Fallen Father

This is a tale of soul corruption on Craggy Island, where Father Ted lives with his friends and fellow priests, profane Father Jack Hackett, dim-witted Father Dougal McGuire, and their tea-drinking housekeeper Mrs. Doyle. Call this a belated St. Patrick's Day contribution if you like. The story begins on a stormy beach where Ted and Jack have just made a gruesome discovery...

"Oh holey Jesus," Father Ted moaned, sprinkling a large handful of clumped sand across the cadaver. A sudden and heavy gust of wind blew the blessing gesture onto the surface of the cave rock and away from it's target. "Yay let us ponder the Lord's mercy, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
The dead stag lying at their feet was no prize winner. Father Ted doubted that it would've even been old enough to be accepted, much less considered, as a contestant at this year's Craggy Island Stock Fair. Or, indeed, anyplace local. Only about a metre long, it's stature and physique were considerably below-par. It's antlers were still fragile, light-shaded and under-developed; had cracked in several places or simply snapped off completely elsewhere, not the mature, rugged horns on some beasts of it's kind which indicated that the creature had definitely seen more than enough winters. It's fur was pristine and glossy and, like the antlers, hadn't really darkened, and didn't carry the course, shaggy surface in it's bristles that elder and more worldly stags tended to possess. Father Ted guessed it to be little more than a year old, perhaps one and a half at the very most. Now it was splayed over the sand in front of them like a dismembered tree branch, about as much breath left in it, it's unimpressive muzzle bruised and bloody, it's black eyes locked forward in a glassy stare. It would be grazing no more.
"Must've slipped off the hill," Father Jack noted, shielding his eyes from the afternoon glare with one hand as he looked up at the cliffside above them, where a grassy mountain peaked at the very top, at least nineteen feet high or thereabouts. "Wandered over towards the edge, lost it's footing, fallen off. Bad place to keep deer, if you ask me. They must lose members of their herd all of the time. Dougal mentioned that to me the other week. Said some stupid SOB lost two pregnant does that day. Silly thing to do. Why in blue feck don't they get a fence put up."
Ted looked up at him and cocked an eyebrow. "Tell me what a 'blue feck' is and I tell you why there's no point in putting up a fence," he said.
Father Jack gave him a scowl that was too sinister to be anything but feck you.
"The land around here shifts too much to support a fence," Ted said, bending down to stroke one of the creature's legs. "Haven't you seen all of the hills in this countryside which have so many gaps between them that the fences are always hanging off the edge? It's because the dirt keeps crumbling off and separating them. I've seen it often. The ground gets too moist and squealchy and waterlogged. Especially around the beach where the sand is forever moving. This place where we're standing - it's about three levels higher up than the way it used to be. That cave entrance wasn't accessible last time; there's no way you would've been able to climb up the rock high enough to enter it. I suppose whoever owns this herd must've figured that they could try putting a fence up, but the way of the land, they'd probably keep losing deer anyway."
As he stroked the stag he noticed that it had suffered a nasty compound fracture in it's fall, breaking a hind bone in two places. Much as he tried to avoid the mental image, he couldn't help picturing the stag taking it's tumble, plummeting down into space, probably whacking against the sides of the cave rock as it went. A large, blood-soaked dent on the other side of it's skull showed that it's head also hadn't been safe in avoiding all of the hits that it would've taken.
"Let's bury it," Ted said, taking it's two moderate back hooves in his hands and tying them together with a rubber band that he pulled from his back pocket. "At least give it a decent burial. It won't be asking for much else anytime soon."
"I'm not touching that thing," Jack replied, as deadpan as ever. "It's probably riddled with bugs."
Father Ted began to scoop large handfuls of wet sand out of the ground with both hands.
"What are you doing?" Jack barked.
"Start digging," Ted ordered. "We wanna get this over with before the sun goes down."
"You're out of your head," came Jack's response.
"Hurry up," Father Ted told him. "We don't wanna be here all night." He paused to tie the stag's other two hooves together with another rubber band.
