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Authors: William Nicholson
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war.’
‘There’s always war,’ said Father Flannery. ‘I’m thinking it’s the godlessness. The young people today have no respect.’
‘Our Mary has respect,’ said Eileen Brennan.
‘Your Mary is a child of God,’ said the priest. ‘When she lifted up her sweet face to the west I saw the light of heaven in her eyes.’
‘You must send word to the bishop, Father.’
‘I shall send word to Monsignor McCloskey,’ said the priest. ‘In Donegal.’
*
Monsignor McCloskey drove up to Kilnacarry the very next afternoon and met Mary Brennan in the priest’s house. Monsignor McCloskey was much of an age with Father Flannery, but he was a varsity man with a narrow face and sharp little eyes. Father Flannery begged him to go easy on the girl, aware as he was that these varsity men had little time for peasant superstitions.
‘If this is a true revelation, Dermot,’ said Monsignor McCloskey, ‘it will be proof against my reasonable doubts. If it is nonsense, then the sooner we put a stop to it the better.’
The monsignor requested that he interview Mary Brennan alone; which is to say, without the rest of the clan. Father Flannery remained in the room, and took notes. Mary bore herself with great composure, and seemed unafraid of the monsignor, for all his close-fitting cassock and his wire-rimmed spectacles.
‘Now then, Mary,’ said the monsignor. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that sometimes we think we see things when we don’t. Just the same way we have dreams that feel so real, but when we wake we know it was all in our imaginations.’
‘Yes, Monsignor,’ said Mary.
‘Having a dream of Our Lord is a holy thing, and a blessing, and shows what a good girl you are.’
‘It was no dream, Monsignor.’
‘Dreams don’t only come when we’re in bed at night, Mary. They can come in broad daylight, when we’re wide awake and have our eyes open.’
‘Then am I dreaming now, Monsignor?’
‘No, Mary. Not now.’
‘How am I to know when it’s a dream and when it’s real, Monsignor?’
‘Ordinary life is real, Mary,’ said the monsignor. ‘When something extraordinary happens to us, we have to ask ourselves if maybe we’re dreaming.’
‘Maybe Jesus came to me in a dream, Monsignor.’
‘That is what I’m trying to establish, Mary.’
‘But Monsignor,’ said Mary, her innocence striking like a sword, ‘if Jesus wanted to come to me, it would never be ordinary. So it would have to be a dream.’
‘Well, yes, Mary … ’
‘I don’t see that it matters what you call it,’ the girl went on.‘What matters is that he was so beautiful, and so loving, and I am to be his voice and give his warning, before it’s too late.’
The monsignor fell silent, perplexed.
‘He was crying, Monsignor. The sins of the world made him cry for us. He told me we must love each other or perish. He told me a great wind would come. He showed me the great wind. The sun went out and the wind swept over the land and all the trees and the houses and the people in them were destroyed. He told me I must tell everyone, Monsignor, before it’s too late.’
‘When will it be too late, Mary?’
‘I don’t know, Monsignor. I think he may tell me that this evening.’
‘This evening?’
‘He’ll come to me for the last time. He promised.’
‘May I be there, Mary? Would you mind?’
‘No, Monsignor.’ She sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘Why would I mind? I would wish that all of you could see him as I see him.’
‘Why do you think he has chosen you, Mary?’
‘I asked him that, Monsignor. He said, because my heart is open, and I have faith.’
The monsignor sighed, and looked round to meet Father Flannery’s eyes.
‘I shall join you this evening,’ he said.
*
On the final evening of Mary Brennan’s visions the little beach was crowded. Word had spread far beyond the village. There were people from Rosbeg and Portnoo and Ardara and Kilkenny, such a scrum that Eamonn
‘There’s always war,’ said Father Flannery. ‘I’m thinking it’s the godlessness. The young people today have no respect.’
‘Our Mary has respect,’ said Eileen Brennan.
‘Your Mary is a child of God,’ said the priest. ‘When she lifted up her sweet face to the west I saw the light of heaven in her eyes.’
‘You must send word to the bishop, Father.’
‘I shall send word to Monsignor McCloskey,’ said the priest. ‘In Donegal.’
*
Monsignor McCloskey drove up to Kilnacarry the very next afternoon and met Mary Brennan in the priest’s house. Monsignor McCloskey was much of an age with Father Flannery, but he was a varsity man with a narrow face and sharp little eyes. Father Flannery begged him to go easy on the girl, aware as he was that these varsity men had little time for peasant superstitions.
‘If this is a true revelation, Dermot,’ said Monsignor McCloskey, ‘it will be proof against my reasonable doubts. If it is nonsense, then the sooner we put a stop to it the better.’
The monsignor requested that he interview Mary Brennan alone; which is to say, without the rest of the clan. Father Flannery remained in the room, and took notes. Mary bore herself with great composure, and seemed unafraid of the monsignor, for all his close-fitting cassock and his wire-rimmed spectacles.
‘Now then, Mary,’ said the monsignor. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that sometimes we think we see things when we don’t. Just the same way we have dreams that feel so real, but when we wake we know it was all in our imaginations.’
‘Yes, Monsignor,’ said Mary.
‘Having a dream of Our Lord is a holy thing, and a blessing, and shows what a good girl you are.’
‘It was no dream, Monsignor.’
‘Dreams don’t only come when we’re in bed at night, Mary. They can come in broad daylight, when we’re wide awake and have our eyes open.’
‘Then am I dreaming now, Monsignor?’
‘No, Mary. Not now.’
‘How am I to know when it’s a dream and when it’s real, Monsignor?’
‘Ordinary life is real, Mary,’ said the monsignor. ‘When something extraordinary happens to us, we have to ask ourselves if maybe we’re dreaming.’
‘Maybe Jesus came to me in a dream, Monsignor.’
‘That is what I’m trying to establish, Mary.’
‘But Monsignor,’ said Mary, her innocence striking like a sword, ‘if Jesus wanted to come to me, it would never be ordinary. So it would have to be a dream.’
‘Well, yes, Mary … ’
‘I don’t see that it matters what you call it,’ the girl went on.‘What matters is that he was so beautiful, and so loving, and I am to be his voice and give his warning, before it’s too late.’
The monsignor fell silent, perplexed.
‘He was crying, Monsignor. The sins of the world made him cry for us. He told me we must love each other or perish. He told me a great wind would come. He showed me the great wind. The sun went out and the wind swept over the land and all the trees and the houses and the people in them were destroyed. He told me I must tell everyone, Monsignor, before it’s too late.’
‘When will it be too late, Mary?’
‘I don’t know, Monsignor. I think he may tell me that this evening.’
‘This evening?’
‘He’ll come to me for the last time. He promised.’
‘May I be there, Mary? Would you mind?’
‘No, Monsignor.’ She sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘Why would I mind? I would wish that all of you could see him as I see him.’
‘Why do you think he has chosen you, Mary?’
‘I asked him that, Monsignor. He said, because my heart is open, and I have faith.’
The monsignor sighed, and looked round to meet Father Flannery’s eyes.
‘I shall join you this evening,’ he said.
*
On the final evening of Mary Brennan’s visions the little beach was crowded. Word had spread far beyond the village. There were people from Rosbeg and Portnoo and Ardara and Kilkenny, such a scrum that Eamonn
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