co-authored by Detergent and Verhalen
The loud knock at the door woke up Father Jack. "FECK! ARSE!"
Ted answered the door. There stood a young man - mid-twenties if Ted had to guess - with black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and violet eyes like Elizabeth Taylor's, if hers had been carved of exquisite amethyst geodes found in a cave where dragons danced with faeries in a sparkling waterfall where the water tasted sweet like honey. The young man was pale as if he hadn't seen the sun in years, and he bore a curious resemblance to Michael Jackson's plastic surgery and skin bleach-enhanced later years, thin nose, high cheekbones and all. Ted half-expected the man to say "hee hee" and grab his crotch, but that wouldn't be seemly for the clerical collar the man was wearing, just like his own.
"Salutationseth," the lavender-eyed man said. "Thou art Fatherest Ted Crilly?"
"Yes, and you are..."
"Fathereth Larry Hortler."
"Oh, Father, don't be rude, invite him in!" yelled Mrs Doyle just before she fell off the roof.
Ted reluctantly invited in the fellow priest - from the way he was talking, like something out of the King James Bible, Ted was sure Father Larry was one of those independent Catholics.
"Father Larry. What brings you to Craggy Island, so?"
"I hath seen thine Eurosong performance. Thou sangeth of thy lovelieth horsest."
"Um..." Ted scratched his head, wanting to forget about all that nonsense. It had been a good few years. "Do you want an autograph, or..."
"I wantest thine horseth." Larry smiled like a wolf who had just seen dinner.
"Ah ha. Ah, well, you see..." Ted didn't quite know how to explain it, but hopefully, it would work and this Larry would be gone. "There was no horse. It was just a song."
"Oh, I thinketh there wast an horse." Larry narrowed his eyes. "Thou sangeth of true love, Fathereth Ted. It feltest very, very real."
Ted wasn't going to argue with this weirdo all day. "You're right, there was a horse. But... the horse isn't here right now."
"Whereth is it?"
Ted racked his brain for a quick explanation. "It's at a horse show. On... Pleasegoaway Island."
"I cameth a longest way to meeteth thine horseth. I canst wait." Larry reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of twenty-pound notes. "I art willingest to payeth a lot of moneyeth to see thine very specialest horseth."
Ted's mind's eye conjured images of him in a smoky casino, a mirror ball spinning, as he disco danced in a leisure suit, just before hitting a blackjack table.
"Well, if you're willing to pay for the horse to return, I'll show you to the guest room."
Just before Ted could lead Larry through the house, Mrs Doyle blocked their path with her tea service.
"Tea, Father?"
"Nayest, thanketh thee," Larry said.
"Oh, go on."
"Nayeth."
"Oh, go on."
"Nayest."
"Oh, go on."
"Nayethest."
"Oh, go on."
"Nayesteth."
"Oh, go on."
"Nayestethest."
"Oh, go on."
"Nayethesteth..."
"Go on, go on, go on, go on, go on, go on," Mrs Doyle blocked all further attempts at refusal while she poured a steaming cup of tea into one of the best china cups and added a splash of milk.
"Say when," she prompted, pushing the cup and saucer into Father Larry's hands. Without missing a beat, she began to spoon sugar into the cup as if bailing water out of a boat in a storm. One spoonful, two, three, four, five. It seemed that Father Larry had been shocked into silence but finally he indicated his tea was sweet enough.
"Now, for a lovely bit of cake."
Their visitor had just raised his cup to his lips, the wad of twenty-pound notes still in hand, jiggling as he sipped. He tried to stop her but Mrs Doyle wouldn't be denied and she popped an enormous slice of poundcake onto the saucer in his other hand before he could protest.
"Now don't let your cake go to waste," she prompted as he was still sipping from his cup. A few moments passed before he lowered it and by that time, Mrs Doyle watched him closely to see if the cup wanted topping up. He paused for a moment to catch his breath.
"I said don't waste your cake! There are orphans abroad who would kill for a crumb of cake such as that."
Father Larry looked from the cup and money in one hand to the saucer of cake in the other, confused as to how he should dig into his dessert.
"I'll have some cake, Mrs Doyle," ventured Ted.
