Julie | Fanfic | Ballykissangel

Sabbatical
by Julie Barrett

Kathleen Hendley unlocked the door to her shop and turned the sign around to show the town that she was open for business. A bundle of newspapers lay on the step, which she retrieved and began to arrange in the racks beside the front counter. The tinkle of the bell announced a visitor.

“Good morning, Kathleen.” Father Peter Clifford dropped his blue rucksack next to the door. The shopkeeper stared at it with distaste. “A three-day sabbatical. Just what the doctor ordered, I think.”

“Are you going to visit your family?”

“Not this time. Just three days on my own in the woods, communing with God.” The shopkeeper wrinkled her nose. “Some priests go to a monastery for contemplation. I prefer the solace of nature.”

Kathleen counted the provisions Peter had placed on the counter – energy bars, bottles of water, and a few pieces of fruit. “To each his own, I suppose,” she said as she rang up the goods. As Peter began to pack his purchase away, Brendan Kearney stepped in the door.

“Skipping town, eh?”

“Just a short sabbatical. You know: Rest, reflection, and renewal.”

The school teacher moved aside as Kathleen maneuvered a large bucket of flowers through the door. “Did you know he’s going to the woods," he asked when she returned.

Brendan winked at Peter. “You didn’t know there’s a full moon tonight?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, that’s our priest’s little secret: When the moon is full, he must return to the woods and commune with his fellow werewolves." He nudged the priest in the ribs. "Isn’t that right, Peter?”

“Well, I’ll need a shave when I come back, but that’s as close as I’m going to get to becoming a hairy creature.” Kathleen began to speak, then turned back to arrange her shelves. She refused to rise to Brendan Kearney’s bait this morning.

Peter secured the top of his rucksack and hoisted it upon his shoulders with a satisfied sigh. Brendan followed in short order, his newspaper tucked safely under his arm. Kathleen arrived with her broom to sweep away some stray flower petals.

“Seriously, Peter, isn't it a bit cold to go backpacking?”

The priest pulled at the neck of his sweater and pointed to a silk undershirt. “Used to wear this when cycling in the winter in Manchester, Brendan. It keeps the body heat in.” And speaking of body heat, he thought, then immediately chastised himself. That extra layer of silk was starting to feel quite warm.

Assumpta Fitzgerald crossed the street and greeted Peter on the steps of Kathleen Hendley's store. “You're really going to do this?”

Peter let out an exasperated noise. “You'd think I was going off to join the Foreign Legion or something.” Her eyes seemed to respond, you joined the priesthood, didn't you? “Come to think of it, they probably wouldn't ask so many questions.”

Assumpta frowned and turned to the other woman on the stoop. “It's a man thing, I suppose.”

“I'd say it was crazy,” the shopkeeper rejoined.

“You women just don't understand,” Brendan said.   

“Yeah, just like I don't understand the idea of standing out in the river with a fishing pole, in cold water up to your ---”

“Fly fishing,” Brendan stated indignantly, “is the best recreation known to man – next to sipping a pint of stout, of course. Speaking of which...”

“Yes, I'm expecting a fresh shipment of stout this morning.”

“Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got three days with nothing to do but hike.” Kathleen clucked to herself as she put her broom inside of the door. “And plenty of time for contemplation, of course,” he hastily added. “After all, it is a sabbatical.” Kathleen's frown deepened. “Well, I could spend a day traveling somewhere, and a day coming back home. That's not my idea of a three-day holiday.”

“I suppose Father Mac wouldn't give you any more time?”

“Actually, Assumpta, I just asked for three days. A short change of routine is all I need.”

The landlady sighed as if to say you win. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I'll be fine. See you all on Friday, okay?”

The trio said their goodbyes to the priest, and then Brendan turned to Assumpta. “You know why he only asked for three days, don't you?” The publican shook her head. “Middlesborough is up against Manchester United on Saturday, and the match will be televised.”

Assumpta rolled her eyes. “I should have known.” She followed Kathleen into the shop and selected a bottle of shampoo.

“Do you think its wise for Father Clifford to spend three days in the woods? He'll catch his death of cold. And right before Candlemas!”

Assumpta pocketed her changed and took the bottle from the counter. “For once, Kathleen, I agree with you. But he's a grown man; he makes his own decisions, and he'll have to suffer the consequences.”

The January sun was unusually warm, and Peter slowed his pace to better enjoy the weather. While he didn't have any particular destination in mind, he had packed a compass and a map of the area, just in case he lost his bearings. He came upon a ford in the road and decided to follow the stream into the woods. Soon the sounds of traffic faded away and all Peter could hear was the crunch of his boots on the ground and the occasional bird. After an hour or so, he found a limestone table jutting across the stream: a perfect spot for lunch.

Lunch at Fitzgerald's was slow. Brendan propped up the end of the bar by himself. Siobhan was off on an emergency call to a sick mare, and Padraig was elbow-deep in grease under the bonnet of a car. The teacher worked his crossword puzzle between sips of stout and bites of his sandwich. Assumpta cleaned the top of the bar for what must have been the eighteenth time and found her mind wandering with thoughts of Peter. Brendan looked up from his paper and winked. She decided to vanish into the kitchen, before her face went into full flush. Did he know what she was thinking? He probably did. School teachers have a talent for that sort of thing. As do parents. And priests. Assumpta threw the towel onto the work table. Did a certain priest know what she was thinking? If so, he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it. She wondered, what did he think of her? Did he think of her? It was a pretty safe bet that he did think of her, but he was probably working out how he could get her into one of his pews – in a purely professional manner, of course. Damn it, for a man who wears his feelings on his sleeve, he could be so inscrutable sometimes...

“Assumpta, can you do me a sandwich?” Brian Quigley's commanding voice tore through the door.

