“I’m ready to do whatever is called for!”
“Go then, search out the ring, salmon, and enter the annals of history.”
“I’m more interested in fulfilling the designs of Providence than entering the annals of history.”
“Your sacrifice will be much appreciated, for you will have reinforced the nexus of cause and effect.”
“I agree that nothing should be fractured. We found things as they are and should leave them as such.”
“Indeed. We should do whatever we can to preserve the happiness of mankind …”
“And peace within families …”
“And give days of glory to Scotland, our beloved country.”
“And for so many other reasons it would too long, although very lovely, to list now …”
“Yes, for many other important reasons …”
“Indeed, for many other reasons …”
The holy man blessed the fish, which, at the end of that ritual, made a lethal leap and belly-flopped on the water. It disappeared in a second. Then the blessed saint kneeled and started to pray, head up and eyes rolling. It was a charming scene and would require the artlessness of the primitives to paint such a miraculous atmosphere. The Clyde flowed slowly that morning and a breeze was refreshing the landscape. In the distance, a foggy Glasgow was lazily stirring. Time passed — the time required for the miracle, in short — and finally another bubble appeared on the water and then an eye came into view of a fish splashing in its liquid element. The man watched it approach, ecstatic. When it reached the river bank, with endearing stoicism, the fish rolled on to its back. Firmly, though not at all roughly, St Mungo sank the point of a lath into its white flesh to open it up. The sacrifice was made and the ring glinted in the fish’s entrails. The saint extracted it carefully, washed it and gave thanks to God for his goodness. When he’d finished, he grabbed the fish by the gills and took it to an old fish shop famed for its sophisticated fry-ups.
“Cook this fish slowly, mistress!” he said, from the bottom of his heart. “And give me a lift, because nothing could be more exhausting than these tasks of mine. Don’t skimp and have the table ready for twelve, because there is a gentleman who can cure everything, and God is so almighty …”
At ten he entered the palace via the back door. The queen, who’d not yet managed any shut-eye, was hard-pressed not to swoon again when she heard him. They administered syrup but, the second she saw the holy man clutching her ring she came round with such a vengeance they had to close windows and doors to avoid a shocking din.
She repeatedly kissed the venerable saint’s robes and had no time, naturally, to engage in a proper act of thanksgiving. As soon as she could string a sentence together, she demanded an audience with the king.
“My lord and liege,” she began, or so the story goes, “my lord and liege, here is the ring you wanted to see yesterday. The wedding ceremony finished much earlier than expected and my marvelous first lady-in-waiting has just returned it. I thank you for your paternal concerns and you know you can always rely on your most adoring subject who …”
When he realized what it was all about, the half-dozing king chortled incredulously and grabbed the jewel in both hands. He held it for ages, quite speechless, and, as time passed, he grew visibly paler. By his bedside, the queen continued to survey the floor. Finally, the monarch sighed and looked anxiously at the queen. Then he lowered his gaze and burst into tears.
“For a moment I cast doubts on your fidelity, my queen!” he exclaimed, his head now beneath his pillow. “May God punish my grave error …!”
“So do you believe me now? Let’s put all that behind us …!” exclaimed the queen, laughing mischievously and tugging at his flowing beard. “Would you like me to accompany you for a few minutes?”
“This isn’t a good time,” said the king, in a daze. “I much prefer it after lunch …” In truth, the historical account concludes here, and epilogues are probably quite unnecessary. However, to satisfy my readers’ curiosity, we’ll add that, thanks to this extraordinary event, the king was easily able to plow his idiosyncratic furrow and the queen could, with complete impunity, try out the nation’s greatest dolts in the democratic vein she truly made her own.
Many years later, when for reasons of State it was decided that the deeds we have just recounted would have no impact of any kind, they were allowed to circulate. We believe it hardly needs saying that they prompted lots of comment. People have always been very simple-minded, and in the course of these conversations, the humble, hallowed fellow received the greatest praise. Such a favorable aura sprang up around his miraculous activities that the doors were easily opened to his becoming a patron saint. The queen was also much praised, and the anecdote fleshed out the literary halo that already enjoyed the granite-hard base of her spelling mistakes but needed a genial incident of this kind to set it on fire. The historic reputation of the brigadier general also gained from the publication of these deeds, because nothing could be better for the prestige of a knight-in-arms than a spot of tricky amorous jousting. And, naturally, the king was much envied. “Cuckolded he may have been,” said the people, “but much better that it was the result of cosmic say-so than the whims of a local barber or taxi driver.”
Within two or three centuries, the oral tradition of these events remained very strong. The enlightenment had followed its course, and the moment came when the party that we will describe as non-conformist won a majority in the Glasgow Town Hall. From the very first day, this party implemented policies that some believed to be populist, which included, among others, the plan to give the city a shield. A municipal councilor proposed, with sly sleight-of-hand, to put a ring and a fish on the shield and his motion was approved. But this led to such an uproar, people were so up in arms, that for the first time ever an inquiry into the miracle was begun, with no holds barred. Theological issues blossomed, spliced with all manner of saucy comment and anecdote. Casuistry had its moment of brilliance. Resonances reached the world outside, and the different dominations decided to debate the issue fully.
“All in all,” said the casuist, “the fish is the guilty party.”
“Fish don’t have souls, ergo, there can be no question of its guilt.”
“Fish do possess souls, but the fact they are so tiny means they aren’t worth worrying about.”
“You go too far. Fish have the souls they need: I mean they have the fragment of soul necessary to get by in life. Plotinus, who in his day studied this matter …”
“That man was a heretic!”
“That is an invalid argument; if we have to listen to such paltry argumentation, we might as well go home …”
Some people tried to highlight the role played by the saint, clearly wanting to find fault.
“There are shocking details,” said one indignant academic, “that are hardly edifying.”
“What do you mean?”
“What you heard …”