She ignored him. She had to stop Father Larry from wasting cake.
"I SAID DON'T WASTE YOUR CAKE!!" she blared at their guest, her eyes blazing with near insanity. Instantly, Father Larry lifted the saucer of cake up to his lips which were as red as juicy strawberries that grow in sun-flecked meadows where butterflies coloured like living jewels play in sparkling golden sunbeams. He used the saucer to cram the cake into his mouth, getting crumbs all over his face and down his priestly shirt and collar, a few speckling the lapels of his dark jacket.
"There now," beamed the housekeeper, grabbing the cup and saucer out of Father Larry's hands, causing the cash in his grasp to fly everywhere. Ted immediately forgot the cake as he dropped to his hands and knees to recover the banknotes, hoping that Father Larry hadn't kept a good accounting of what he had brought with him. Both priests scrabbled on the floor for the cash until they had gathered up all of the loose bills.
Ted stuffed what bills he could into trouser pockets before the other priest rose and neatened his cash back into a pile. He folded the pile and brought out a genuine aluminium clip adorned by three sparkling cubic zirconia stones, fastened the bills together, and stuffed them into his inner jacket pocket, not even bothering to count it to verify that it was all there. Ted wondered if Father Larry was simply that wealthy or that stupid. Whatever the reason, Father Hortler didn't seem to be all there.
"I believeth I hath jetteth-lagest," Father Larry yawned involuntarily, making a noise more suited to an abomination than a priest. "I thinkethst I would like to take an nap," he mumbled to Ted, yawning again at an ear-punishing volume. "Wouldeth thee showest me to thy guesteth roomst?"
"Of course." Ted gestured towards the staircase.
"I shouldeth like to see thine lovelieth horseth as soon as possibleth," murmured the other priest, following Ted past Father Jack.
"When the horse show is over," Ted assured him.
"GOBSHITE!" shouted Jack after Father Hortler had passed.
"Whateth hast thou saideth, sirrah?" Father Larry turned around and glared at Father Hackett, whose face assumed a mockingly innocent expression as if he dared the other man to act on his ire.
"He said 'Good night!' " Ted rushed in verbally, hoping to calm his guest so that he could still collect the wad of twenty-pound notes secreted in the other's jacket. "These darn Irish accents, you know... they're sometimes fiddly to understand... ahhh... unlike your beautiful King James English," he flattered him, praying that his lie would work.
Father Hortler was instantly mollified, assuming a superior air. "Thou artest an man of tasteth, Father Crilly. I cannst not wait to see the lovelieth horse owned by a man of sucheth sophistication."
"Oh, he'll be back soon," Ted assured his guest, leading him up the stairs, flashing Jack a warning look halfway to the top. How was he going to produce a lovely horse for this numpty?
"Gobshites," muttered Jack, pulling out a hidden bottle of whisky and taking a swig directly from the bottle.
No one had noticed Dougal standing over by the bookshelf, waiting to introduce himself to their guest. He left the parochial house to soothe himself with a walk.
Dougal hugged his arms around himself as he walked up the lane to the field where the Holy Stone of Clonrichert sat. The gift stand was closed today but he wasn't interested in gifts, he had felt down and lonely for a while now since Ted had been spending a lot of time trying to get interviewed for television and since the strange-looking, mysterious Father Larry Hortler had appeared on their doorstep looking for some horse or other. As usual, Ted had ignored him and he may as well never have existed at all, even though he was right there in the living room, once Father Hortler had offered Ted money to see the horse he thought Ted and Dougal had written their Eurovision entry about a few years back. He had slipped out of the parochial house unnoticed and walked aimlessly until he had discovered himself near the Holy Stone, so he took off across the field to visit it. There weren't many tourists visiting the Stone these days but then, it never had gotten as much draw as the Church had hoped.
When he reached the area near the Stone, he found not the spire of rock on the pedestal as he expected but a chunky orange and white cat curled up on the pedestal top. He thought he could hear the cat humming to itself.
"Er, hello. You don't happen to have seen where the Holy Stone got off to, have you?" He asked the cat.
The cat looked up at him and, if it could be said of a cat, the animal looked pleasantly surprised.
"Hard food!" It greeted him.
