Beggar's Miracle Page 2

  His thoughts drifted to the girl who’d slept under the pew. He couldn’t attest to the truth of it, but somehow, he knew she was connected to the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. He knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Though he was sure he’d not seen her before, he wondered how long she’d been on the streets in the small community of Dungarran.

  Wouldn’t I have seen her? Wouldn’t someone have come and told me there was a homeless girl in our town? If she’s connected to the orphanage, how would she get here from Dublin?

  He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs, wincing a bit at the stiffness and pain in the right one, thoughts of the girl turning in his mind.

  Then he reached automatically to pat Mr. Jones on the head, a habit he’d not been able to break. A great sadness washed over him. His dog, Mr. Jones, who’d been a constant companion since he was twelve, had disappeared a year ago.

  Percy’s eyes filled with tears, which he wiped away quickly. Losing the dog that he’d loved for so many years made him feel hopeless. Without Mr. Jones, his whole word turned a shade of dark grey with nothing to offer any consolation or relief from the overwhelming grief. He’d prayed himself out about Mr. Jones, begging God to bring him back. But God had said no.

  His greatest fear—that Mr. Jones had been sick and had gone off to die alone—haunted him. He thought he saw the dog everywhere. In broad daylight, he’d catch sight of a form moving behind a building, and sure that it was Mr. Jones, he take off after it only to find nothing. In his yard at Dunaghy Manor, he’d see another form behind a tree or a bush, but when he raced over to the spot, he’d find nothing. And at night, he’d hear the dog breathing or get a whiff of his uniquely sweet smell, but when he’d turn on the light, Mr. Jones would not be there.

  Sometimes, even in the sanctuary, he’d look up from his prayers and be certain that he’d caught a glimpse of him heading into his office. Invariably, he would stop his prayers and get up, hoping against hope that Mr. Jones would be lounging on the floor of his office. The dog had loved him and had taught him, in return, how to love him back. Now, he was gone.

  When he’d tried to discuss his dwindling faith with the Right Reverend Murphy—the pastor and his mentor—the Reverend had all but laughed at him for feeling such grief over an animal.

  “Pull yourself together, Percy,” he’d said. “It was only a dog, and in the grand scheme of life, what good is a dog? They have no souls. You should be more concerned with your relationship with God than your relationship with an animal.”

  Percy fumed inside but said nothing. Mr. Jones had been his only friend in the world. He was like family, and Percy would never stop looking for him. He owed the dog so much. Though he loved his dear mother greatly, it was Mr. Jones in whom he’d found a true friend.

  The Reverend had sent him on a weekend spiritual retreat to spend time with fellow associate pastors in Dublin, a two-hour drive from Dungarran.

  “It’s what you need to renew your faith. When you come back, you’ll be as good as new, made whole again and washed in the blood of our Savior.”

  But the trip to Dublin had proved to be a long, useless journey. The associate pastors had little sympathy. Given to more than fasting and prayer, the associates consumed much more wine than Percy thought acceptable. Two of them had even smirked and called him “Limpy.”

  The only good from the trip came in the form of his visit to the Sisters of Mercy

  Orphanage. The sisters recognized him immediately, even though he’d visited only twice before with The Lady Emalyn and Master Owen and that had been years ago when he was but a boy.

  Now, the sisters knew him as soon as he walked in, though Percy was a bit baffled by it.

  “Your face hasn’t changed since you were young,” Sister Teresa said as she patted him on the arm. “Come along and let us show you the library. It wasn’t here when you visited last, but our good Bishop bestowed his kindness upon us by donating books and having shelves installed. It lends a certain air of dignity.”

  Percy smiled and followed, but he could barely concentrate on what the sisters were saying. Crying children distracted him, and though he could not see them, he wondered where they were and why they were crying so loudly.

  “Sister, are the children all right?” he said.