"Put that down!" Father Jack cried. "I bet it's full of disease. You gave it a decent eulogy, considering that's something that it would've never expected to get. Haven't you done enough?"
"It won't be full of disease," Ted said. "It's barely had a chance to decompose. Look at it. You can see it can't you? This is a fresh death. He probably died not even two hours ago. Start digging Jack." He began to shift the animal across the sand with all of his might. It may've been young and far from fireplace mounting material, but it was still surprisingly heavy. "We're going to bury him. Surely you know all about holes."
Jack screwed up his face. "Tell you what. Let's take him home and roast him. We'll be eating venison for a week. He's not that big, but we'll still get a decent feed out of him. Be probably the best meal we've had in ages, considering what that Doyle of yours has been dishing up lately. Honestly, you haven't been able to teach her a thing. And then this animal will be forever living inside us. I say that's not a bad deal. We'll be taking a little piece of him with us wherever we go."
"No we won't, you idiot," Ted replied. "It's not going to stay inside us forever! No food does!"
"Well, then we'll be putting him back into the Earth when we're done. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, right? Isn't that exactly what you said? The circle of life rages on."
"For heaven's sake Jack, show a little respect and start digging," Ted snapped. "We're not putting him back into the Earth after we've both digested him. We're putting him back into the Earth right now in his full and complete form. Stop arguing with me. I'm burying him with or without your help. Problem is, without will take longer. Start digging."
Muttering and swearing under his breath, Father Jack used his own hands to begin scooping large handfuls of sand out of the ground. Within several minutes the two men had created a decent-sized pit.
"Take the legs." Father Ted patted the creature's two banded front hooves. "The legs?"
Father Jack gave another scowl and grabbed the two appendages in question. On the count of three, they lifted the animal up off the ground and threw him into the pit. They then began to recover him.
"Amen," Father Ted said, crossing himself.
"Now let's get the feck out of here," Father Jack growled. "It's going to start pissing down with rain any minute. I'm not going to get soaked to the bone for the sake of some measly little wallaby who could've made an amazing venison meal."
"Big-hearted as always," Father Ted whispered. The weather was looking bad though. The wind was blowing hard and bitter, and the sky all around them was blanketed with thick, multiple layers of black cloud. Sharp bolts of thunder rumbled overhead at a volume booming enough to make the ground vibrate and Father Ted noticed the first few flashes of silver lightening hitting the rolling hills on the horizon. It was unlikely that they'd be able to make it back to town before the first rainstorm hit. Unlikely soon turned to unfeasible.
"You and your shortcuts," Father Jack groused as they wandered up the long sandy path. He was already dripping wet, but his mood would've been exactly the same if his forehead had been hit by one single raindrop every half-hour. Father Ted knew mighty well how it was going to go for the rest of the trip, morality be damned.
As it did go. Jack barely said a word to him for the rest of the walk. Questions were answered with either a shake of the head or an extension of two prominent fingers on his left hand. But the foul mood he was in now hadn't seen anything in full force when he and Ted made their way up the gravel driveway leading to their residence and found another dead deer lying half-way across the stony path about two feet down from the building entrance. It's head was buried in the patch of grass growing just next to the walkway, it's back hooves sprawled over the surface of the trail.
"What the...?" was all Ted could say at first. This one was even younger than the last - a fading rash of juvenile white spots across the small of it's back indicated that it had barely even left it's fawn years behind.
"Well this is certainly shocking!" Jack yelled, kicking a large pebble across the ground with his foot. "What the hell is this? 'Let's all celebrate Venison Week'? For Christ's sake, I am not burying this one!"
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Jack," Ted ordered, although in all honesty he had a hard time caring about that right now - ordering that demand was really just a force of habit these days.
"You quit using mine that way and maybe I will," Jack snapped in reply. "How did this animal even get here? There are no herds around this area! Is this a welcoming present from the good people at the butcher's, symbolising that they want us to buy more meat? They're having a special on deer this week and all stock must go? Well good old butcher's, discreet as always! Yup, they're as subtle as a train wreck, same as they've always been!"
