Chapter 4 Fragment

Father Ronan looked into the kitchen mirror as he washed his hands, tilting his chin from right to left. No scratches on either cheek. Eyes shadowed as always. He needed to shave tonight. Despite what had happened upstairs ten minutes ago, all he could tell his reflection was, "I've been in this village too long."

The front door buzzed, being the only electronic in the house that still functioned. Ronan dried his hands on a tea towel and made for the door, taking care to fix his collar and roll down his sleeves. On the doorstep stood Malachy Fitzgerald with his cap in his hands. A pity, since his thinning combover did his red scalp no favors.

"Father, it's happened again," said the man, breathing heavily.

Ronan blinked.

"It? Again?"

Malachy's eyes darted from side to side, checking for onlookers, before coming up close.

"It's another one of those blasphemies made of bones. I found it this morning on my land. A scarecrow hanging between a pair of birches."

Father Ronan would have sighed had he not appearances to keep. Instead, he laid his right hand on Malachi's shoulder and looked at the man firm in the eyes with a cold stare.

"Where is it now?"

"I dragged it into my shed and pulled a tarp over it. Deirde's at her mother's this weekend, so she doesn't know about it yet."

Ronan nodded.

"That's good to hear."

His eyes glanced back to the empty hallway behind him. While his mind thought back to what now lay in the basement.

"Give me a minute, Mr. Fitzgerald, and I'll meet you at your place. Tell no one if they ask."

Malachy thanked Ronan and walked away, mercifully putting the cap on his balding head as he did.

*

Ten minutes later both men stood in front of the shed in Malachy's backyard. The white paint had long peeled from its timber boards. Another shower of rain and the flimsy, windowless box before them would disintegrate. Hands in his jacket, Ronan's eyes spied the drag marks on the ground. The weight of something ran along the grass and off into the line of birch trees. Then his gaze turned to Malachy who seemed reluctant to open the shed, until Ronan prompted him with a cough. The red-faced man fiddled with the lock before swinging open the door. Inside, among the hanging shears and trowels, sat a lump covered by a bedsheet soiled with paint.

Eyes averted, Malachy laid hands on the sheet and pulled. Ronan neither blinked nor flinched at the sight of the effigy when the cloth slipped away. He didn't turn to comfort Malachy, who looked elsewhere from the thing lying on the floor of his shed. Ronan just stood there, unfazed at the effigy. A parody of Christ, stitched together from sheep-bone, and daubed in black tar. Its horned skull atop a bestial ribcage. Arms now crossed after being carried down from the trees, and with no legs to speak off. Twenty seconds passed before Ronan decided to speak. He had no trouble finding the words, he just thought it appropriate to let the moment linger.

"Mr. Fitzgerald, are you aware of the church's stance on witchcraft?"

"No, I don't, Father."

'That's exactly it. We don't have a stance, because there's no such  thing as witchcraft. If we took it seriously as a threat to one's faith, we would only risk legitimizing it.'

Ronan turned the man around to face the blasphemy at their feet.

"This..."

He held out his hand towards the effigy.

"... is nothing more than vandalism. It's no matter for the church, and no cause for concern to anyone's spiritual wellbeing. Some miscreant in town is having a laugh, likely one of the lads who seldom attend mass. Until you catch him in the act, just destroy his handiwork as you find it."

Ronan forced a smile and gave Malachy's shoulder a squeeze.

'There's nothing to fear, Mr. Fitzgerald. Burn what you can and bury the rest. Please, for the sake of the village and for when I'm gone.'

Father Ronan then walked away, leaving the unsettled man to his task.