Yeah, Brian,” she yelled back.

“And a whisky.”

Assumpta walked behind the bar to get the drink. “I thought Niamh was making lunch for you today.”

Quigley made a face. “She was feeling tired, and so Ambrose is cooking.”

“Made the great escape, eh, Brian?” Brendan looked up from his paper, happy for some conversation.

“My son in-law won't win any cooking medals, that's for sure. But I'm glad to see that he's taking good care of Niamh while she's pregnant.” Assumpta set the glass down and went to make the sarnie. “So how's the school, Brendan?”

“Oh, same as usual. Mid-winter blahs time for the kids.”

“Actually, I meant how's the building? Being mid-winter, as you point out, we've got a lull, and can offer the school a good price on any work they need done around the building.”

So your latest scheme has gone south? Brendan wanted to ask. Instead he offered a non-committal, “I'll let the headmaster know.”

“Thanks.” Assumpta returned with the sandwich. “So what's this about our curate taking off for the woods for a few days?”

“Just a short sabbatical, Brian.”

“I could have let him have a holiday home.”

“The idea is to get away, Brian.” Assumpta placed the food on the bar. “I can see his point. But I'd prefer a couple of days in Dublin, say at a nice spa.”

Quigley reached into his coat pocket for a bill, which he handed to Assumpta. “None of this back to nature business for me, that's for sure. So,” he asked between bites, “where did he go?”

“Thataway,” Brendan replied, pointing down the road. “Off to find solitude.”

You mean he doesn't get enough of that at confession?”

“He certainly doesn't see you down there, does he, Assumpta?” Brendan ducked out of instinct, expecting an object to fly in his direction. Instead, she simply gave him a cold stare.

“I'd say he sees plenty of you here,” Brian quipped.

“And just what does that mean?”

“We all see plenty of you here,” Brendan interjected. “And where else should a publican be, but behind the counter, serving up nectar of the gods?” He raised his glass and downed the last of his stout. For a moment Assumpta and Brendan locked eyes. He does know something, doesn't he?

Darkness came quickly in the woods, a fact which Peter had almost forgotten since his days as a Boy Scout. He found a suitable clearing, gathered some firewood, and after some work managed to get a small flame going. Next, he removed a small bundle from his pack frame and unfurled it. The outside of the bundle consisted of two tarps, the first of which Peter spread carefully upon the ground, kicking stones and sticks out of the way. The second tarp had a length of nylon rope attached to each corner. “With that he fashioned a small lean-to shelter overhead. The interior of the bundle comprised his sleeping bag, which he spread upon the tarp covering the ground.

He had a parishoner to thank for some of his gear; the man was an avid camper and had gathered quite an array of equipment over the years. While he was kind enough to offer the priest his pick of the lot – including a new GPS unit – Peter kept to a few simple items. After all, communing with God didn't require lots of high-tech gadgets, a fact for which he was eternally grateful.

Opening his rucksack, he pulled out a sandwich and a bottle of water from the top. Inside of a side pocket he found his Bible, a set of Rosary beads and a small torch. After a short prayer he devoured the sandwich, and then opened his Bible, scanning for passage. Peter then took up his Rosary beads and sat cross-legged, staring at the fire.

It had been Dr. Ryan who first suggested that Peter take a few days off, as he had become increasingly distracted as of late. Peter really didn't blame Timmy for forgetting to set the brake on the Javelin; after all he was in a hurry to rescue Kevin O'Kelley from the mine shaft. Although he had never allowed himself to become attached to personal possessions, that car had meant a lot to him. He had seen it as a symbol of his acceptance into the community. On that level it was difficult to lose it. And it was – as one of his brothers had once put it – a spiffing car.

And speaking of acceptance, there was his relationship with the publican. Relationship? What relationship? They were good friends, and yet, Peter couldn't help but feel affection for Assumpta Fitzgerald. Affection? No, it was more like ... but he was a priest, and that was forbidden territory. He had tried to sort out his feelings, but every time he came close to admitting the truth he hit a wall of shame.

Peter closed his eyes to shut out the tears and began the familiar, comforting ritual of praying the Rosary: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Am--”

A scream cut Peter's utterance short. It sounded like a child. Dropping his beads, he felt for his torch and switched it on. Again he heard the sound, this time it was more like a plaintive cry, coming from somewhere behind his back. He sprung to his feet and began to make his way into the trees. “Is anyone there?” The light of his torch picked up a pair of glowing orbs. On second glance, Peter realized he was looking at a fox. They stared at each other for a moment before the vixen turned tail and disappeared into the trees. It took another moment before Peter began to breathe again. Thank God it wasn't a child; just a fox calling for her mate.

Peter returned to the fire and took several deep breaths. Eventually his pulse slowed down to the point at which he could think again. He felt fairly certain that no one was calling for him tonight.

Peter retrieved the beads and stared at them, lost. Finally, he shook his head. “Concentrate, Peter,” he told himself as he looked upward for inspiration. He took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. “Okay, once more from the top. This time, in Latin: In nomine Patris, et Filii...”

Assumpta Fitzgerald lay awake in her bed, doing a little contemplation of her own. As much as she hated the Church, she still held a belief in a compassionate God. The arrival of Peter Clifford to Ballykissangel had helped solidify that belief. Peter was everything Father MacAnally was not. He was young, he was caring, and he had a sense of humor that wouldn't quit. If Peter Clifford had been Parish Priest when her parent's marriage failed, she might have different feelings in regard to the Church today. Father MacAnally was so bent on keeping the marriage together that he couldn't see what it was doing to the family – to the child. Peter, she thought, would not have made that mistake. Sure, he'd have tried to save the marriage, but he also would have tried to heal rather than simply force the broken pieces back together. Her parents most likely would have split up in the end, but perhaps without such a high cost to the family.