  “Certainly,” Sister Teresa said, wringing her hands. The corners of her mouth twitched. “You’ve not been around children very much, young Percy. They do cry, especially right before nap time. They’re in the nursery, and many of them simply refuse to take their naps. Children do such things, which is why we must have strict rules and discipline.”

  Percy’s stomach churned.

  Rules and discipline for crying children?

  Before he could stop them, images leapt into his mind.

  The killings. His killings.

  Percy winced. A sharp pain stabbed at his heart when he remembered what he’d done years ago to people who had treated him with nothing but kindness. He could see the bright red box he’d handed to Lady Emalyn. Yes, he could see it as clearly as if it had happened only this morning.

  The box, the one given to him by Councilor Murphy with instructions to deliver it into the hands of the mistress of Dunaghy Manor. Bright red box tied with a white bow.

  “Make sure she gets it, Percy,” Mr. Murphy had said, his face contorted into a terrible meanness. “Put it into her hands. It is for your Master Owen, a special gift from the whole committee. If you fail in this, Percy, we will not be pleased. And your dear mother might suffer for your failure.”

  Percy, a boy filled with fear and hatred, did as he was told. He wanted no more beatings from anyone on the committee or their big, terrible sons.

  On that day, the Lady Emalyn had looked quite beautiful to him as she descended the stairs, almost as lovely as an angel.

  But something about the box bothered him. He told himself over and over that it was just a gift for the Master, yet a voice kept whispering, “Danger, Danger.”

  He’d handed it to the Lady Emalyn as he’d been told to do.

  At that moment, he became a murderer, the lowest class of sinners.

  The “gift” in the box had been a bomb that had killed his Master, and with that horrific death came another. The Lady Emalyn died beside his coffin.

  Their deaths changed him.

  The next week, with Mr. Jones at his side, he went to the Anglican Bishop of the parish of Dungarran and confessed his sin amidst a flood of tears and rage.

  The Bishop listened quietly as Percy poured out his soul. He made no mention of the dog who sat very still right beside the young boy.

  When Percy had finished telling everything, the Bishop stood and came to him. He knelt down and said,

  “My boy, you have every right to be angry. Terrible things have happened to you, and you have committed a sin of the gravest nature. But you were used by an adult to do a nasty deed, Percy. Forgiveness is yours for the asking.”

  Tears streamed down Percy’s face.

  “I could be forgiven?”

  The Bishop nodded.

  Percy stared at him, then lowered his head.

  “I’m not fit,” he said.

  “But Percy, isn’t there love in your heart? Don’t you love your mam?

  “I do, I do love Mam, but most of me ain’t love, Bishop. It’s meanness and hate. People like me don’t get forgiveness. It would take a miracle to make me a good person.”

  The Bishop stood and chuckled.

  “Well, as it happens, God is in the business of miracles, Percy. You’ll be in good hands. He might even send a special angel to watch over you and help you along the way.”

  Percy reached over and patted Mr. Jones.

  From that moment forward, Percy changed. His heart transformed itself, and he wanted more than anything to become a good person.

  “Are you well, Percy?” Sister Teresa asked, her words bringing him back to the present, to the crying babies.

  He wiped his forehea
d and then smiled.

  “Quite,” he said.

  A voice whispered in his ear.

  “Someday you will run a place of safety and refuge, a place filled with love.”

  He rubbed his eyes and blinked.

  An orphanage?

  Suddenly, Percy felt a slight shock spark through every inch of his body.

  He gasped and took a few steps backward.

  And before him, he saw a new place, a home filled with children’s beds and laughter. In that miraculous instant, Percy had a plan for his life.

  He didn’t know how it would happen or when, but he knew in his heart that it was his calling. He must try to help the children.

  Just as someone once helped me.

  When he returned to Dungarran, he went directly to the Bishop’s office and spoke with him about his plan. The Bishop had been a great friend to Emalyn and Owen, and in the twenty-one years since their deaths, he’d called regularly at Dunaghy Manor.

