The wasps are angry. They know they're dying.

I lifted my coffee and put the small change in a tip jar.  Held by one hand, the cup rattled nervously on the saucer.  Better use two.  Coffee swirled across the lip as I turned around. 

Behind me, a woman in an electric wheelchair had just come in.  Her torso was upright and her arms only just mobile, a finger poised over a toggle button.  I felt embarrassed.  I clasped my arms to my body, coffee cup right by my chest, and pressed myself against chairs behind me to let her past.  Damn it, the chairs scraped the floor.

"Go on ahead," she said warmly, in a raspy voice.  "You'll get through easier than me."  Her neck didn't move as she looked up at me, and I saw lots of white in her eyes.  She had a slight frame and fine features, her hair long and straight and blonde.  The corners of her mouth flickered into a smile.

"Oh thanks," I said, and went to sit down.

This woman manoeuvred herself neatly to a table near mine, facing the wall where I saw her clearly.

"Usual is it, Heather?"  

The waitress walked over, put a hand on Heather's shoulder, turned and softened her knees to see her customer's face.  Heather nodded, barely perceptibly.  The waitress was off, busied herself behind the counter, foamed milk, cut a slice of pie, wrapped a fork in a paper napkin.

"Now.  There you are, love."  She took Heather's hand and set it around the napkin-clad fork.  "Two sugars, isn't it?"  She knew really, she didn't wait for an answer before tearing a sachet and tipping in the contents.  Heather's eyes strained over her shoulder in recognition.

I set my own cup down into its saucer.

Heather looked at hers.

"And there you go, pet," said the waitress, and popped a straw into the frothy cup, giving it a stir.  "Watch, now, it's hot."

With her wrist, Heather pushed the fork forward.  She concentrated on opening up the napkin with a forefinger.  Third time, it worked.  Then, she grabbed at the fork several times before she managed to clutch it up with all five fingers.

And so, slowly, she transported a piece of pie, just a few crumbs really, to her mouth and ate it.  She sucked as much as she chewed, obviously concentrating on the motion all the while.  When she stopped, she leaned forward for a sip of coffee through the straw.

A man walked in, late forties maybe, shiny shoes and a purple V-neck.  He was waving a newspaper all around him.

"Latte, please love, when you get a wee minute."  And he sat down by the window and opened his paper.  I noticed now why he's been waving it, a wasp had followed him in and was buzzing about his head.  Now reading, he flailed his arms.  The wasp careened past his ear and made him flinch.

Now it swooped past me and towards Heather.  It flew once around her head and landed in her long hair.  I noticed now it was greying blonde.  She put down her fork gently and took a sip of coffee.  The wasp flew off, circled her once, and landed back in the same spot, like it wanted the recognition it didn't get the first time.  It flew down onto the pie, danced about a bit, and flew across the room and out of sight.

Heather just sat there, and I didn't know if I should say anything.

The waitress appeared our side of the counter again, and carried a latte to the man who'd brought the wasp in.  It followed in her wake.

"There's that wee bugger after you again, love.  This place is wild for wasps, isn't it?"  He went to roll up his paper.

"End of the warm weather," replied the waitress.  "They're angry this time of year."

He slowly rolled up the sports section and raised it above his head.  He sat motionless, only his pupils moving right and left, tracking the wasp as it teased him.  It flew right past his ear.  He winced.  It flew round a single white flower on the table.  It skimmed right across the top of his latte, centimetres from it.

It landed on the table.

Slam.

He missed, the flower and vase fell over.  He started waving his paper again like mad.  The wasp went wild.

He got up stealthily, ready to strike.  He raised the paper slowly.  Slowly.

Slam.  He hit the wall.  I couldn't see the wasp now, but I could hear it, all over the place, one end of the cafe to the next in a second.  He couldn't see it either - he cocked his head, motionless but for eyes flitting here and there.

"Shit!" he yelled.  "The bugger stung me!"

And it flew straight out the door.  The man's face was puce, he was holding the back of his hand tight, his cheeks swelled like balloons and neck veins bulged with him trying to keep further curses in.  He released his breath roughly and the redness calmed.

He sat down again.  He looked at the waitress, then at Heather, and at me.  He unrolled his sport section and started to read.

"Mister, do you want some lemon juice?  Or is it baking soda?  I can never remember which is for bees and which is for wasps."

"Leave it, darling, it'll be OK."

He read the sport.  The waitress wiped the counter with a cloth.  I looked at Heather.

She took another bite of pie.  It took her a long time to swallow it.  She sucked some coffee through a straw,  and she choked a little.

Heather saw me staring and smiled warmly.  I tried to look away, I felt my cheeks burn.

"It's the end of September," she said softly.  "The wasps are angry.  They know they're dying."

Her hand trembled a little as she put down the fork.

Basilica

Basilica

based on Isaiah 53

Sacred herb, sacred king

We overlooked, fixated on more flowery growth.

Tender shoot, tender king,

Inches from the earth, we missed you,

Until they tore you down.

You did not dominate, nor push pretenders.