"Wait," Father Ted replied, tuning out a lot of the sarcastic remarks that Jack was blathering on, as he bent down to inspect the creature. "He's not dead."
"Of course he's dead!" Jack yelled. "Does he look alive to you? You have funny perceptions of what looks alive and what doesn't!"
"Shut up for a minute," Ted said. He examined the animal closer. The bloody wound on his head did, of course, clarify that he was damaged beyond repair, but the neck was not broken. Ted was the only one who seemed to recognise that. The stag's body was not moving, but there was a flicker of pulse still left in the upper regions, and the occasional rise of it's throat suggested that the oesophagus was still working to the final beat - not speeding up by no means, but not slowing down either. Ted lowered his head to the stag's neck and held his ear to it to try and find the last throb, the last twitch, the last breath that might be left.
"Don't touch that thing - "
"Shut up," Ted ordered, and he kept his ear where it was. "He's still breathing. I can feel it. He's still alive."
"But he's not gonna be much good to anybody anymore in the state that he's in, is he?" Jack replied. "The poor thing's probably better off dead. Would you wanna be kept on life support in that kind of state, or would you want them to pull the plug and get it over with? I know which route I'd choose."
"Shut up, Jack!"
"You think I'm being disrespectful? At least I know when to say when." Jack threw up his arms. "This is making me sick! I can't believe we're having an argument over a gone done turkey. Wait here. I've got just the solution."
Father Jack disappeared around the back of the building. Father Ted stayed where he was, stroking the stag's back with one hand, every so often holding two fingers to it's throat to feel the dwindling pulse again, trying to find the remaining shred of vivacity there that it once had, could still have, needed to sustain. The bitter wind continued to blow all around the gravelly walkway, and for a while there was nobody there except the two of them, Ted taking no notice of anything else in his presence or how long Jack had been gone. Within a short while he was barely even able to give any consideration or thought to why he had left or when he would be back.
After what felt like several hours later however, Jack finally returned, heading purposefully to the spot where Ted and the stag lay, his expression hard and heavy and determined. He held a long shiny rifle in his right hand.
"No," Ted said before Jack had even reached him. He shook his head slowly but firmly. "No. No. No."
"Do it, Ted," Jack said. "Put it out of it's misery. Send it up to that long flourishing meadow in the sky. In Deer Heaven I bet there's millions of acres of field to graze, blooming with beautiful tasty clovers and dew, no hunters, Bambi's long-lost mother, and the most perfect drinking ponds all around where the surface is so crystal clear that you can see yourself in it. Your mate here can take a good long sip and say, 'Thanks to the honours of my good friend Father Ted, how excellent this water tastes!' It's a better situation, believe me. So go ahead and do it. Get it over with. We don't wanna be out here all day, just like you said."
"You do it, then!" Ted yelled, turning away so that Jack wouldn't see the misery in his eyes. "Why should I have to be the one to do the final destructive act? You're the one who doesn't seem to give two shits about this deer, it'll be much easier for you!"
"No," Father Jack said calmly, closing his eyes and shaking his head, lowering the rifle as he did so. "I cannot do that, much as I might like to."
"Why not?"
"Because," Jack continued patiently, "it'll be the best way for you to get closure. Say goodbye for the last time, seeing as you seem to care so much about these creatures. I can shoot the animal and it won't affect me. I got nothing to mourn. But you do. And if you do it then it'll be the best way for you to let go. You obviously need that service. There is such a thing as caring too much about something, Ted. You have a tendency to care way too much about things. And that's good in some ways, but not so good in others. Let me be the one to reduce that burden for you. Take the gun." He extended the rifle out to Father Ted.
"No."
"Do it, Ted."
"No goddamnit!"
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Ted."
"I won't do it."
"You're doing the right thing."
"I can't..."
"Yes you can," Jack assured him. "Never say you can't do something, Ted. You can always do something, you just choose not to do it. 'Can't' and 'won't' are different things, keeed. But you can do this. And you will do it. You can do anything that you think can do. They gotta tell you something, right? Take the gun."
