THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 6:  Father O’Football:
The Galloping Holy Ghost and Saint Patrick’s Church of the Water of Life

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

Father Sean O’Doul was a fairly young priest to be head of the Parrish at Brannock-A-Bend.  But then again, Brannock-A-Bend wasn’t much of a Parrish, with few demands of any great importance upon its leaders.  He and Sisters Maria and Claire administered to the spiritual needs of the tiny town and to the secular needs of the amazingly large, cathedral-like house of worship, Saint Patrick’s Church of the Water of Life.  Supposedly, the church had been built a thousand years ago right over the very spot Saint Paddy had taught the locals to make poteen whiskey.  Five or six hundred years ago when Brannock-A-Bend was a thriving moonshining community, there had been a need for such a grand structure.  But as the need for tax-free hooch diminished world-wide, so did the church’s congregation.

There was a small rectory and a nunnery next to the church that the clergy inhabited but three rooms of, and the rest of the space was rented out to visitors during the tourist season to help with the tremendous upkeep of the medieval castle-like structure.  The church employed two cooks (in season), three maids, and four maintenance workers almost year round.  The Holy See in Rome would have torn the house of worship down but for the belief that during the time of Queen Lizzy I, the church had been the site of a great miracle.  Known throughout the English Isles for being a place of great piety and holiness, an angry Satan had been driven out of the church by an unknown citizen of Brannock-A-Bend the same way Saint Paddy had driven out the snakes from Ireland.  The deal with the Pope today was simple: as long as the tourists helped pay for the upkeep, the cathedral could stay.  As most of the tourists were American, the Irish bishop for the diocese had selected an American-educated priest to lead the flock.

Father O’Doul, turning a blind eye to church doctrine in favor of helping his small community, was acutely aware of the importance of that bleedin’ banshee to the town’s tourist trade.  Its sudden absence was of great concern to him.  He held an ecumenical council with the nuns and, after a phone call to his friend Rabbi Stern in Dublin for moral guidance and knowing what a butthole Mayor O’Malley was, it was determined that Saint Paddy’s Church needed to take its own action.

At present, the belief in banshees was strictly forbidden by Holy Mother Church, but with the spiritual well-being of his flock at stake, Father O’Doul felt it was his duty... no, God’s mandate for him to go out and do good, church doctrine or not.  To most priests this would a soul-tearing dilemma.  But to a priest who reportedly kept a stash of sacrificial wine that had never seen the grape (in the finest tradition of Saint Patrick)—No Big Deal!

The first thing Father Sean knew he had to do was find Barrister Fitz-Ryan.  Sean needed a secular collaborator, and Fitzy was the perfect choice.  In fact, the old shyster was the only choice!  He'd heard many of the lawyer’s confessions, and knew Fitz-Ryan was nefarious by nature.  While Father Sean would never reveal what he had heard—seal of confessional and all that—he was reasonably sure that God would approve of using this information for the pursuit of good.  So he finished the evening Mass, exchanged his vestments for his black street clothes, and set out towards Fitz-Ryan’s favorite pub, The Half-Filled Cup, as the obvious first place to look.

He asked Sister Maria to accompany him, having a new job to delegate to her.  The nun threw a shawl over her shoulders and left Sister Claire with the rest of the supper dishes.  At the pub, Father Sean poked his head through the door, saw his quarry pouring shots for the Dougal brothers, and began walking over toward him.  He took three steps in, realized the nun was still waiting by the door, and stopped.  He turned, took her by the hand, and led her in.  It silenced the room.  They walked up to Fitz-Ryan.

“Hubert, m’friend.  Hooly Muther Church has need to talk with you right away.  A matter of grave importance...”

“Grave importance, is it?  More than ya know, Foder Sean, more than ya know!”  The Barrister turned to his two would-be captors.  “Actually, Foder, I was plannin’ ta be lookin’ you oop, meself.”  He turned to the Dougal brothers.  “Tell m’friend d’mayor that Father Sean has... a grave need of me service.  Surely, I tend the church’s needs first....”

“Tut, tut, tut!  Fiss-Rine,” an inebriated Daniel Dougal struggled to get out the sentence, “d’mayor will haf t’way!  Ruin alon’, God firs’... den country!”  He'd said his piece, but as an afterthought added, “Good eve ta ya, Foder...” and, tipping his cap, further added, “Sis’er!”

