by Yirak, Laura
The Manor was quiet now as Patrick waited for Monica to arrive. She was always late, some people just were. It seemed like it was becoming all too common a custom though and he wished that people in general would just slow down their busy lives. But who was he to talk when his cup was full and almost overflowing.
The definition of hypothermia fit Judy’s condition perfectly, as he skimmed the computer screen. The website suggested that calling emergency services would be necessary.
“Too late for that!” Patrick said as he read the treatments. “Warm the body slowly…..did that, watch for confusion…..she seems fine…okay then.”
The next word he searched was “ghost.” He typed it in slowly and hit enter. His search revealed hundreds of pages. He clicked on the first and read aloud, “Ghost, apparition of a dead person, also believed in some cultures as, spirit, soul, or demon.” Patrick read on but found no clues as to ghosts attacking people or drawing people’s energies.
“So what the bloody hell are these things?” Patrick asked.
“What things?” Monica asked as she stepped into the Manor dripping wet trying not to get all the umbrella water everywhere.
“Oh well…” Patrick stopped; he didn’t know what to say and thought about how he had been avoiding questions like this all week. “Chemistry stuff, nothing that would interest you.”
“Try me, you forget, I’m a nurse, I had to study quite a bit of chemistry in uni.”
Monica took off her red coat and approached the front desk.
Patrick quickly closed the page he was reading and clicked up his email instead.
“Can I hang this up?” she asked leaning over to look at the screen.
“Hey, that’s my email,” he said shunning her away.
“Oh well, you said it was chemistry.” She held up her coat.
“Yeah just up there next to mine is fine. Wait….Oh my exam results are in. I passed, ninety three percent. Not bad, not bad.”
Monica came behind the desk giving him her signature smile with her red hair a little frizzled from the weather.
“You’ve got the hair to match your mischievousness,” Patrick said.
“What! I just got here and already it starts. Congratulations on your test there.” She stood behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders.
“So how’s Thomas?” Patrick asked feeling a little too cozy.
Monica stepped back, “I get it, don’t worry, this lass has moved on to bigger and better things. He’s fine, we went out again.”
“Oh really?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, not with you.”
“Come on.” Patrick spun the chair around to look at her, “It’s just little old me. You’ve seen him twice in a week, must be serious,” he raised his tone as he said it.
Monica forced a laugh and placed her hands on her hips, “What’s for lunch?”
“Shite,” Patrick said with a straight face.
Monica lifted a fist in the air, “Yeah I’ll shite ya, Patrick Dowell. I know yir granny.”
“And I know yours.”
“Come on I’m starved.” Monica grabbed his hand and pulled him along on the rolling chair.
“We’re having stew,” Patrick said.
“Great, I fancy that.” She tried pulling him through the kitchen doors but the chair got stuck on the floor trim.
“Enough, enough, I’m getting up, you’ll have destroyed the place by the time you’re through. The floor is original - hundreds of years old!” he said.
“And sturdy too, just like you,” she retorted still pulling.
The stew was hot and steaming, Monica took a long whiff before her first bite, she lifted the spoon up, big chunks falling off, blew on it a little, put the whole spoon in her mouth and then spit it all back out into the bowl. She jumped up from the kitchen nook dancing around in circles.
“My tongue, my tongue, it’s hot. Hot! Water!”
“I told you it was piping hot. You don’t listen. How can you be a nurse if you don’t listen?” Patrick said filling her a glass of ice cold water.
Monica ripped it from his hands, spilling half on the floor and downed it, “Awe, my tongue. I think I burnt every taste bud. I’ll never taste again and I’m a great nurse mind you, very attentive!”
“Well let me attend you. How bout some vinegar?” Patrick laughed.
“Cheeky sod.” Monica sat back down; this time waiting till the stew cooled more to have another bite. “So how’s Alesta doing?”
“Fine I think, I haven’t had much time to chat with her, she has a visitor,” Patrick said blowing on his spoon as well.
“Oh? Who?” Monica pried.
“Some Nicholas fellow.”
“Nicholas? She’s never mentioned a Nicholas. What is he a relative or something?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I was picking up a different vibe than that. I don’t know.”
“Is that his car outside, that shining red thing that looks like you’d die just going around a corner?”
“Yes. It is a Ferrari.” Patrick sighed quietly.
“Oh is it. I’m afraid I don’t know much about cars. But I can tell expensive versus crap. The rich!” Monica said, “I wouldn’t mind that sort of lifestyle myself.”
“Really now, I wouldn’t,” Patrick said.
“And why not?” Monica asked surprised at his annoyed tone. “Wait…..Are you jealous?”
“Monica, no, jealous of whom?”
“Well Nicholas.”
“No, don’t be daft. I just don’t think that money would change anything. I mean if you live in a dark cloud then that’s where you are no matter what and vice versus. Happiness is a choice and I don’t think material possessions would change any of that, fancy cars, houses, expensive vacations, whatever.”
“I do! I know that if I ever had loads of money, I’d be a lot happier. I’d have security.”