But if Peter Clifford had been PP then, where would he be now? Chances are it wouldn't be the backwater Cilldargan Parish. And they'd be stuck with some stuffy old priest, and she would probably have drifted away from the Church anyway. And more important, Peter wouldn't be here today.

“Get a grip,” Assumpta mumbled to herself as she pulled the duvet over her head.

Birdsong greeted the rising sun as Peter shivered, wishing he had taken his parishoner's advice and borrowed a -5 rated bag. “Come on, just five more minutes,” he pleaded with the robin in the tree overhead. In response the bird puffed up his chest and sang even louder. “Thank you very much,” he moaned as he unzipped his bag. Peter untied his rucksack from the tree branch where he had suspended it to keep the animals out and fished around inside until he found a breakfast bar and matches to restart his fire.

What sleep he had managed was fitful, and interspersed with nightmares. In his dreams he had rushed down the hill to save his car, only to be crushed under its wheels.

Today's plan was to follow the creek until the cramps worked out of his calves, and then find a nice peaceful spot to spend the rest of the day in prayer and meditation. He packed his gear, cleaned his campsite and began to walk along the creek. The morning was warming up nicely, Peter observed with satisfaction. This was indeed the day the Lord hath made.

Between the gentle flow of the creek and the breeze whispering through the trees he finally felt himself relax and slowed his pace. Turning a sharp bend in the creek, he came upon a small waterfall. What a perfect spot to spend the day, he decided as he shrugged out of his pack and let it drop to the ground.

A noise broke his reverie. Perhaps it was an animal, but if it was, it was a large one. A deer, perhaps? Peter stood still and listened. He heard the sound again, coming perhaps from just beyond the spot where the pool formed by the waterfall narrowed back to the creek. A rustling in the leaves, as through an animal had fallen. Slowly, he made his way in the direction of the noise, pausing to listen after each step. The last thing he wanted to do was startle a wounded animal. He finally pinpointed the noise to a stand of tall grass just beyond where the trees thinned out to meet a meadow. He stepped through gingerly, moving closer to the source of the sound. At the edge of the trees he stopped. He knew that he'd heard something. Peter began to pick through the brush around him. Perhaps the animal had moved off, but it didn't sound as though it had. It must be here somewhere. He then realized that he couldn't move his right foot. Something had taken a hold on his ankle.

“Oh, God.”

Ambrose Egan walked into Fitzgerald's and placed his cap on the bar. “Can you do me a sandwich, Assumpta? And a mineral water, please?”

The publican looked at him quizzically as she poured water into the glass. “Is Niamh okay?”

“Sure. She just had a bad time of it last night. It's hard for her to get comfortable, and she had a craving for curry at dinner.” The gard wrinkled his nose. “She had a terrible bout of heartburn and couldn't sleep. Anyway, she laid down for a nap a little while ago and I just couldn't bear to wake her for lunch. I could have made my own, but I was afraid she'd hear me and insist on coming down to cook.”

Brendan Kearney breezed in through the front door and doffed his large brown hat, tossing it on a peg. “Hiding from the little woman? Or not so little these days, is she, Ambrose?”

The young man flushed. “She's taking a much needed nap. I thought I'd come across for a sandwich and let her sleep.”

“Make that two, Assumpta.” The publican nodded as she filled a glass of stout. Leaving it to settle, she went to prepare the food. “How's she holding up, Ambrose? No, how are you holding up?”

Gard Egan took a sip from his glass. “She says she looks like a beached whale. I think she looks grand. She's not sleeping terribly well, but Dr. Ryan says that as long as she naps during the day, then there's probably nothing to worry about. And I'm doing fine, thanks for asking.”

Assumpta delivered the sandwiches and turned to finish the stout. As she sat the glass down in front of the smiling teacher, Niamh burst through the front door, looking pale. A piece of paper torn from a fax machine dangled from her hand.

Ambrose got to his feet quickly, nearly tipping over his stool in the process. “Are you okay, love? Shall I call Dr. Ryan?” he helped his wife to a chair.

“Superintendent Foley called to ask if you could supply information on any backpackers that might have been through Ballykissangel lately.” Absently she lifted the fax paper. “He sent this.”

Ambrose read the missive and swallowed hard. “Someone found a blue backpack in the woods. Apparently the animals had gotten into it for the food and torn it up badly. There's no sign of an owner.

Assumpta went pale. “Peter had a blue backpack.” Niamh nodded numbly.

Ambrose rose and took his hat in his hand. “Stay here, love. I'll go call in and get some more information. Assumpta, do you remember anything about the backpack? Any distinguishing characteristics?”

The publican looked at Brendan, who then spoke, “Peter's was attached to a frame, and I believe he had a sleeping bag on the frame.”

Ambrose noted the information in his book. “and when is he due back?”

“Tomorrow, isn't that right, Assumpta?”

“Yeah. He wanted to be back for a football match or something.”

“Right.” Ambrosed kissed Niamh on the cheek. Don't fret unnecessarily. Let me get some more information from Cilldargan.” He squeezed her hand and then left. The remaining people stared at each other blankly.

“Peter can be so bloody stubborn,” Assumpta finally said.

“He can take care of himself,” Brendan responded, staring at his glass of stout. Somehow, it no longer looked inviting.

Okay, God, Peter prayed. If this is it, I hope I'm ready.

“Help me.”

Sometimes God speaks in a small, still voice, but it was obvious to Peter that this voice originated from a very earthly being. The grip on his ankle relaxed, and Peter knelt down, moving the brush aside. A man was stretched on the ground, and it was quite apparent that he'd pulled himself to his limit to reach Peter. Around his ankle was a steel cable; the other end was attached to the trunk of a tree. “I'm here,” Peter reassured.

“I got caught in a snare, I think.”