Submitted on cold mortar, bruise-broken by savage pestle

Your passion-darkened leaves you cede,

Beryline you bleed, bequeathing us the force of spring

Therein your power, Isaiah foresaw.

And thus with violent stripes,

Plucked and stripped

And crushed, you lie

Til carried on a Paschal breeze, your

Fragrance surges forth

Uncontainably

Foliate third day, we await

Ghost Estate

Ghost Estate

“You try talking to her, Father.  I bleedin’ give up.”

The fat, red-faced man struggled past an overturned shopping trolley.  He clamped down on a clipboard with his elbow, so he could hold on for support. 

He looked up again with a vinegary smirk.  “So she’s called you in?  Huh.  You’re not allowed to give up on her.  Thank God I’m a builder and not a priest.  ‘S’all I can say.”  

Dressed in a shiny suit and tie, with yellow hard hat and tabard, his wellies squelched unrhythmically down the lane towards the main road.

Thomas smirked.  Thank God I’m not a builder, he thought, looking at the state of the place.  Owenbraddagh, it said on the billboard.  Affordable luxury housing, turn-key properties.

Owenbraddagh.  Salmon River, it meant.  Not a river in sight here though, nor any salmon.  Just rivulets of dirty water running along a mucky track, and shells of uniform houses.  Metal fences and keep out signs lay flat in the mud.  Shreds of blue tarpaulin were strewn everywhere.  Some sort of food wrapper with Ł’s and impossible consonant clusters printed on it.  A hard hat tossed aside, by the look of it months ago.  A metre high concrete pipe lay as an obstacle just up ahead.

Thomas watched the builder scramble into a four by four parked by the edge of the road.  As he drove off and the beam faded on its way into town, the dusk sky looked suddenly inky.  In the direction of the new development, among the dark eyes of boarded up windows, one was lit up, dimly, no curtain drawn over it.  That must be her.

A parishioner he’d never met before had called that morning, in a state.  Her signal kept cutting out, but she persevered in giving directions to her new house in Owenbraddagh, one of many new estates just out of town along the main Enniskillen Road. 

Terrified, she was.  Voice shaking. 

Thought her house had an evil presence.  Would he come and bless it.  Exorcise it, she didn’t know if they still did that sort of thing these days.  Anything, she said.  She was desperate.

Nothing Thomas had ever dealt with fresh from his studies in Maynooth.  He’d report it further up the chain.  See if he could help the woman in the meantime to make sense of whatever was disturbing her.

He came to an aluminium door, with two wires hanging from the top left corner, one black and one blue.  He could already make out the woman’s shadow at the bottom of a staircase.  He knocked.

“Father Devitt?”

“Hello, Margaret.  I’m here to see if we can help you.”  He wiped thick lumps of mud onto a bristly doormat.  He stepped indoors, past a flat-pack box with the bits of a cot inside and three rolls of powder blue wallpaper with storks on it.

o             O             o

“Can you feel anything, Father?”

“Erm, no.  No, I’m not saying there isn’t any reason for what you’re experiencing –“ he added quickly.  He sighed and started again.  “Here, why don’t we have a seat and you tell me.”

And Margaret did.  A litany of complaints first about the contractor, the site manager, keys not handed over, staying at her mother’s in between her old lease and the new house with husband and two kids in the one room.  Walls not plastered, electrics left bare, water coming in, still not connected to the gas.  Still no bin collection.  Council didn’t recognize the street, didn’t want to know.

“Sounds stressful, Margaret.”

Her lips pursed.  “I’m not imagining things because I’m stressed.”  Her voice was flat, utterly convincing in its lack of passion.

“No.  That’s not what I’m suggesting.”

“But you’re thinking it, aren’t you, Father?”  Margaret’s eyes looked steely, like she hadn’t slept in a while.

“Margaret.  I don’t know what’s going on or why.  This evening, I’m just here to listen, ask a few questions.  You tell me what you think’s important.”

“I want you to do something.  I can’t stay here.  Not like this.”

“Not like what?”

“Not with this ... presence.  There’s something here.  Something haunting.”

She’d said it.  Haunting.  Now Thomas had something to go on.  Something to report to the bishop.  He mentally flicked through the prayer book, what would help here ...

“Father, will you have a cup of tea?”  And she was gone to the kitchen before he could answer, her face hidden from him by her hair. 

“Or a coffee.  Do priests drink coffee?” she asked through the wall.

“We do.  I do, anyways.  A coffee would be lovely.  Wee drop of milk, no sugar, please.”  He smirked.

And he heard the gurgle and hiss of an espresso machine.

o             O             o

Over coffee in the chilly living room, Margaret pointed to a mirror above the fireplace.  “That mirror there.  Just cracked one night.  No reason.  Just cracked, look, right down the middle.  There was a picture on that other wall, just an old thing we got cheap after we got married.  Fell off the wall one night, skidded across the floor to where we were sat.”

Thomas nodded in acknowledgement but without commitment.

“Things keep switching themselves off.  I know the electrics are bad, but the TV, the radio, clocks, they just stop.  No reason.  And things switch on.  Themselves.  I came into the kitchen the other day and everything was on full-whack, hob, grill, oven, the lot.”  She paused, fumbled with her hands.

