Well so was I but the Church made me leave it. Of the seven men in my cell six were O’Sullivan Beares named Joseph. Your father might have been one of them. Anything special for me to go on?
Prophecy.
Ah that one, I knew him all right. He used to say he was going to have twenty or thirty sons and I admonished him to be happy with what God gave him. Happy I will be, he said, it’s just that I already know. Well that’s fine for seventy years ago but what are we going to do now? Here you are a former terror of the Black and Tans wanted for patriotism and other heinous crimes, in English territory without papers. Drop our lovely mother tongue and repeat after me. Yes I am English actually but I was born with faulty vocal cords and multiple speech impediments.
Joe did so.
Atrocious, said the priest. That wouldn’t even begin to fool an Arab.
We ourselves? whispered Joe hopefully.
Not this time, it’s just not enough. We’ll need some help if you’re not to be caught. Now sit there while I stoke up the oven. I’ve been the baker here for sixty years and I do my best thinking at the oven, so you sit and I’ll bake.
The old priest began kneading dough and baking loaves of bread that came out in various irregular shapes. One was clearly a cross and another had roughly the shape of Ireland. The third might have been meant to represent the shape of the walls of the Old City, but the fourth was an unrecognizable oval slightly angular at the top and more so at the ends. Before long the corners of the bakery were heaped with bread.
What’s that loaf? asked Joe.
Which one?
That corner there.
The Crimea of course.
The priest turned back to the oven but all at once his cassock twirled and his sandals slapped the stones. He had broken into a dance.
But that’s the answer, lad, why didn’t I think of it? You’re the reason why I wasted that time in the army, old Joe’s son on the run’s the reason.
The priest, dripping with sweat, renewed his little dance in front of the open oven door. Right there, thought Joe, and at it sixty years no less. Been doing it so long the brains have melted. Out of the gutter but as finished as ever.
Which army was that, Father?
Her Majesty’s own, what else. Before you jigs a former officer of light cavalry with several medals from the allies not to mention the Victoria Cross from herself.
He was bouncing back and forth now dropping a loaf in the oven, now plucking one out. Hopeless, thought Joe, totally melted. Sixty years of that could turn anyone’s brains to bread.
The Victoria Cross you say?
The very same, lad. Before I found my vocation I was so stupid I joined the army and off we went to the Crimea, where some deluded ward of God ordered a suicidal charge. My mount fell and broke its leg and I couldn’t keep up on foot, so it turned out I was one of the few survivors. That’s right my boy, 1854 was the year in question and the English public was furious. The army had to find some heroes who were still alive, that was me and in came the medals.
Joe shifted on his buttocks. His bottom hurt. Maybe that charge had been a disaster but sitting here was a disaster too. The old priest danced across the room and dropped a ribbon over his head. Joe stared dumbly at the cross. Once he had seen one on an English officer before the Easter Rebellion.
That’s it and there you are, young Joe, an official hero of Her Majesty’s forces and one of the few to survive the charge of the Light Brigade. Two years after that piece of madness in the Crimea, you see, Her Reigning Presence decided to honor God and herself by creating a new and highest honor for Britannic valor on the battlefield, named for herself, this Victoria Cross we now see around your neck. Her advisors naturally agreed with that and suggested the first VC ever to be go to the most decorated man presently in the forces. Who’s that? asked Victoria R. Right here on the rolls, said the advisors, checking, it appears to be none other than the illustrious hero who was loaded with Sardinian and Turkish and French medals only two years ago, our very own MacMael n mBo of Crimean fame. MacMael what? asked the queen, suddenly weary with the tasks of empire.
The old priest smiled.
No matter. Presently she recovered and they were able to find the last sober Irishman in the islands to teach her how to pronounce the name and the ceremony was held and there I stood, first recipient of the famous Victoria Cross. Well then a few years after that some worthy people established a retirement charity in Jerusalem for veterans, the Home for Crimean War Heroes it’s called, and since there aren’t many of those veterans around by now as you’d imagine, heroic or not, the quarters are more than spacious. In fact you’ll have it practically to yourself. Commands a decent view of part of the Old City and the bread’s excellent, I bake it myself. So lad, I’ll give you my old documents and that’s that.
That’s what? thought Joe. Were the old priest’s brains melted or not? He was twenty and the Franciscan must have been at least eighty-five.
Won’t apparent age be a problem then?
Not here, not in Jerusalem, answered the old priest merrily. Here young or old is about the same. Our Holy City, everyone’s Holy City, is an odd place as you’ll come to see, not an everyday commonplace matter.
We ourselves, said Joe.
Exactly, and just the three of us in on the trick, you and me and God. And some trick it was, choosing those Poor Clares.
How’s that, Father?
The trip. This dreadful journey the Poor Clares had to make over here seeing and being seen by all manner of creatures and smelling all smells known to the species. That’s not their usual business is it? Not what they signed up for is it? No, direct intervention, that’s what it was.
What?
Oh you wore a bright green jacket and buckled shoes and you set your flat red hat at a properly jaunty angle, and you kept on the move as best you could but He knew trouble was coming and He said to Himself, The lad’s going to have to get out of Ireland and how’s he going to do it?
Well naturally He took a look in the files of the Vatican, which is where He goes when dealing with historical matters, and what does He find but an old request for some nuns to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Right you are, He says to Himself, that’s the job. Who’s ever going to suspect the terror of the Black and Tans sneaking out of the country disguised as a Poor Clare when everybody knows Poor Clares aren’t even allowed out of their convents? Who would even conceive of such a thing? So after He has His little laugh He arranges for the document to be found and processed, and after one hundred and twenty-five years the frightened Poor Clares do their duty and you’re saved.
Father, I didn’t realize any of it.
It’s true you didn’t but there you have it, said the old priest, who went dancing off into the corners of the bakery collecting a loaf in each of the four shapes and proceeded to pile them in the fugitive’s lap.
9 Haj Harun
They simply didn’t have time to believe a man who had been born a thousand years before Christ. Whose mind, moreover, teemed with facts no one else had ever heard.
ONE AFTERNOON AFTER HE had gone to live in the Home for Crimean War Heroes, O’Sullivan Beare was wandering in the Moslem Quarter when he found himself facing a blank wall at the end of an alley. Near him a wizened old Arab stood forlornly in a doorway. The Arab wore a faded yellow cloak and a rusting helmet tied in place with green ribbons. Unaware that anyone was there, the old man raised his cloak and pissed weakly into the alley.
O’Sullivan Beare jumped out of the way. The man’s legs seemed too spindly to support him. The heavy helmet rolled when he moved and crashed down on his nose. After dropping his cloak he sighed, readjusted the helmet and once more stared sadly ahead at nothing.