Peter looked the prone man over. Aside from the ankle, he didn't seem to be in bad shape, but he looked like he could use some water. “How long have you been here?”

“Since early this morning.”

“Would you like some water?” The man nodded an affirmative. “I'll be right back. I won't leave you.” Peter carefully picked his way back through the brush and and returned with his rucksack, out of which he pulled a bottle of water and some food The other man devoured the provisions gratefully while Peter examined the site of the injury. The cable had cut through the sock in a couple of places, but that didn't look bad. When Peter touched the ankle, the man yelped with pain. “Sorry about that.”

“You know, I didn't even see it. I just tripped, and as I fell it pulled tighter.”

“Can you sit up?” The man nodded. Peter helped him to a sitting position against the tree. “That ankle doesn't look good.”

“I can't put my weight on it. I'm sure it's broken. Not that I could get anywhere anyway.”

“Do you have a pack or a bag somewhere?”

“I left it tied to a tree back that way.” He pointed in the direction opposite from which Peter had come. “Down the creek.”

“Will you be okay while I go and get it?” The man grunted affirmative. Peter walked parallel to the water for about half a mile, picking his way along the rocks. The terrain made his progress slow, and he decided he had better turn back. As he turned he caught a glimpse of something yellow just off the path; it was a piece of rope. From the look if it, someone – or something- had pulled out the knot. He walked a little ways into the woods and found a small notebook and a single sock along with bits of an empty paper sandwich wrapper. Peter picked up the sock and notebook and returned to the injured man.

“I think your knot came undone.” He held up the recovered items. “I found these.”

“Oh, man.”

Peter began to rummage around inside of his pack. “I've got one of those all-in-one tools in here somewhere.”

“You're well-prepared.”

“I bought it to open beer bottles.”

The other man managed a smile. “You wouldn't have any in there, would you?”

“If I had, I would not hesitate to offer you one. Ah!” Peter produced a small pouch which he opened. Stainless steel glinted inside. “Complete with its own handy carrying case,” he joked. “Not that I've used it for much of anything beyond opening beer bottles and cutting the occasional bit of rope, but I thought it might come in handy some day. Let's see ... perhaps this will work.” He swung open the device and extracted a small saw blade. “We can give it a try, right?” He worked at the cable for a few moments. “I'm making progress, but it'll take a while,” he declared, flexing his right hand. “By the way, I'm Peter Clifford.”

“Jim. Dinsmore.” He gripped Peter's hand. “You don't sound like you're from around here.”

“Well, neither do you.”

“I'm from Texas.”

“Manchester. What brings you to the woods of Ireland?”

“Vacation. I'm a geologist, and I was just out looking at rocks.”

“Some vacation.”

“Yeah. Well, I work for an oil exploration company. I don't really get to look at rocks much anymore. I just stare at computer models and try to divine oil. Sometimes it just seems like mumbo-jumbo, but once in a while I'm right. I'm here because I got a nice bonus for finding a big field of the stuff.”

Peter was glad to see the injured man in a talkative mood. That might help him get his mind off of the situation. Keeping the talk going would be a good thing, he decided. Just keep it light, he told himself. “We have something in common, then. Mumbo-jumbo is my business. I'm a priest.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to offend.”

“None taken. Want more water?”

They sat in silence for a few moments. “Actually, an aunt of mine is a nun. She teaches at a girls' school in Dallas.”

“Part of the ruler brigade, eh?”

“She says they don't use rulers anymore. Pepper spray is much more effective.” Peter nearly spit out his sip of water. “She was joking – I hope. So what are you doing here, Father?”

“Oh, just a short sabbatical. Some priests go off to play golf. I just wanted a little peace and quiet on my own.”

“I'm sure glad you wandered by, although I'm sorry I ruined your vacation.”

“Don't worry about it.” Peter went back to sawing away at the cable. “I think another round ought to do it,” he declared as he leaned against the tree. “You didn't come all the way to Ireland to look at rocks, did you?”

“No. I spent some time in Dublin and Antrip, tracing my roots. My grandmother died last year, and I realized just how little I knew about where I'm from.” He let out a small laugh. “I know. It's a typical American obsession. Anyway, I decided I wanted to see some of the country. I should have stuck closer to the road, though. I probably wouldn't have gotten into trouble.”

“I've got a map in my pack...” Peter rummaged around and came up with a map, which he spread on the ground. “I started to follow the water here.” He pointed at a spot on the map, and then traced the path of creek with his finger. “Let's see, one, two, three roads. I remember crossing those. The next would be say, two or three miles along?”

“That sounds right.”

“That's not too far from civilization. I should be able to get help, but not until morning.”

“It does get dark a lot earlier here than it does in Texas.”

Peter nodded. “Let's see about getting you free from that snare first.”

Brendan Kearney cycled from the school over to Fitzgerald's. Peter's absence was the talk of Ballykissangel, and he had spent the afternoon reassuring his students that Father Clifford could take care of himself. He dismounted and leaned his bike against the wall and walked inside the pub. Assumpta was absently cleaning a glass. Brendan had the feeling that it was probably the cleanest glass in all of Ireland. He took his regular stool and began to attempt to work at the crossword he failed to finish at lunch. Finally, he could stand it no longer. “Are you going to pull me a stout, or is that glass still dirty?”

Assumpta gave a small start. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

“I'll bet he's off in the woods somewhere, Rosary beads in hand, completely oblivious to all the fuss.”

“You're probably right.”As she shut the tap Ambrose slipped through the door. He looked somewhat relieved. “You've found him,” she asked hopefully.

“Sorry, no. But the rucksack wasn't his. It was more of a day pack, really. Looks like a fox or something got hold of it and pulled it all over the countryside. A search party has been organized, but they won't get very far before dark.” Assumpta relaxed visibly. “Don't worry.”

