Unlikely Beginnings

By Priscilla Churchill

Dusk had well settled in when the Priest reclined slowly in his chair. He sat in his porch after dinner, just as he did every evening – summer or winter, it didn’t matter. It hadn’t been always as quiet though. He’d had his wife and children once. The bustle of the house would continue as he’d retreat and listen to them from his quiet corner, smiling at siblings complaining and their mother always clucking around the house purposefully.

A light patter on the roof began, growing steadily, and he opened his eyes just as the first fine spray of rain hit his cheek. He got up and began shuffling in when the sound of a loud mumble pierced through the loud patter overhead. He turned around, curious and stiffened. “Why, if it isn’t everyone’s favourite drunkard,” he muttered to himself.

The Drunkard wasn’t a big fan of the Priest either. Whether he was stone cold sober or hard up drunk, the opinion never changed, having been subject to several chastising shakes of the head when their paths crossed. Oh no wait, yes it did – his forbearance was much higher with copious amounts of rum in his system. The rum did disperse a certain amount of warmth he couldn’t generate on his own. Perhaps he didn’t have enough rum in his system this evening and hence the mumbling at the heavens that poured. 

He realized he couldn’t continue on in the downpour and looked reluctantly at the only immediate refuge: the porch. “I’ll never find a more uninviting spot,” he mumbled, softly this time, to himself. 

The pair stood looking at each other. Finally, since the scriptures were whispering increasingly loud reminders in his head, the Priest called out, “Step in till the rain abates!” Either the sound of the pounding rain didn’t carry across his invitation or it was just sheer disbelief, the other man did not move.

The Priest sighed deeply. He didn’t have the energy nor inclination to repeat his invitation, yet he waved the wavering figure over. The figure stumbled towards the porch, whether in drink or disbelief, he couldn’t quite say. Probably both, he thought.

A ‘thank you’ was mumbled as the guest climbed the few steps to the porch. 

He cleared his throat as his guest settled into a bench against a wall, holding a nearby window-sill to ease himself down more precisely. “Can I get you a glass of water,” he asked, a cackle unwittingly escaped with his question, knowing full well what his guest would actually prefer over a banal glass of water.

The Drunkard guessed the reason for the merriment that accompanied the question. “Yes, please,” he boomed confidently, “alcohol does leave you parched.” 

It was the Priest’s turn to mumble as he shuffled to bring him the glass of water. 

“Thank you,” the Drunkard said and meaning it this time, having watched the effort it was for the old man to bring him his drink.

Maybe it was the softened tone or maybe it was the whispering scriptures again. “Have you had anything to eat?” he asked.

For the second time that evening and within a span of minutes, the Drunkard found himself surprised. A glass of water sufficed his deity and duty, why was the old man offering more? Normally, he’d decline the offer, but he found himself shaking his head.

With no mumbling this time, a plate was filled with warm food and brought to him, albeit with more physical difficulty than the water, but with more eagerness than the water. The Priest had never expected him to acknowledge his hunger, signifying any signs of want or weakness. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to wait out the rain here, leave alone eat. I’m glad you did both,” he smiled with satisfaction as he watched his guest eat.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to offer either, but I’m glad you did. I needed both,” replied the Drunkard. 

The Priest’s smile receded, not because he detected malice in the reply – there was none – but when he remembered his reluctance to welcome the other man. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of that little moment when he wasn’t all he taught himself to be. “I often don’t remember we could all use a friend on a stormy night,” he agreed.

“We could all use a friend anytime, the weather rarely has anything to do with it,” came the callous reply.

The Priest’s smile was back now. He looked back at his lonesome abode and realized he couldn’t agree more.

By Priscilla Churchill