“That’s different; security is a basic need, to feel safe. You wouldn’t need money to do all that.” Patrick finished up his bowl and pushed it aside, Monica was looking a little flustered. “What?”
“You’re arguing with everything I say,” Monica said.
“No I’m not.”
“There you are, yes you are.”
“Monica!” Patrick exclaimed rubbing his chin.
She wrinkled up her freckled nose, “The world economies are unstable these days. I just think money would make it all easier that’s all.”
“Well I don’t feel affected by all that. Are you telling me that you feel directly affected by that stuff? You’re a nurse. You have job security. Nobody wants to do your job. Name one thing it has done to affect you?”
Monica sat quietly thinking and took a bite of stew finally.
She swallowed and said, “I can’t.”
“There see.”
“Oh you’re always right aren’t you?” she teased.
“You know it!” Patrick said.
“Besides all that crap, is Alesta all right from the other night? It’s all anyone is talking about on the unit. The fact that she’s on a leave of absence doesn’t help, everyone keeps coming to me, like I have the secret knowledge or something.”
“It’s the hair, when they see you they think, red alert, red alert. Gossip!”
Monica flipped some stew at Patrick but missed. It landed splat on the floor.
“See what you’ve done to the kitchen. Yir trouble.” Patrick got up and wiped up the mess.
“You started it.” Monica just sat there smiling, “I should try again. Maybe I’ll hit you this time.” She heaped up more on the spoon.
“I don’t think so.” Patrick grabbed a glass of water and held it up in his defense, “Go ahead.”
The stew flew across the room. Patrick tried to duck, but it landed all over his clean white shirt.
“That’s it.” Patrick tossed the water all over Monica and her bright red shirt soaking through to show her black bra.
She got up squeali
ng and ran out of the kitchen before Patrick could gather more.
Patrick chased after her, but she was quick. There was no sign of her as he entered the Great Hall.
“Where’d you go, you crazy wee…..”
“Excuse me?” A male voice echoed out from the main entry way.
Father Mac Namara stood listening to all the commotion, wondering who it was. He looked at the young man standing before him, brown hair tossed about, stained white shirt, beautiful green pleated tartan kilt and legs like Brave Heart. He had a very astonished look on his face, but the Father got that a lot.
“Hello there,” the Priest said.
“Uh, yes, Father. Sorry about all this. I was in the kitchen.” Patrick stumbled over the words.
“So I heard. I am Father Mac Namara. I’m here to see Judy.”
“Oh yes, I apologize. I’m Patrick. Let me ring her.”
“Nice to meet you,” the Priest said looking around.
The phone rang and rang, with no answer. Patrick waited and watched the young tanned Priest looking about. He looked about the same age as himself. It amazed Patrick how people took different routes in life and wondered how the striking Priest had picked the life of the Holy. He probably could have had any lass he wanted.
“Why don’t you follow me up the stairs Father, she’s not answering her phone.”
They both creaked up the old stairs and Patrick knocked on Judy’s door. She answered. She was showered and dressed, smelling of fresh clean soap. The color had returned to her face and she looked pleased.
“You have a visitor, Father Mac Namara is here?” Patrick said it in a tone and then furrowed his eyebrows at her like what was he doing there look.
Patrick didn’t know what to do. Had she called the Priest herself or was it an unexpected visit? It was all becoming so intense.
Judy answered him like she knew exactly what he was thinking, “Oh I called the Father for a quick visit.” Then she turned to the Father Mac Namara, “Thank you for coming Father on such short notice.”
“It was no problem really, my schedule was slow today,” the Priest said and then looked up at Patrick.
“I’ll leave you both. I’ll just be downstairs then.” Patrick lingered a moment longer.
Judy and the Father Mac Namara just looked at him with an uncomfortable silence and Patrick scooted off hesitantly. He changed his shirt before going back downstairs again. Monica was a bugger he thought as he closed his bedroom door he slowly walked passed Judy’s. Her voice was soft but couldn’t make out any words. A Priest, he thought, what could a Priest do or know about ghosts and such?
“What’s the Father doing here?” Monica asked Patrick noticing his heavy steps.
Patrick walked over to the desk and placed his hands down and leaned as Monica was sitting behind it looking so lady-like in her red coat. He knew better.
“You put your coat on?”
“You threw water on me! I don’t have another shirt and I heard you talking to Father Mac Namara. I can’t be running around here then with my bra showing.”
“Yes, well…..” Patrick looked away quickly, “I agree. He’s upstairs anyways with Judy. She called him.”
“Oh good then, maybe I won’t bump into him.” Monica looked so serious all of a sudden.
“Well not that it’s any of your business Patrick,” she emphasized the statement, “I just saw him for confession last week and after saying prayers for half an hour after it, I felt totally punished. And I don’t even think that what I did was that bad, but to see his face now, well I might regret telling him if he even looks at me the wrong way.”
“Priests don’t do that. You’re forgiven for your sins and shouldn’t repeat them. You repented didn’t you?” Patrick raised his eyebrows.
“Yes I did, but I did it again.” Monica looked guilty as ever.
“Well what did you do? It couldn’t be that bad, I mean you did murder anyone?” Patrick asked.