“I won't,” she declared. “You know, he's probably sitting in a pub somewhere, warming himself by the fire. I can't see him staying out more than one night in this weather.”

“You're probably right,” Brendan said. “He'll probably walk in tomorrow, none the worse for the wear.”

“Are you talking about Father Clifford?” Father Frank MacAnally walked to the bar and asked for a whisky.

“As a matter of fact, we are,” Assumpta answered. “Haven't you heard?”

Father Mac frowned. “No.”

“We tried to call but only got your Ansaphone, ”Brendan explained.

Father Mac shrugged apologetically. “I had an emergency call, and had to go to Wicklow. One of my parishoners was in a serious automobile accident. I just got back this morning in time for Mass. And I forgot to check for messages.” Ambrose brought the priest up to date on the situation. The priest in turn, sipped at his drink thoughtfully. “I expect you're right, Gard Egan, and you, too,” he turned to Brendan. “He'll probably be back tomorrow, wondering what all the fuss was about.”

Peter did, in fact, sit near a fire, but it wasn't very warm. He was having a tough time keeping it going in the wind. After much work he had managed to get the snare off of Jim's ankle and dressed the wounds. Thankfully they were superficial. The hard part was fashioning an ankle splint. Between the two of them, they were able to immobilize the joint and now Jim was asleep under Peter's sleeping bag while he took what heat he could from the fire.

By its light he quietly prayed. He crossed himself and rose, the cold making his knees crack. Jim stirred, but did not wake up. Peter found more wood for the fire and pulled an extra sweater from his pack. As he settled back on the ground he realized that he had not thought of Assumpta Fitzgerald at all since he'd come upon the injured hiker. And now with thoughts of her came images of Fitzgerald's, and a warm fire. He poked at his own fire with a stick, coaxing more heat. A beer, a bowl of stew, and a warm fire would just about be paradise right now. But there was little to do now except keep the fire going. And pray.

Somewhere in the woods a vixen called to her mate, causing Jim to sit up in alarm. “Nothing to worry about,” Peter explained. “It's fox mating season.”

“Do you suppose the snare was meant for a fox?”

“I'm no expert, but I do know that the foxes take a fair number of sheep, and sometimes the farmers see no choice but to trap them to protect their livestock.” Peter set his Bible aside and put a few more sticks on the fire.

“Does that bother you,” Jim asked. “I mean as a priest, sanctity of the living an all that?”

Peter let out a sigh. There had been a running battle between the farmers and the animal rights activists, and he intended to stay out of it. “Good fences would do a lot towards keeping the foxes away from the sheep. They're not perfect, though. But most of the farmers around here are struggling just to make ends meet. They can't afford better fences or other protection measures.” He shrugged. “I didn't invent the food chain.” Peter looked back at his companion, who stared back with incredulity. “I don't mean to sound callous. If I had come across a fox caught in a snare, I would have cared for it as best I could, then alerted a vet in the next town. At any rate, I'd have freed it from the snare. And yet, I can't fault the farmers for wanting to protect their livelihoods. On the other hand ...” he looked over at the tree which still held the remnants of the snare, “they should be humane about it at least. One night down at the pub I overheard some people talking about snares. It seems that a legal fox snare will allow for a larger animal to get free. And, according to them, the kind of snare in which you were caught is also against the law because it continues to tighten its grip the more the animal struggles, resulting in a slow and painful death.” Both men shivered. Peter placed more sticks on the fire. “Get some rest, okay?”

Once again the vixen called for her mate, her shrill cry sending another involuntary shudder through their bodies. “I wonder if my mate is calling for me?” Peter took a discrete look at the other man's left hand. It was as he recalled; no ring. “Actually, we're engaged. We're supposed to start the preparation classes next week.”

“Congratulations.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he replied flatly.

“Something wrong?”

Jim wriggled around in his bag to better see Peter, grimacing as he moved his bad ankle. “I do love her, but...”

“Let me guess: It's such a big step.” Jim nodded. “Well, it is kind of scary to make a commitment that you're expected to keep for the rest of your life.” Peter stared at the fire. He did not want to have this conversation.

“Yeah, I guess that's it.” Peter got up and fed the fire. “Peter?”

“Hmm?”

“If the Church allowed it – or say you weren't a priest – would you get married?”

The vixen cried in the distance. Peter gulped and took a long moment to think out his answer. “Well, ah, one major lifetime commitment at a time is probably enough for most people, don't you think?”

Peter's answer was a snore.

Peter sighed and reached for his Bible. “You'd be right at home in my church, Jim.”

Dawn broke crisp and cold on Friday morning, leaving frost on the fields. Niamh Egan sat on the sofa, rubbing her belly. Another sleepless night. “What are you doing in there,” she asked the lump. “Giving me practice for when you get here, I suppose.” She went into the kitchen to make tea. Ambrose appeared in his bedclothes, stretching his arms and yawning.

“Another bad night?”

“I should lay off the curry, shouldn't I?”

Ambrose smiled and gave her a hug. “Might not be a bad idea, love.”

“Do you suppose Father Clifford is okay?”

“Of course, he is.” Ambrose gave his wife's waist a squeeze. In the next room, the fax machine beeped to life. “Maybe that's some news.”

The cold went right through to Peter's bones during the night. As soon as light broke he decided to get up and move around. Once again a robin greeted the morning in a tree above his head. “You're way too chipper,” he remarked with sarcasm. In reply the bird dropped a gift on his shoulder. Instinctively, he reached his hand up to wipe the mess, and then realized that if he did so he would have to wash his hands in the freezing water. Instead, he slowly got to his feet, his joints creaking with the cold, and pulled his rucksack from the tree. He hoped he had packed one more sweater so that he could change. Later in the day he wouldn't need it, but right now he was freezing. The sleeping bag wriggled and Jim poked his head out, eyes blinking. “How'd you sleep?”

