THE CHRISTENING

THE CHRISTENING

The heavy timber door shut with a shudder plunging the interior of old chapel into near darkness despite the early hour. Sarah tightened her grip on the small bundle in her arms. He wasn’t heavy but the five mile walk from the back of Argery against the cold wind of the winter’s day made her arms ache with cramp. She glanced around the chapel. It smelled of wet clothes and wax candles. The Master at Cloughfin School had told them it was built when Lord Erin found parisheners gathered to pray in the open. Johnny, the other person who was standing for the baby nudged her. “It’s the old one – Father Callaghan,” he muttered under his breath. He gave a deep sigh. “We’ll be here all day.”
The old priest’s step was slow and lumbering as he approached the baptismal font. He stood for a moment gazing at the holy water in the font. It was frozen solid. No matter, he thought. Fumbling in the pocket of his vestments his hand closed on a heavy metal crucifix. Resting it in his palms he stared long and hard at it. It had been his mother’s gift to him for agreeing to become a priest. She was long dead. The figure had fallen off and got lost many years before He didn’t know why he kept it.
With a strength that defied his feeble appearance he struck the ice in the font. With a shiver it splintered making a low gurgling sound. The old priest smiled. Every time he broke the ice in the font he was reminded of the pleasure he used to get as a boy when he dug the heel of his boot into the frozen potholes that lined the rutted road – a track really – from his home to the one roomed school he had attended until he was twelve and had to go away to be trained for the priesthood.
Dipping his hand in the water he welcomed the baby into the Church and opening his prayer book began to pray.
. Sarah’s mind wandered as the rambling words of the priest washed over her. A picture of Isabella, the baby’s mother, her face set in anger jumped into Sarah’s mind. When she had asked her had she decided on what to call her week old son Isabella’s eyes had flashed. “Call him James after my father, “she had retorted.
“But the first born son is always called for his father,” Sarah pointed out. Two red spots appeared on her old school pal’s face. “Why would I call him Patrick after his father? He hasn’t even bothered to come home to see him.”
“He hadn’t the money for the boat.”
Sarah startled as the priest’s voice came out of the gloom.
“What do you wish for this child?”
“Baptism,” her and Johnny chorus in unison. Sarah’s thoughts returned to Isabella.
Isabella had put the baby to her breast. Her eyes followed the lone hen pecking at the hard ground outside the door. It was having as much luck at finding nourishment as the suckling infant, she thought despairingly. She knew what Sarah said was true. She had left Cloughfin National School and taken the boat to Glasgow when she was thirteen to help to bring in money to keep the house. She knew how hard it was to get the money together to come home and have something to show for your work as a tattie hoker.
There was a rap on the door. “That’ll be Johnny Keryln,” Isabella said. Binding her son tightly in a blanket to keep out the cold she kissed the downy head and handed him over to Sarah. The baby howled in protest. Tears choked her throat. Six days old and already he knows what it is to be hungry, she thought. “Hurry up Sarah. Stop daydreaming. The new curate doesn’t like to be kept waitin’ she said drawing her shawl against her swollen breasts hoping her milk would come in soon.
Sarah brought her mind back to the chapel as his hands trembling the priest cupped his hand in the icy water and sprinkling it on the small group began to pray.
“What do you wish for this child,” The priest asked again. Said after what seemed a long tirade of prayers.
“Baptism,” she and Johnny said in unison again, their teeth chattering.
Taking the infant in his arms the priest started to rattle off another long sermon of prayers. Abruptly the praying stopped.
“What name do you give this child,” he said his voice echoing through the empty church.
Sarah could feel Johnny shuffling his feet on the cement floor. She guessed his feet were like hers like two blocks of ice.
“Name?” Sarah looked at Johnny in panic. Johnny looked blankly at her.
“Name! The infant cannot be christened without giving it a name! What is the father’s name?”
Sarah felt her knees knocking together in fear. “Patrick. His father’s name is Patrick… but his mother wants him called James,” she stuttered out
The old priest’s body stilled and his lips clamped over his tongue. James was it! How he hated that name. It had been the name of his older brother; the firstborn in the family. A bitter taste filled his mouth. John James Callaghan. He’d got the farm of land while he was packed off to the seminary. Abruptly he turned to the other witness. “What is your name,” he almost shouted.
“John, Father. My name is John but me Da call me Johnny.”