  “That’s a lofty and difficult venture, Percy,” the Bishop had said. “It hardly seems feasible, but then, many things seem that way in the beginning. You keep it in your heart and wait for God to open the way.”

  The buzzer startled Percy out of his reverie. For a few minutes, he’d been lost in the past.

  A blast of cold air slapped his face as he opened the door.

  Percy shuddered.

  Standing outside was an old man in a long worn coat, his face and hands bearing the leathered look of abject poverty. A beggar.

  “Say a prayer if you will,” the beggar said.

  Percy gazed at him. Something familiar settled into his mind.

  “Come in out of the cold,” he said. “Please, let me help you.”

  He put an arm out to draw the man inside, but the beggar didn’t budge.

  “Please,” Percy said. “I have some food and it’s warm in here. You can stay the night if you wish.”

  “Just a prayer, Percy,” the beggar said.

  Percy cocked his head.

  “How do you know my name?”

  The beggar smiled. A light seemed to dance in his eyes.

  “Well, if you won’t come in, then let me get you a heavier coat. It’s fierce freezing out there. Stay right here. It will only take a few seconds.”

  Percy hurried to the storage closet, grabbed the heaviest overcoat he could find, and raced back to the door.

  The old beggar had disappeared.

  3

  The Beggar

  Bitty’s sweet dream of her mother, of the lovely little house and the warmth of togetherness slowly turned into a nightmare, a terror in which she saw her mom slammed against the deck of a ship, trapped beneath a huge piece of rigging. Thunder roared like cannons. Lightning shot from the sky and sparked a fire. Her mother was trapped. Screaming and trapped.

  Bitty moaned.

  As the terror continued, she saw something sharp pierce the rigging and snap it in half. What had trapped her mother fell away. A sail ripped and tumbled down toward the deck, but the sharp object slit it down the middle before it could fall onto her mom. Then, something snapped, something small, and rolled along the deck. Her mom’s fingers wrapped around it.

  The flames snaked closer, licking the tips of her mother’s slender fingers.

  The scream Bitty heard was her own.

  She sat bolt upright screaming, “Mama! Mama!”

  When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she gasped and scooted backwards.

  An old man had touched her.

  Bitty shuddered at the sight of him. Her hands began to tremble.

  He wore a long, tattered coat, and beside him sat a huge, mangy- looking dog.

  The old man knelt down beside her.

  She saw his wrinkled face, his calloused hands, his watery eyes.

  He’s just an old beggar. Been on the streets longer than me.

  “You in trouble?” he asked.

  Bitty shook her head and pointed to her throat. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

  “Hm,” the old man said. “Sore?”

  Bitty nodded even though she knew it wasn’t just a sore throat. Her ability to speak had been stolen at the orphanage.

  Bitty pulled the bag that held her treasure tighter to her chest. Her mouth felt dry, and her ears rang so loudly she could hardly hear anything.

  From his coat pocket, the old beggar pulled a flask. The dog whined.

  “Sip?” he asked Bitty.

  She eyed him and the dog. Though she knew she probably shouldn’t, she held out her hand for the flask. For some reason, she felt sorry for the man and his ugly dog.

  She unscrewed the top of the bottle, sniffed at it, and smelled lavender, not alcohol. She lifted it to her mouth and took one tiny sip. The liquid warmed her as it trickled down her throat. As she handed the flask back to the old man, she noticed that the ringing in her ears had stopped. Her hands didn’t shake, and she felt warm from head to toe.

  “Keep it,” the beggar said. “It’ll warm ye on cold nights.”

  Bitty’s stomach growled.

  “Follow me,” the old man said.

  With the dog right beside him, he walked a few steps forward. A misting rain turned his gray curls to a matted mess.

  Bitty got up from the warmth of her new hiding place and hurried after him.

  When they came to a large trash bin, the man turned to her.

  “Food,” he said as he opened the heavy lid.

  Bitty peered inside. On top of all the trash sat a small paper tray that looked untouched. In the tray, a patty of beef sat alongside some mashed potatoes and a few brussel sprouts.