“Better than you, I expect.”

Peter helped the other man unzip the bag and then checked on the splint. It had held up pretty good during the night. “How does it feel this morning?”

Jim grimaced as he swung his splinted leg out of the bag. “It only hurts when I move it. I don't think I'll be going much of anywhere, will I?.”

Peter offered his companion an energy bar, which was gratefully received. “Think you can stay on your own for a while?”

“Sure,” he nodded.

“How long did it it take you to get here from the last road?”

“Several hours.” Peter frowned. “But I spent lots of time examining rocks along the way.”

Peter suddenly had a thought. “I don't know why this didn't come to mind earlier, but were you expected somewhere last night?”

“I'm traveling alone, but I am staying at a farmhouse B&B. Do you think they might have called the police?”

“That's what I'm hoping.” From behind, Peter heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked.

“So it's you.”

“Some days I think I'm getting too old for this,” Father MacAnally sighed as he replaced the receiver on the telephone. After a long day and night in Wicklow and the extra hours he put in covering for Father Clifford, he was tired. And it didn't help that the telephone rang at nearly the crack of dawn. At least the news was encouraging. Ambrose passed along the word that the Gardai had a report of a missing person to whom the rucksack apparently belonged. The search party had taken off again at first light and they were hopeful.

He swung his legs out of bed and eased himself down on his knees. Father Mac hadn't begrudged his curate the time off. Truth be told, he did feel a modicum of guilt over what his nephew Timmy had done to Father Clifford's car. Of course, it was an accident, and as Peter Clifford himself had pointed out, losing a car was nothing compared to saving a life. As little as he knew about his curate, he certain that the other priest took his vow of poverty seriously. He had a little trouble with obedience, and chastity, well ... he was a little too close to Miss Assumpta Fitzgerald for comfort. So far there had been no sign of impropriety, but the situation bore watching. One reason he had readily given his approval for the sabbatical was the prospect of putting a little distance between the priest and publican – if only for a few days.

But this was not the time to worry about such things. He bowed his head, crossed himself, and said prayers for the safe return of both the missing man and Peter Clifford.

“Who?” Peter tried to keep from stammering, but it wasn't easy with a firearm pointed squarely at his chest.

“You're sabotaging my traps.” Peter looked down at Jim, who stared back, wide-eyed.

“You've got the wrong people.”

“Stand up.” Peter complied. “Both of you.”

“Can't you see he's got a broken ankle? He got caught in your snare.” The corner of the man's mouth twitched in a smile. Peter wrinkled his nose as he noticed that the man smelled even more pungent than Eamonn. And alcohol was a considerable component of the scent. This could make the situation very dangerous. “Can't you see? He's no threat to you.”

“Get him up.”

“I don't think that's a good --”

“Now.” He pushed the barrel of the gun at Peter's chest for emphasis. “I'm turning you in. You animal rights eejits are interfering with legal trapping, and I've had enough.”

“You mean, you think we're activists?” Peter looked at Jim, incredulous. Jim stared back, equally confused. “Look, I don't care if you're out for fur or if you're protecting your livestock --”

“Move it.”

Peter began to speak in measured tones. “I am a Catholic priest. The last thing I want to do ...”

The man spat at the ground. “You lot are the worst.”

Peter let out a breath and decided to take another tack. “Okay. Take us to the Gardai Take me to them He's not going anywhere. I can prove to you that this is all a misunderstanding.”

For a moment the man with the gun wavered, then stood resolute. “Thanks to you lot, I've lost three sheep this month. I'm pressing charges.”

“He can't be moved,” Peter pleaded, pointing at the prone man. “Just look at that ankle.”

“Now you're a doctor as well as a priest?”

This man was beginning to exasperate Peter to no end, but he had the advantage by virtue of his weapon. He looked down at Jim, who to this point had not said a word. Perhaps he was too afraid. “It doesn't take a medical degree to see that his ankle is broken. Look: I'll go along with you. We'll go to the Gardai, and --”

The gun fired, its payload just missing the splinted ankle. Jim began to shake, and Peter was afraid he might go into shock. This was not good. He knelt down. Slowly, as not to rile their assailant any further. Jim swallowed and somehow managed to stop shaking. “We'd better do what the man says, eh, Peter?”

Assumpta Fitzgerald stood nervously at the front door of the Gard house and knocked a second time. Surely someone was at home. Finally, Niamh came to the door, rubbing her eyes. “Oh, I'm so sorry. I woke you up, didn't I?”

“No, I was trying to go back to sleep, but I just couldn't. Come on in and I'll put the kettle on.” Assumpta followed the other woman downstairs and sat at the kitchen table. Niamh put the water to boil and set out cups. “Ambrose went out early. He's been assigned to a road patrol.” She busied herself with preparing the pot as Assumpta absently stared at the bottom of her cup.

“Is there any new news, then?”

“Not since they discovered the pack wasn't Father Clifford's. It belongs to an American tourist; he was reported missing this morning.” Niamh poured boiling water in the pot and placed the vessel on the table. She eased herself down into a chair.

Assumpta instantly felt bad. She'd been so worried about Peter that she'd pushed her best friend's pregnancy to the back of her mind. “How are you doing, Niamh?”

Niamh Egan gave a sly smile, which in turn made Assumpta grin. “For some reason, I have to have curry. It tastes wonderful, but I'm up all night. I suppose strange cravings run in the family. My mother said she craved canned fruit when she was carrying me.”

“It was probably better for her digestive system, at least.”

“It still kept her up all night. Dr. Ryan says that heartburn is not uncommon, but I tell you, Assumpta, I'm miserable. And do you know what else?” A knock at the door cut her short.

