your way?”

“Any chance of an end to this cold spell?”

Same old shit. He edged his way through the crowd, reaching back for his grandfather’s soft palm. He took a look back to ensure he was ok. The old face smiled kindly in return. Soon they would be out of this damp building and into the fresh air, away from pain and introspection. Soon. The door was in sight. Jesus, more people. More necessary nods and grins. More, more, more...

“Christ, but I thought he’d never fuckin’ finish!”

The words floated upwards, suspended in the air like little clouds, each letter its own distinct colour. Behind the haze of the letters stood Michael Thomas O’Brien, his meek smile causing the valleys of wrinkles to fold in on one another. His mouth was moving again, but a strange underwater feeling had enveloped Thomas’ ears, barricading them off from all earthly noises. He recoiled as he noticed that there was a deep wound in his grandfather’s side, his ichor dripping from a shredded liver. A golden light trickled down around his shoulders from some invisible hands in the sky. 

The old man raised his hand with great care and opened his palm for Thomas to see. In the centre lay a ball of flame, rising and throbbing to the beat of Thomas’ heart. He smiled again, before throwing the flame high into the air. Thomas looked up as it floated above him, descending into his open mouth. The warmth ran down his throat, heating all that was organic and all that was not. The once cold, empty space was now filled with the peace of fire, illuminating his soul like lantern light in a morning market-place. He was burning. Burning the frost from his eyes, burning the ice from his mind.

He felt the fire forming wings on his back, urging him to fly. He looked around the churchyard at the oblivious bystanders. He knew now what he had to do and, closing his eyes, said to himself, “This is my body”.