“And Father, I hang clothes in the wardrobe, I put them in drawers.  And I come back later and they’re folded on the side again, and the wardrobe’s empty.  Or I’m in here and I hear this drip – drip – drip, and I go in and the tap comes on.  Or I come in and everything's on, the kettle's boiling dry, the Krupp machine, everything's on full whack, the hob, the grill, the oven.”

She was tense now that she was saying it all out loud.  Her shoulders were hunched forward; her eyes flitted right and left as she spoke.

All very movie-like, thought Thomas.  Everyday things in a half-finished house not quite connected to civilization.  Easy to get jittery about such goings-on.  Such a silent house.  No noise of traffic this far off the road, every other house in the street empty or half-built.  Easy to let the old imagination run ...

A baby cried from upstairs.  Just a short little cry and then a couple of coughs as if stirring in its sleep.

“Is that your youngest, then Margaret?”

“The twins are six.  We didn’t have another, too expensive, you know, with childcare, that’s the killer.  Mick’s out with them, at his mam’s.  Not the type to talk to priests.”  She smiled weakly, slightly embarrassed at saying so.

“I see.  Well, I know we’re not everybody’s cup of tea these days.  And the one upstairs?”

“There’s nobody upstairs, Father.”

Thomas’s stomach felt like he’d driven too quickly over a hill. 

“But - There’s ...?”  It was out before he could conceal his shock, his white face, the icy rush of blood to his internal organs that urged him to run.

Margaret looked at him, for the first time that evening, right in the eye.  An outsider had heard.  She was terrified, but she wasn’t alone.  Nor mad.

“I see.  But the boxes in the hallway.  The cot, the wallpaper ...”

“Thought we couldn’t afford it, but accidents happen.”

“You’re ...?”

“No.  No, I’m not.  Stress, the doctor said probably caused it.”

Thomas set down his cup and took his prayer book in both hands.  His knuckles formed a white rosary.

o             O             o

Margaret knew the area before it was called Owenbraddagh.  There had never been a river here, nor salmon.  It had been bogland.  No past traumas that she knew of.  No old famine cottages, no murderous landlords or other scandals.  Just acres and acres of rain-logged peat.  Tufts of rushes, clumps of gorse.  She found bones of foxes and badgers and hares there as a child, when she helped cut turf in the lead-up to Easter when she was off sweets for Lent.  But they were just animal bones, she said, nothing sinister about that in the wilds of County Cavan.  She knew the old land, she’d heard the slice of the turf cutter, seen the cuckoo spittle on the stacks of peats.  Her hands knew the benign itch of the heather when you’ve run through it and it gets into your socks.

“It was soft land, Father.  Nothing that would lead to this.”

“Maybe, Margaret, maybe it’s not the land.  Is there anything, you know, you’ve been involved in?”

Margaret sighed.  She’d been to a fortune-teller a few times.  But she was pretty sure it was just an old woman making a pound or two.  No mystic powers, certainly no connection to another world.  Just an intuitive woman in a room with lots of heavy curtains.  Told her just enough but claimed she couldn’t see more, but come back another day when things might be clearer. 

“It was just for a laugh, Father.  I didn’t need to pay fifty euro to nobody, for her to tell me my future.  Sure it was all over the news, in the papers, everywhere you looked, there was our new prosperity.  Big bypasses, all these great jobs to come from America.  We built our grand houses and got ourselves mortgaged to the hilt.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

She looked at the wall and took out a hankie from under the cuff of her sleeve.  Thomas noticed a big tear falling slowly down the wall from a crack in the plaster.  Margaret wiped it away with one slow vertical stroke.

And Thomas realized.

There had been no past trauma here on this soft bogland in rural Cavan.  No angry spirit prevented from entering paradise, no unresolved injustice lingering on from yesteryear.  No, this was a different kind of haunting.

The haunting of a future that was supposed to be; violently broken off, vanished like a dream moments after waking bolt upright in a cold sweat.

The baby woke.  It screamed, screamed like it was suddenly hungry.  Margaret rose to her feet.

“Excuse me a minute, Father.”  And she walked to the hallway door, past the boxed up bits of cot, and climbed the stairs.

An unborn baby crying upstairs in an unfinished house, where there’d never been any river with salmon in it.

God Who Wastes Nothing

God Who Wastes Nothing
(Based on Isaiah 61:3)

Authentic,
that's how I'd describe it,
the mosaic made of recycled debris.
Jagged edges refract the light across
the texture of corrosion,
rich colours redeemed from junkmail.

A less green God would have thrown away
(not fashioned loveliness out of!)
accidents  -  broken glass,
and ignoble bottle tops.

I didn't recognize you,
God-Who-Wastes-Nothing,
down on the landfill.
God looks different in the dark.
But there you were all the time
picking over rubbish to give meaning to in art.

Ah, so it was you who winced when you picked up
each shard and held it to your heart

and loved each fragment into the whole.

Let me stand back, take it in.

Authentic,
that's how I'd describe it.
Beautiful even.
          ~