Assumpta put a hand on her friend's shoulder. “Stay put. I'll get it.” Niamh began to protest, then settled back in her chair. “Dr. Ryan. She's down in the kitchen.”

“Actually, I'm on my way to meet up with Ambrose. They thought it would be a good idea to have a doctor or two on hand, in case a member of the search party was injured, or ...”

“That's probably a good idea.”

Michael glanced in the direction of the kitchen, then back at Assumpta. “There's one other piece of news,” he said, lowering his voice. “The search party found an abandoned campsite. It may have been Peter's.”

She swallowed, not knowing what to think. Dr. Ryan placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Whoever it was left in a hurry. There was a sleeping bag and pack left behind. There was also evidence that a weapon had been discharged.”

Assumpta leaned against the door to steady herself. She looked up at the doctor, then ran for the toilet. Upon hearing the noise, Niamh ventured into the entryway. “I'm the one whose supposed to be sick.”

“How long have we been out here,” Jim whispered to Peter.

“I'm not sure, but I do know that I can't keep this up much longer.” Peter stopped and set Jim down gently against a tree. “Sorry,” he said to the man, “but I have to stop before I drop him.”

Their captor leaned against a tree and took a flask from his hip pocket. “Okay, two minutes. And no tricks.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, rubbing his right shoulder. He glanced at his watch. “It's only been a bit over an hour,” he whispered to the injured man, “but it seems like half a day. I had hopes that someone might find us by now, but these woods are very thick. And I suppose it depends on when you were reported missing.”

“You mean if I was.”

The man took a second swig from his flask and replaced it. Peter and Jim looked at each other and grinned. “You know,” Jim observed, “what goes in...”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

Assumpta Fitzgerald sat at the Egan's table, sipping at a cup of lukewarm tea. “I'm all right, Niamh. I shouldn't have had leftovers for breakfast.” She smiled weakly. Apparently Niamh hadn't heard Dr. Ryan's bit of news, and Assumpta was content to leave her in the dark for the time being. One part of her hated doing that, but the rational part of her knew that her best friend was feeling bad enough as it was, and that was reason enough not to burden her. On the other hand ...

The phone rang, and Niamh excused herself. “It's my mother in-law,” she called down. “This may be a while.”

And that, Assumpta Fitzgerald realized, was the perfect excuse to not burden Niamh with another thing. She took her leave and walked down to the river bank, letting the water carry her away, at least mentally.

Why does Peter Clifford have to do this to me?

Maybe you're doing it to yourself.

He's a Catholic priest, for God's sake.

He's a good friend.

She threw a rock into the water. “I think I'm just going mad.”

“As long as you don't answer yourself.” Assumpta turned to find Brendan looking down at her. How long had he been there, she wondered. “If you only knew,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Brendan. I suppose you'll be wanting breakfast.”

“Actually,” he eased himself down next to her, “I was concerned about you.”

“Thanks, Brendan, but I'm just fine.”

“That's not what I heard.”

Assumpta began to come to a boil. “I thought Dr. Ryan had more sense than to go around talking about...”

“Niamh told me.”

“Oh.” Assumpta took a deep breath. “You didn't tell her about Peter, did you?
Brendan frowned. “Oh. I assumed you'd heard.”

“No. And yes, I had heard.” He stared at the river for a moment. “Once Peter and I went fishing. We'd had a few beers and began to talk.” He let out a small laugh. “The fish weren't biting anyway. He told me that he felt so blessed to be in Ballykissangel.”

“Just like a priest.”

“He also said that if he hadn't been a priest ...” Assumpta stared at Brendan and opened her mouth. She quickly closed it and shook her head. “He said that he'd have probably found his way here anyway. I got the distinct impression that he wanted to make his permanent home here – one way or another.”

“Meaning?”

Brendan sighed. “I'm not sure if the attraction was spiritual, or if he just likes the scenery.” He spread his arm out to the landscape for emphasis, but fixed her with a pointed look. “He's become very attached to this place.” The teacher stood. “I've got to try to teach a class today. Their minds will not be on great Irish literature, that's for sure.”

“Are they ever?”

"Now, you may have a point,” he replied with a wink. Brendan started for the path, and then turned to face Assumpta. “I will tell you one thing: If Peter is in some sort of trouble, I think he can handle himself. If he's threatened, he's not just going to curl up in a ball and take it.”

“That's what worries me.”

“Are we nearly there yet,” Peter half-whispered, half-grunted to Jim, who managed a bit of a smile back. As much as he admired the priest's ability to keep his sense of humor, it was becoming very apparent that his nerves were being stretched thin. The footsteps behind them stopped.

“You,” he pointed at Jim, “sit there. And you,” he indicated Peter, over there.” He motioned to a spot a few meters away. Peter slowly eased down to a sitting position. “Don't move.” The man walked slipped behind a tree to take care of business. Peter listened for the farmer to lay his shotgun against the tree, then looked over at Jim.

“Steady,” he mouthed. Peter waited a few seconds for the man to become fully occupied in his task and then sprang to action. He hoped that his adversary had had enough of whatever he was drinking that his reaction time would be lagging. That was his only hope for what, in retrospect, was a very foolish move.

Jim could only sit and watch as Peter moved behind the tree. He heard a struggle and then the gun fired, the noise echoing through the trees.

Gard Dougal McAfferty was fresh from the academy, and felt out of his depth leading around a group of locals who knew more about these woods than he did. He decided that it was best to let them lead him, but in such a way as it looked as though it was he doing the leading. The plan was not working well. The men preferred to defer to one of their own. He, at least, had the good graces to clear their search plans with him. As they crossed the road, a Gard car pulled up.

“See anything?” Ambrose Egan stuck his head out of the driver side window.