Fitzy looked at the cleric and smiled.  His plans to get the Dougals loaded and then make a break for it had been working.  But the priest walking through the door had saved him the cost of another bottle of whiskey, maybe two, and a good two hours or more.  He grabbed his half-empty beer mug to finish it off in one nip, but the priest motioned for him to slow down a bit.  “I’ve got some things ta do before we leave, Hubert.  T’will take but a minute.”  Leaving the lawyer for an instant, the pastor led the nun to the far end of the bar where Pat McNally, the pub’s owner and bartender, stood.  The cleric reached in his pocket and pulled out some paper money.

“Mister McNally.  I need a small flask bottle of the house brand, please.”  Having acted this scene before, McNally already had the bottle in his hand.  “This is Sister Maria, sir.  I think you’ve met.”  The bartender and the nun smiled at each other and nodded.  “In future, she’ll be saving me time and comin’ in for me supplies when needed... for medicinal use, a’course!”  He looked at the nun who was somewhat surprised and about to speak in protest, a nun going into a pub and all.  “Shh, shh.  T’isn’t anyting ya can’t handle, Sister.”  As she rose to exit, O’Doul added, “An’ when you get home, Sister, take a wee nip o’ dat yourself... ta take the chill of the night air off’er yer bones!”

“Sound advice, Pastor.  It’s so dry in dat ole church the trees on yer lawn are bribing the dogs.”

Fitz-Ryan had finished his beer.  He locked arms with the priest and headed to the door, mumbling under his breath, “Stupid brutes can’t handle dere likker!”

They entered out into the dark empty street.  Once clear of the door the priest began to speak, but Fitz-Ryan fairly lifted him nearly off the ground and shoved him into a deserted business’s doorway.  “Swear!” he whispered, “Swear you’ll be tray-tin’ dis like a confession!  I got sahm whon ya need ta be meetin’.”  The priest looked at the old lawyer and just blinked.

The question becomes, “What do you do with a five-hundred-year-old ghost who has been locked in one room since the day he died?”  The answer is quite simple: Nothing.  He’ll find plenty of things to do on his own.  O’Neil and Calhoun were the perfect hosts.  They could drink almost as much as Pegleg, they acquainted him with Aunt Idy through black and white photos which, again, ‘em-pressed the shite’ out of him, and they gave him the run of Casa O’Neil.  When it was realized that old Pegleg had no need of sleep, being dead and all, they acquainted him with television.  Beau had a satellite dish driven in from Dublin and added to the roof to watch the games, so it was no muss, no fuss once they got past the wee people inside the box who ignored Pegleg’s questions.  The American football games and the NFL channel scored almost as many points with the old pirate as the porno channel did.

But all play and no work sours the mash, so to speak.  Being dead, Pegleg never got tired and never really needed a break.  He and Beau redesigned Idy’s still completely and began design work on the big-boilered still.  Then immediately after, Pegleg sat down with O’Neil and discussed recipes.  O’Neil was surprised by what Pegleg suggested adding to the mix.  Pegleg was awed by O’Neil’s homemade chemistry set.  Pegleg also didn’t eat, which bothered the boyos, but that was not to say the man couldn’t cook.  Once he got past having to let a frozen roast defrost, the captain turned out to be a grillin’ fool!

For the rest of his time there,  Pegleg was a natural born putzer.

As Fitz-Ryan and Father O’Doul drove towards the house, the two men could see from quite a distance off that the house lights appeared to be flashing on and off.  “Didn’t you tell me that these young men finally added electric lights to Ida’s house?” the Father asked.  “There must be a short somewhere!”

Fitz-Ryan just rolled his eyes and smiled sarcastically.  “You’d be tinkin’ dat, Foder, now wooden’t’cha!  Jus’ hold dat taught and remember you be bound by d’seal of confession!”

When they drove up to the house they found O’Neil and Beau on the front lawn laying in hammocks and drinking beer in the refreshingly cool lake air.  Indeed, the house lights were flashing on and off.  Fitz-Ryan led the priest towards the rising footballers.  “Foder O’Doul, I’d like ya ta be meetin’ Messers O’Neil and Calhoun.”  The Father smiled and extended his hand.  When he shook with Beau, he thought Beau gave him a bit of a strange look.

