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Father Ted Crilly sat in his chair, gazing at the sonogram photo in his hands, protected by a white picture frame Mrs. Doyle picked up the last time she was at the shops. He kept his thumbs planted squarely on the painted wood, not wanting to smudge the glass as his eyes traced every single curve of the black and white blob that was the miracle fetus gestating inside him. Nearby, Father Dougal McGuire was laying on the floor with his head propped in his hands, kicking his legs up and down while eating Reese’s Pieces by color: yellow, then orange, then brown. Dougal glanced up at Ted as he popped another orange peanut candy in his mouth, noting his mildly soppy expression he wore whenever he took down the photo from the mantel to look at it.
“When d’ya reckon we tell Len about the baby, Ted?” he asked. “Surely he should know about it before he threatens to send us off to Africa when he gets in one of his moods.”
Ted set the sonogram on his lap, then rubbed his forehead. “He’s not Len, Dougal. You call him ‘Bishop Brennan’ or ‘Your Grace’. As for telling him about the pregnancy, it’s better that I do it sooner rather than later. And quickly, too. Like when you rip a plaster off.”
The young priest’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You want to rip off Len’s plaster?”
“No, Dougal. It’s a figure of speech…”
“Ooh right, so you want to rip off Len’s plaster after you tell him about the baby.”
“Dougal, I am not ripping off Bishop Brennan’s plaster, or any plasters for that matter,” Ted huffed. “I’m just going to tell him that an angel visited me, the Holy Spirit ‘blessed’ me and now I’m… with child.”
A glimmer of understanding appeared on Dougal’s face, but quickly faded into his perpetual gormlessness.
“Okay, Ted, I get it now! You plan to rip off the plaster before telling Len about the baby, which will make him focus on the pain rather than wanting to kill you!”
Ted leaned forward, placing his face in his hands and inhaled sharply; a groan following as he exhaled. He then slid his fingers partway down his face and stared at the young priest between his fingertips.
“Ah, come on now, Ted,” Dougal grinned, getting up on his knees and walking on them over to the silver-haired priest. “Don’t be sad. This could be a good thing! If Len knows about the baby, maybe he’ll be a whole lot nicer to us, and... and he won’t send us to the South Pole or whatever dark corner of the world he wants to hide us.”
Ted’s expression of frustration changed to one of delight as he imagined the surly bishop giving him massages and kind words instead of threats of bodily harm. “You’re right, Dougal,” he replied, a devious smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “And this baby is from Heaven, so Len’ll definitely be tripping over himself to make me extra comfortable so he can score points with The Man Upstairs!”
Dougal blinked one eye slowly, then the other. “Father Jack?”
“No!” Ted hissed. “God!”
“Ooh, right. God. The Almighty,” Dougal repeated before returning to snack on his candy.
It was a non-rainy day in April, an extreme rarity on Craggy Island. Ted had invited his stern-faced superior, Bishop Len Brennan, over for some tea and to relay the news about his “blessing”. The two Catholic clergymen sat at the metal and glass patio table in the garden behind the Craggy Island Parochial House, where Mrs. Doyle, the housekeeper, had laid out a whole high tea spread with painstaking care.
Ted fidgeted in his chair and tapped his fingers on the glass. “How is the tea, Your Grace?” he asked in an overly enthusiastic tone. “Mrs. Doyle says it’s one of those exotic blends that are becoming popular... Golden Chai, I believe she said. It has turmeric, which is supposed to be quite good for your health.” Ted’s heart jumped into his throat as he realized his slight faux pas. “I-I’m not saying that you are unhealthy, Your Grace!” he stammered. “It’s... ah, it would make you even healthier! Perhaps you could be the oldest bishop in Ireland someday, like Bishop Allanadale... yet not look a day over... How old are you now? 65? 70?”
Bishop Brennan set his teacup on the saucer, glowering at the jittery priest through his deadpan expression. “I’m 63, Crilly. Now cease your rambling and get to the point about this ‘urgent news’ you wanted to tell me.”
“Right, yes.” Ted cleared his throat and settled into the patio chair. “Well, erm, you know how an Angel of the Lord visited me a few weeks ago and then the Holy Spirit ‘blessed’ me?”
“Which confuses me why such an extraordinary event would happen to a gobshite like you, but yes. Go on,” Brennan replied dryly as he lifted the teacup to his lips.
“Well, hehe…” Ted began with a nervous chuckle. “What I meant about being ‘blessed’... is that I’m pregnant with a child from God.”
Brennan’s eyes bulged out of his head as he stopped mid-sip, then bellowed out a ferocious roar. In his rage, he smashed the cup and saucer to pieces, picking up the largest, sharpest shard, and lunged at the priest from across the table. Ted let out a startled cry as the bishop forced him against the wall of the parochial house and jabbed the shard towards his carotid artery while staring him down with murderous intent. But suddenly, Brennan’s expression softened, and he spun away from Ted, walking off to the other side of the house without a word.
Ted puffed a sigh of relief, straightening out his silver locks and grey cardigan. “How unlike Len to be so violent,” he mused to himself. “I was certain that he would have started kissing my arse once I told him I’m expecting a divine child.”
The relief was short-lived, though, as Brennan came around the corner with a running chainsaw in his hands.
“JESUS FLIPPIN’ CHRIST!” Ted screeched in terror as the bishop revved the chainsaw a few times and thrust the blade at his head, the teeth nearly nicking the priest’s chin. But as before, Brennan did not go through with the attack, appearing to have undergone a change of heart at the last second.
Ted attempted to take another ragged breath when the bishop appeared again, this time scruffing the snarling wolverine that had dug a hole under the north side of the house, its sharp claws flailing and jaws snapping as Brennan shoved the creature mere centimeters from Ted’s face.
“HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD, LEN,” the priest shrieked while the wolverine (lovingly named “Logan” by Dougal) jerked forward, nearly biting off Ted’s nose. “IT’S ONLY A BABY! US CLERGY ARE SUPPOSED TO RESPECT THE SANCTITY OF THE UNBORN!”
Brennan remained silent as he walked away one last time with the wolverine in tow. Ted folded his hands, praying that the bishop had finally given up on this nonsense, when to his complete shock and horror, Brennan had returned once more with the wolverine... which was now swinging the chainsaw back and forth wildly in its paws. The priest felt his vocal cords strain as his wails were drowned out by the noise, the blade drawing closer and closer before everything went black.
Ted continued to scream bloody murder, leaving Bishop Brennan to stare at the pale, sweaty, bug-eyed priest in utter bemusement.
“Christ Almighty, Crilly. What on Earth has gotten into you now?” Brennan barked harshly, holding his intact teacup with no power tools or psychotic mammals in sight. “I’m still waiting for this ‘news’ you were dying to tell me about.”
The priest’s screams died down immediately, and he blinked a few times, reassuring himself that he had come back to reality. Ted then shot up from his chair, still wild-eyed.
“YOU NEED ME ALIVE BECAUSE I’M THE ONLY PRIEST WHO KNOWS HOW TO TRANSLATE OGHAM AND LINEAR B!” he yelled out before dashing through the back door into the house.
Brennan shrugged his shoulders and gave a hmph, drinking the rest of the chai tea that left a hint of spice in its aftertaste.
In the kitchen, Ted collapsed against the cupboard, panting heavily. Once he had calmed down, he placed a hand on his barely noticeable bump and patted it gently.
“We’ll tell him later, pet,” he murmurs in a weary voice. “Much later.”