He slid the rifle into Ted's reluctant hands and patted him on the shoulder. Ted didn't budge. He remained where he was, his eyes fixed on the limp, still-breathing stag in front of him, his mind whizzing with a thousand conflicted emotions.
There was a russle of grass blades as Father Jack lept annoyingly to his feet. "Well!" he cried. "You are a very stubborn priest, I must say, and I can't sit here all day waiting for you to do it, as much I may need to see the act unravel. You keep sitting there if you want to Ted, but I have other plans. I'll come back in an hour and see if you've changed your - "
"Don't make me do this, Jack. You can make me do it, I know, but please don't. I - "
"You can do as you choose, mate."
There was another awkward silence.
"Fine," Father Ted announced in conclusion. "But do me a favour."
"What?"
"Give me your hankerchief. I want a blindfold."
"It hasn't been washed for a few days, Ted - "
"Just give me the hankerchief!" Ted demanded.
Father Jack nodded in understanding. "Of course. Here. Let me do it for you." He took it out from his coat pocket and tied it around Ted's head so that his eyes were completely concealed beneath it. Father Ted cringed in deepened sadness one last time and rose steadily to his feet, cocking the rifle in his hand. He couldn't see, but he knew exactly where the barrel needed to point. He took aim.
"Oh blessed Jesus," Father Jack began, standing up also, holding his hands nobly in front of him. "Yay let us ponder the Lord's mercy, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
The gunshot went off in an earpiercing blast, knocking the rifle back into Ted's chest with such unexpected force that he could feel his bones shudder; jar into each other almost. An extended, ongoing echo rolled loudly across the countryside and over the surrounding hills.
Father Jack reached out and squeezed Ted's shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Teddy," he said.
"I don't care if you're proud of me," Ted said sharply, whacking Jack's hand away.
"Well I am," Jack confirmed. "And to show it, here's my good deed. Let's bury this one aswell. I'll get the spade."
He disappeared back around the building again and returned with two large rusty shovels. He and Ted dug deep into the patch of grass next to the walkway and threw the young corpse inside. When it was all over and the hole had been recovered with the soil, neither of them spoke a word.
At that point, slow-witted Father Dougal came running out, his face ghost-white and sweat-soaked, his expression alarmed and troubled.
"Are you guys OK?!" he yelled. "That sounded like a gunshot!"
"We were just thinning out some overpopulated numbers," Jack told him.
"Father!" a seperate voice called from up ahead. The door to the entrance swung open and Miss Doyle appeared on the walkway. "Ted! Jack! Can you believe this? Our neighbours just rang. I just heard from them on the telephone that there are wildmen about killing stags with sledgehammers. Apparently some guys over the hill have lost seven stags already. So we were told - " she paused when her eyes suddenly adjusted to the scene and processed everything in it. She glared at Father Ted angrily. "What in God's name are you doing with that gun, Ted?!" she finished.
A baffled Ted glanced down at the gun then looked back at Miss Doyle. "Ah, nothing," he replied sheepishly.
"Said something about thinning about the numbers," Dougal piped up.
"What numbers?" Doyle asked, and then she made the connection. The look on her face turned from mildly stunned to absolutely lost at sea. "Good Lord, Ted!" she squealed. "Don't tell me you've joined their allegiance?!"
"Oh please," Jack said. "It took all of the egging in the world to try and convince him to shoot one single stag. How in the hell of it would he be capable of going out and slaughtering a whole bunch of them with a sledgehammer?"
"You shot a stag?!" Miss Doyle screamed. "You mad, impetuous brute! I'm calling the police right now!" She turned around and ran into the house, slamming the door behind her.
"Doyle!" Ted yelled, but she was gone before he could explain.
"She'll be fine," Jack assured Ted, patting him on the back with one hand. "You know the truth."
"Try telling the cops that," Ted replied sourly, and he headed into the house. "I'm really gonna get in for this, by Christ."
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Ted," Dougal snapped, and he flicked Ted upward on the back of the head.