“Ya seem ta be havin’ a bit of a problem with yer lights, Mister O’Neil,” the humble cleric said.

O’Neil looked at Fitz-Ryan, tilted his thumb at the priest and looked over his glasses at the lawyer, who just shook his head, ‘no’.  “Well... no, Father, not really.  Old Pegleg has just discovered ’lectricity!”

The priest looked over O’Neil’s shoulder.  He could see clear through the screen door all the way into the kitchen.  A short, unkempt-looking man was standing at a switch.  He’d throw it up, the lights would go on.  He’d throw it down, and they’d go off.  He seemed to be grinning from ear to ear.

“C’mon, Foder,” Fitzy said.  “I’ll intra-duce ya to our special guest.  You jus’ remember d’promise ya made me!”

They went into the kitchen.  The man at the switch stopped his doings and, seeing the collar on the priest, pulled back against the wall, as if he was hoping not to be seen.  “Oh Lord!” he shouted.  “He’ll be excersizin’ me fer sure!”  He relaxed when O’Doul sat and pulled a beer off of the six-pack sitting on the table.

“Now wat’cha be wantin’ tat fer?”  The spirit had snatched what was left of the second bottle of whiskey he’d given the boys and popped the cork right under the priest’s nose.

The aroma wafted to O’Doul’s nose and he breathed in deep.  “God in heaven,” he gasped out, “where did you get this?!”  The pastor looked at the bottle in Pegleg’s hand.

The pirate was grinning again.  “Made it meself for Queen Liz herself!”

The priest looked over at Fitz-Ryan.  “Foder,” the barrister began, “I’d likes ya ta be meetin’ the banshee of Brannock-A-Bend... Brian “Pegleg” Paterson....”

The priest looked down at the two perfect legs.  Immediately Fitz-Ryan, Calhoun and O’Neil sung out, “It’s an  ’onorary title!”  The priest looked at the spirit, who was taking a sniff of the bottle himself.

“The traitor, Brian Paterson?”

Fitz-Ryan shook his head.  “A case, purely, a’ mistaken identity.  He was a frien’ a’ Shane O’Neill!”

“And I might be addin’,” the spirit broke in, “definitely... not a banshee!  A friggin’ ghoost, a loyal Irishman and, a won-time member of Saint Paddy’s Church of the Water of Life!  Not a banshee!”

The priest looked up at Pegleg.  “Weren’t ya ’sposed ta go into a light or somp’in?”

Pegleg looked at O’Neil in frustration and aggravated disgust.  “You be tellin’im about tat damned light!!!  I got nuttin’ left!”

O’Doul looked at the captain the way a parent looks at a child, preparing to scold.  “So t’was you makin’ all tat noise!  Do you know what kind a trouble ya been makin’ fer the town?  People’s lives, the church itself...”

Pegleg’s eyes widened.  “I h’ain’t done nuttin’ since the day dat little pr... eh, weasel O’Malley blew me ta pieces.  I’ll wager t’was he started dat non-sense ’bout me bein’ a traitor!”

 “So yar not damned fer treason?  What are ya damned fer?”

“Well, Foder, there, um... there might have been a few udder tings.  A murder or two, a little lyin’, not to mention moonshinnin’...”

All in the room could tell the good Father was trying to piece all this together in his mind.  Moonshine, ghosts, and banshees were all running contrary to the doctrines of the church.  He threw up in hands.  “T’is gonna take me a while ta get past—”

Beau  slammed the palms of both hands down hard on the kitchen table.  “Get past!  He said ‘get past!’  That’s where I know you from!  You played for Notre Dame!  This little guy was an All-American half back and kick return specialist.”

The priest laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the chair.  “I really didn’t like bein’ hit.  Imagine a big, hulkin’ boyo like you landin’ on the likes of me!”

Beau rolled his eyes and turned his head to the other NFLer in the room.  “This guy was like tryin’ to lasso a squirrel with a shoe lace, O’Neil.  ’Member, I told y’all ’bout this guy?  We used ta calls ’im Father O’Football—the Galloping Holy Ghost, ’cause we knew he was goin’ into the fatherhood...”

“Priesthood,” the beaming pastor interjected.