  Bitty smiled. In the months she’d been on the streets of Dungarran, each time she’d opened the bin, she’d found food.

  Another miracle.

  Gently, she lifted out the tray and held it to her nose. She savored the aromas.

  As she turned to walk back to her place, she saw the huge dog beside her sniffing at the tray.

  Bitty pointed to her retreat across the street.

  The old beggar and his dog followed her.

  Huddled into place, she broke off a piece of the beef and popped it into her mouth. Then she broke off a second piece and held it out to the beggar.

  “Not for me,” the old man said. “For my friend here. Say hello, Mr. Jones.”

  The huge animal, his wiry fur matted all over, lifted a paw and barked softly.

  Bitty smiled and handed the dog some food. Instead of gobbling it down, he chewed it slowly as if he, too, enjoyed it just as much as she had.

  When the coughing spasm seized her and pushed her up onto all fours again, Bitty felt as if her chest would explode. She coughed until every last bit of energy drained from her. Then she flopped back onto the pallet. Her face felt hot to her touch, but she shook all over with chills.

  The old man took out the flask again and handed it to her.

  “It’ll help with the cough.”

  After a few moments, the elixir worked its magic. Bitty stopped coughing, the fever subsided, and the chills left her.

  The old beggar smiled at her as Mr. Jones scooted every closer until his head lay in her lap.

  “Time you were findin’ a home, girl.”

  Bitty shook her head.

  “No place to go?” the beggar asked.

  Bitty lowered her eyes.

  The beggar smiled.

  “We thank you kindly, little one, for sharing with us,” the old man said. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

  Bitty lowered her eyes.

  “Would you mind terrible if me and Mr. Jones sat for a while?”

  The smile on his wrinkled face, the light in his watery eyes, the tender way he had with his dog told Bitty that she should not be afraid. He needed a place as badly as she did.

  With her hand gripping her treasure bag, she scooted further underneath the extra piece of cardboard she’d found while the dog climbed close to her and the old man moved next to him.

>   The big animal curled up next to her and laid his head in her lap. Before she could stop herself, Bitty began to stroke it.

  In spite of the cold wind and occasional misting rain, she relaxed as warmth spread throughout her body, even down to her freezing cold feet.

  The old beggar man began to hum one of her favorite songs, “Amazing Grace.”

  The food had filled her belly, and she was warm.

  Bitty glanced at the old man.

  His eyes were closed, but he continued to hum. Somehow, though, it looked as if a few of the wrinkles had disappeared from his face.

  Bitty rubbed her eyes. Another look at him proved her right. He didn’t look quite as old and ragged as he had only a few moments ago.

  With the words of “Amazing Grace” softly filling her ears, and the dog casting his warmth across her body, Bitty closed her eyes and dreamed.

  The dream cast her into a world full of strangers.

  4

  Fiona

  Fiona Quinlan, former housekeeper for Emalyn and Owen Meade, stood at the edge of the large pond at Dunaghy Manor and threw pieces of bread and oats to a lovely pair of white swans.

  “Ah, there ya are, now,” Fiona said to them. “Looking lovely as ever, aren’t you?”

  The early morning’s chill felt as if it went straight through her bones. Fiona shivered and wrapped her coat tighter.

  She glanced up at the big house to her son Percy’s window on the third floor. His light wasn’t on yet, and she wondered if he’d be up and about soon. He’d need a hearty breakfast before he began visits to the parishioners. Her Percy had grown into a big fine fella, healthy and full of life, never wasting a moment of time, but always busy trying to help out in any way he could.

  On the day he’d decided to go to Anglican Seminary, Fiona felt as if she couldn’t possibly be any happier. And when he’d taken the position of Associate Minister, her heart overflowed with pride and love.

  Their little town of Dungarran needed someone like her Percy, someone young and full of spirit, someone who could encourage the young folks to stay in Ireland. So many had left in the last year that there were only thirty or so Anglican families in town, and most of those needed help.