The old priest run his tongue over his dry lips. Then, a feeling of anticipation washed over him. “Today is the 21st December 1859. “It’s my birth day today. I was born on the Feast of Saint Thomas eighty years ago today. In 1779.” He looked down at the infant in the crook of his arm.” I was christened Thomas.” Oblivious to the ice floating about in the christening font, he grabbed a fistful of holy water, lunged forward and held the baby over the font. “I baptise you Thomas, In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost,” he said solemnly.
Sarah was so shocked at the old priest revealing this information about himself that she forgot she was still standing in the chapel and that the old fumbling man in front of her was her parish priest. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “No! You can’t christen him Thomas.” Her mind racing, she thought for a minute. “Christen him…christen him James Patrick… Do it again.”
The old priest fixed her with a glassy stare in his eye. “How dare you question me! Don’t you know the teaching of the Catholic Church? “The Sacrament of Baptism is received only ONCE,” he bellowed thrusting the baby dripping with holy water at her. “Take this infant home to it mother before I decide you are not fit to bear witness to this child’s religious upbringing.”
He stood at the door of the old church and watched the two witnesses take the road for the village and the townland of Argery beyond.
A satisfied smile played about his mouth. “Father” I am truly worthy of that name now,” He murmured. “I have a son. A child bears my name.” Retreating into the chapel he saw the young curate they had sent to replace him hurrying down the aisle.
“You shouldn’t be out of your room” he reproached the old priest. He looked in horror at the vestments of baptism the old priest was wearing. Then his eyes swung to the baptismal font. His heart lurched into his chest. Dear God. No! “I was appointed to do all baptisms from now on,” he said. “The Bishop has told you… it is safer that way. … in case there is another…accident,” he said. Despite the bitter cold of the church sweat began to gather under his collar. How would he explain another accident to his Superiors? “Did the ceremony go alright,” he asked cautiously.
The old priest smiled knowingly. Carefully he removed the stole from around his neck kissed it lovingly and carefully folded it.” The infant had no name. But he has now,” he said triumphantly.
The young curate looked baffled. “What do you mean he had no name?”
“He had no name. But he has my name now. His name is Thomas. After sixty years in the priesthood I am finally a Father. This baptism was what you might call a fait accompli”. Smiling broadly he brushing past the young curate.
For a few seconds the curate stunned into silence stood watching his parish priest make his way to the sacristy. Then galvanized into action he gathered up his black frock in his fists and raced out into the road hoping to catch up with the couple he had spotted hurrying from the chapel grounds. He needed to know what had happen.
Sarah and Johnny’s steps slowed once they were over the brow of the hill and out of sight of the chapel. Sarah stopped and unfurling the blanket checked if the baby was still breathing. “What will we tell Isabella or Bell as Patrick calls her,” she cried looking anxiously at Johnny.
Johnny shrugged.” Tell her the old parish priest said today is the feast of St Thomas and that’s the name he gave him.”
Fear gripped Sarah. “Do you think Father Callaghan was in his right mind? Maybe he didn’t christen the baby at all.” A terrible sense of foreboding gripped her. “What if he – Thomas – takes sick and dies…and he’s not baptised. He couldn’t be buried in the graveyard,” she said her voice rising.
Johnny started to laugh. “Oh, he’s christened alright. Did you not hear him? He said the same prayers twice and threw the holy water on the poor wee bugger twice. I thought he was goin’ to drown the poor wee wain.”
“He did not,” Sarah said snapped wrapping the shivering infant up again and putting him under her own shawl next to her heart.
Johnny stopped on the road to listen. “Somebody’s following us. Mother of God! Run. It’s the new curate.”
Without question Sarah, holding the now sleeping baby took to her heels after Johnny.
“Why would he be after us,” she panted the cold in her feet replaced with a stitch in her side from running.
“It must be because you cheeked the oul priest.”
“Or maybe it’s because he found out you’re not a catholic anymore,” Sarah spat back.
They could see Isabella standing at the door as they came around the last bend in the road. “Not a word,” Johnny warned.
“What about the curate following us? “
Bell gathered her son into her arms. “What kept ye? And why are his clothes wringin’ wet,” she said glaring at Sarah.
Johnny rubbed his hands together nervously. “It was oul Father Callaghan and he had a terrible shake in his hand. The holy water went everywhere.”
Bell was silent as she changed the baby out of the borrowed christening dress. She hoped the holy water wouldn’t stain. “What name did you called him,” she finally asked.
Sarah started to babble.” It’s Father Callaghan’s birthday. It’s the feast of Saint Thomas….”
“The oul priest christened him Thomas,” Johnny said flatly, making for the door.
“Thomas!” Bell made the sign of the cross. “What am I goin’ to tell Patrick?”

Gemma C Hill copyright 2020
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