“Whatever.  The only guy ever, EVER, ta git past me on a kick return.  The Giants wanted to draft you!  What happened?  You were great!”

“And a Giant did draft me, me boy.”

“Will you two arseholes go into th’ bedroom, the professional liar looks like he be wantin’ ta spayke ta me!”  The sudden rude remark from the ghost  refocused the group.

“Yes.  Yes, of course, Pegleg.”  The priest, remembering his humility and his quest, spoke up.  “But first, may I ask ya a question, cap’n?”

“Shoot, boyo.”

“Wherever did you get tat!”  He pointed to the uncorked whiskey bottle.  “I’ve never smelled any’ting tat wonderful in me life!”

“Here, ’ave a taste!”  Pegleg poured a shot for the priest, who downed it.  It took his breath away.  “Wid a liddle help from me loyal minions, I made it meself,” Pegleg ghost continued.  “A liddle tiss, a liddle tat!”  The ghost took a long, deep swallow from the ever-present mug in his hand and let out his now-famous yell.

The priest ran to the window, threw it open, and started throwing his arms from left to right as if trying to shoo the noise out of the kitchen and into the night air.

“Wad-d’hell h’are ya doin’, priest?  H’are y’out a’ yer mind?”

“Brian, m’boy, ya need ta been doin’ dat a lot more!  T’a las’ tree days have set off a panic in d’town!  Mayor O’Malley is planning t’a send the Dougal brothers down here t’a find out what happened t’our banshee before all d’tourists leave!  Tank God dat pike season be open year round, or we’d really be—”

“PIKE?  Ya got pike here?”  Beau was suddenly more animated than the cleric had ever seen him.  The mention of the great fish had brought him around.

Fitzy looked at Beau in amazement.  “Wad d’fook... sorry Foder... wadever have ya been doin’, floatin’ around dat pond fer two weeks now?”

Beau just blinked at the lawyer.  “Keepin’ an eye out for revenuers?”

There was a general nod around the table of understandable consent.

There was also a change coming over the old pirate.  He seemed more serious, almost sober.  He looked the priest square in the eyes.  “Who be dese O’Malleys ya all seems t’a be so’s a’feared of?  Mayor, is it?  A bent ole boyo with a’ evil eye, a love of dishonest money, and a fondness for women hav’ ’is age?”

The priest looked at Pegleg.  “Oh Lord, he’s ben drivin’ d’poor Widder Browne crazy!  Ya knows ’im?”

“Aye, I knows the dog!  Gots ta be related to dat stinkin’ bilge rat what blowed me y’oop!  Fer five long centuries I sat in th’ darkness and wondered ’ow far I could get me boot oop an O’Malley’s keester!  Still mayor, is he, Foder?”

“Indeed he is, or a relative.  And every year his power grows stronger when he wins the Moonshine in the Daytime prize.”

“Not dis year!” Pegleg stated with defiant certainty.  “Me h’en me boyos here makes a pretty good jug a’ da stouff h’are selves!”  He lifted the remnant of the Q.E. I liquor and swirled it in the bottle.  “We also gots us a ‘ringer’ if we needs it.”

That Father O’Doul had played the game the way O’Neil and Calhoun had gave him all kinds of extra points, no pun intended.  Fitz-Ryan, a self-proclaimed ‘true Irish sportin’ man,’ was thrilled to learn the quiet cleric had been a first-quality backhalf.  Even Pegleg, who had until only recently never even heard of the sport of football, thought any priest who could down three shots of ‘Paterson’s Prime’ and not fall out of his chair had to be a real man.  Regardless, O’Doul was ready to go to war, and all involved were with him.

It was a conspiracy, and it couldn’t have worked out better for the two NFLers.  Paterson would go back to his cave, O’Neil (Beau refused) would row Pegleg (he refused to get into the electric bass boat) there tonight and fill a few sample bottles of the Q.E. I stock—nobody need know it was already aged five centuries old.  After all, who here had ever had American shine?  Most Irishmen still hadn’t conceded that the colonies were civilized enough to make shine.  Father O’Doul would go with Beau tomorrow and do a ‘meet & greet’ with the denizens of the town and hand out a few of those samples.

Fitzy volunteered to go see O’Malley.  He would be the inside man.

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