“No of course not, just a lie. I canny help. It just happens,” Monica said quickly.
“Everyone lies, myself included. I just don’t go to confession about it.”
“Why not?” Monica asked.
“Because I would have to say, Father forgive me for I have sinned and it’s been fifteen years since my last confession and it would take all bloody day. Then I’d be in there praying for weeks after it all.”
They both started laughing.
“Father Mac Namara is here now!” Monica said still laughing, “You could donner up there and interrupt.”
“No, I’m in hiding like you.” Patrick said it and they both went back into the kitchen.
Judy sat on her bed nervously playing with her hands and Father Mac Namara sat across from her by the window listening to her story. He watched her intently and did not interrupt for one second. She seemed almost relieved when she finished it.
“That was it, Patrick found me in the water and thank God for him Father.” She looked at him so young in face and felt like she wanted to cry but held back. “What do you think it is? A ghost? What?” her tone indicated otherwise.
“All I can say is that the Catholic Church does not speak authoritatively on this issue. When a person dies they are immediately judged. The damned go to hell and the saved go to heaven or purgatory. In purgatory you are deemed not bad enough to go to hell but not good enough to go to heaven. God may allow you to see a soul from purgatory to teach a lesson of some kind, but they would not attack you. The dead cannot communicate with the living.”
The look on Judy’s face was that of confusion, “I didn’t imagine this Father.”
“And I believe you. It could be a demon,” he said as he opened up his leather bound book and flipped through some pages.
Judy shook her head in disbelief.
“A demon is a fallen angel of God. Demons can attack humans and can take other forms to deceive you. At this point I wouldn’t perform an exorcism. But I would stay away from the shore for now. If that is where it is lurking then it lured you down there for the purpose it intended.”
“So what do I do?” Judy asked with fear in her voice and the look of a lost child.
“Prayer seemed to stop it in its tracks. I will perform a blessing for you and I want you to keep this card with you.”
The Father handed her a small card with a picture of St. Michael on it with his glorious golden wings extended and the sharp sword in his hands. His face was that of pure valor.
“I want you to recite this prayer everyday and if you feel threatened in any way. I expect the dreams will cease if you do this.”
Judy took the card and held on to it as she watched the Father stand up and say a prayer of healing and protection over her. He placed his thumb on her forehead and anointed her with Holy water and made the sign of the cross. Judy glanced over the back of the card quickly, the last few lines stood out to her.
“Thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl the world seeking the ruins of souls.” She whispered the words.
“Amen!” The Father replied. “Now I want you to just relax the rest of the day. I’m going to go down to the shore and do a blessing there as well.”
“Oh you shouldn’t Father. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” She grabbed the Father’s hand and gave him a look of terror.
“I’ll be fine.” He placed his other hand on top of hers and clasped it. “If it’s scared of a prayer it will most certainly hide when I call on it.”
“Don’t let Patrick see you. He’ll try to stop you if he sees you going that way.” Judy let go of his hands.
“I’ll try,” the Father said. “But even so. I’ll go anyways.”
The Father left and Judy waited by her window and watched him as he came out from the side of the Manor, book in hand and black garbs blowing behind him in the wind.
“Wait a minute. Is that Father Mac Namara outside?” Monica sat her cup of tea down before her and pulled the lace curtain back more. “I thou
ght you said he was upstairs?”
“He was. What’s he doing?” Patrick stood up from the big leather chair in front of the fire that he had just started.
“He’s down by the water.”
“I never even heard him.” Patrick rushed over to the window, swore and then ran off.
Monica waited and watched Patrick almost break his neck running down to the shore and catching the Priest by surprise. Whatever they were discussing looked serious.
The Priest spoke for a few minutes and obviously calmed the frantic Patrick down as Patrick stopped gesturing quickly with his arms and folded them instead. Then Father Mac Namara handed him a card of some kind and Patrick just stood and watched as he went off down the rocky beach. Patrick turned and then made his way back inside. All Patrick saw was the curtain close quickly and a red head quickly moving from view.
“That bugger,” Patrick mumbled.
The fire crackled and Monica sat there patiently.
“So you watched everything?” Patrick asked.
“I couldn’t hear if that makes you feel better. I can’t help myself,” Monica said.
“It’s all so exciting. I don’t even know the story.” She turned to him standing by the entry way.
“And I suppose you want to know then by the sound of it?” Patrick came in and sat in the chair across from her and warmed his hands by the fire.
The pang welled up in her belly as she watched him there. Men in kilts just did it for her. She followed her eyes up his muscular legs and wondered just for a Monica second what was under that green kilt.
“Hello?” Patrick said, “I asked you a question.”
She looked swiftly away from those legs and said, “What did he hand you?”
“A card of St. Michael,” Patrick responded and said nothing else about it.
The rain had ceased and the water was so still, like a vast perfect mirror. Father Mac Namara stopped and wondered how water had such properties?
“God,” he whispered the words with absolutely certainty.
The forest was on the other side of him and appeared like any other, the sound of birds chirped here and there and the odd plant moved under the odd drop of left over rain gathered in the canopy above.