“Nothing yet. We're just going over that way.” He pointed across the road to a stand of particularly thick woods, and looked at his charges for affirmation.

“Right. Radio in if you find anything or need assistance.”

Gard McAfferty nodded. Ambrose Egan began to roll up his car window. From somewhere in the woods came the unmistakable boom of gunfire. Ambrose was out of his car and talking into his radio before McAfferty could even react. “We have gunfire.” Calmly he gave his location. “Now,” he turned to the other men. “Wait here. We have more officers and a doctor on the way. You'll need to direct them. McAffterty, let's go.” The younger man swallowed and followed. Ambrose noted that his colleague was awfully young, but then so was he. “I'll bet someone's got a rabbit,” he said, attempting to reassure himself as much as the other officer.

“Shite.” The shotgun lay on the ground, where it had discharged. Both men had a hand on the weapon. The farmer was breathing hard, but refused to let go. His exclamation had spoken for both of them.

Peter refused to take his eyes off of the other man. He didn't know anything about weapons, and for all he did know, the gun was empty. But he realized that could be a fatal supposition. “I think this has gone far enough, don't you?” The other man gave him a hard stare, and then to his surprise, he let go of the weapon. He leaned back against a tree, attempting to catch his breath.

“Thank you.” Peter moved away, taking the gun with him. He'd only seen these things on television. There had to be a safety, right? Yes, guns had some sort of safety mechanism. He looked over at Jim, who stared back, like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. “It's okay.” Jim didn't say a word, and Peter came to the realization that Jim wasn't staring at him, but behind him.

“Maybe we should wait,” Gard McAfferty whispered. It was Ambrose who had spotted the man with the gun. He just seemed to be standing there, his back to them, staring at it. “you don't think he's shot someone, do you?”

“He's probably a hunter,” Ambrose whispered back reassuringly. His own heart was pounding, but he didn't want to let on to the other officer that he was scared as well. “Wait here.”

“No way.”

“Shh.” Ambrose quietly made his way to a tree large enough to give him cover, then he poked his head around. He saw a man on the ground, breathing heavily. The man with the gun was standing over him. This was not good. Quietly, he crept towards the armed man. Perhaps he could jump him and McAfferty could...

“It's okay,” he heard the gunman say.

“Mother of God!” Peter Clifford turned around at the sound of a familiar voice. McAfferty started and lurched at Peter, who spread his arms out in a gesture of surrender. “Don't!” He put an arm out to stop the other Gard and held his free hand out for the gun. “Father Clifford, you gave me a fright!”

“Ambrose!” Peter relaxed. He had never been so happy to see a member of the constabulary in all his life.

“Now, what are you doing with this?”

“It's his.” Peter gestured at the prone man, who at this point was breathing almost normally.

Ambrose shook his head. “How many times have you been told, Will Bartly, that guns and drink don't mix?”He pointed at McAfferty. “Get him up.”

“They're the ones interfering with my legal snares. What are you going to do about it?”

“We'll sort that out in town.”

Peter pointed at Jim. “This man needs some medical attention. He's got a broken ankle.”

Ambrose expertly set the safety on the gun and placed it well out of reach of the now handcuffed Bartly. He knelt next to the injured man and checked out his ankle. “We'll get you some help out of here.” Ambrose reached for his radio. “This is Gard Egan. We have found the missing persons. I repeat...”

Ambrose had insisted on taking Peter in to Cilldargan for an examination before returning him to Ballykissangel. While in Casualty, he gave an informal statement about the incident to police, with the promise that he would visit Ambrose the next day and take care of the formalities. But not while the match was on, he warned the gard. Now he sat in the passenger seat of Ambrose's patrol vehicle, driving over the bridge into Ballykissangel.

Assumpta Fitzgerald sat on one of the benches in front of her namesake establishment, Fionn on a leash at her feet. She stood as the car passed by. “Come on, you,” she told the dog, “it's time you got inside.”

Ambrose helped Peter get his things in the house. The police had recovered all of his gear, amazingly enough. He didn't worry so much about his own things as those he had borrowed, and they seemed none the worse for wear.

He was trying to decide between a cup of hot tea and a bath (the latter was winning out) when he heard a knock at the door.

“Just thought I'd come by and see if you needed anything.”

“Assumpta. Come in.”

She shook her head and looked with slight disapproval at his disheveled appearance. “Looks like you need a little downtime from your erm, downtime.”

“You can say that again. Maybe I should have taken a nice, safe trip to the golf links. Except that I don't play golf.”

She shrugged. “You and half the priests in Ireland. They just pretend to play.” Peter grinned, and she smiled back. “Besides, you'd just look funny in the clothes.” A football kit, on the other hand...

“I'll stick with football, thanks.”

“Uh, yeah. My thoughts exactly.”

“Oh, about tomorrow...”

“Sure, we'll put the match on.”

“Actually, I was wondering if you might have a room.”

“Has Brian thrown you out?”

“No. It's...”

“You're giving up God bothering.”

Peter looked away for a moment and licked his lips. There were so many things he wanted to say, and he found himself grateful that he didn't have the energy to deal with it right now. “It's for Jim Dinsmore. He's booked out of Dublin on Monday, but I thought he might enjoy a couple of days in Ballykissangel. He's a paying customer, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.”

“Why don't you come on down for dinner? I've got some stew on.” She stepped away from the doorway.

“You've no idea how much I'd enjoy that. But after I've had a wash and a shave. I'm probably in violation of several health regulations.” Peter smiled sheepishly. “I'll see you later then. And thanks.”

“Peter,” Assumpta called as the door began swing closed, “I'm glad you're okay.

“Me, too.” He leaned against the closed door and shut his eyes.

She slowly walked down the street and stopped to look back at the church. How could she compete with that, she wondered? With a sigh she started off to the pub.

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