"Ehm... What are you doing out here all alone? I thought I'd come here for a think because Ted's ignoring me again."
The short orange and white face looked sympathetic, its green eyes comforting. "Hard food, talk," it encouraged.
"Well, you see, sometimes Ted ignores me and I don't like talking to Father Jack because all he says is Feck, arse, girls, and drink. And he doesn't like me very much. And now there's this foreign priest visiting. At least I think he's foreign, he's either from somewhere in the States or maybe Wales. But anyway, he wants to pay Ted a lot of money to see a horse he thinks we have but we haven't got."
The cat nodded at him and languidly flicked its tail.
Dougal frowned and then knuckled his eyes to keep from crying. "I wish we had a lovely horse. Then I would have someone to talk to while Ted's trying to get interviewed for the television or off doing silly stuff like saying mass and hearing confession and such."
The cat slowly blinked its eyes at him, seeming to smile. "Hard food friend," it told him.
"Yeah," he sniffed. "I need a friend."
"Noodles friend."
"I'm Dougal. Er, Father Dougal McGuire."
"Hard food, dance?"
"Oh, I can dance, yeah." Dougal showed the cat some of his best moves, jumping about.
"Good. Father Dougal McGuire, hard food to visualize special project. At concerts in London. Hard food, famous."
"You want me to visualize you and dance at a rock concert?"
"Electronic," Corrected Noodles. "DJ+Noodles, EDM. Concerts, hard food recording contract."
"You've got a recording contract? That's brilliant! Sure, I'd love to work with you."
Noodles stood up, stretching until his body was a curve. He then settled into a sitting position. The cat looked over its shoulder and there, walking towards them was the most beautiful stallion imaginable, its black pelt shone beneath the grey, overcast sky as if lit from within. Warm plum eyes regarded first Noodles, then Dougal as it stepped up to stand across from the young priest.
"Hard food friend," supplied Noodles. "Hard food in touch," the cat promised, leaping down from the pedestal. "Family calls."
Dougal stared at the horse. The horse stared back.
"Will you be my friend?" he asked the stallion. The animal nodded its great head and allowed Dougal to pet its nose.
"I haven't had breakfast yet. Are you hungry? Yeah, me too. C'mon. Let's go back to the house and get something to eat. Mrs Doyle always has a bit of something in the kitchen.
"Dougal! Why is there a horse in the kitchen?"
"It's my horse, Ted and he's hungry so I thought I'd just bring him in for some breakfast."
Ted continued to boggle at the sleek, obsidian-black stallion that stood by the kitchen sink, placidly munching on an armful of greens.
"Your horse? Where did you get such an animal?"
"The magic cat gave him to me," Dougal supplied brightly, stroking the stallion's glossy mane.
"Magic cat?" Ted exclaimed. He marched over to the refrigerator and pulled a poster from between it and the wall. He had drawn a man on the poster with a Sharpie marker some weeks before. An arrow pointed inside the man's head and he had written the word "DREAMS" beside it. In front of the man was the word "REALITY" in bold block lettering. "Do we have to go over this again?" He pointed to the poster and then to his temple. "Dreams come from in here and aren't real. Reality is outside your head, you don't think it up. Only reality is real. The magic cat isn't real, Dougal."
"It is too, Ted, else- Where did the horse come from? I went to see the Holy Stone of Clonrichert and to have a little think but the magic cat was there instead. I think the Stone went on holiday so the cat took its place. Anyroad, the cat was fantastic. Way better than some old piece of rock blessed by some stupid priests. I mean, what did that stone ever do for anybody except give Bishop Facks constipation? Nobody got a horse out of it, that's for certain. It just wound up someone's arse and that's not magic, Ted, or a miracle, that's just physics, isn't it? It isn't like making the most fantastic, lovely horse appear for someone, is it?"
Ted shoved the poster back into its hiding place, heaving a forceful sigh. "Why ever did you go to see the Holy Stone? I thought you said it was silly."
"I said it was probably smelly after being up Bishop Facks' arse. Besides, it's peaceful up by the Holy Stone and I thought maybe, since it had been elevated to a Class II relic, maybe I'd feel better there even though this relic thing is pure nonsense. But also, I just sort of wound up there."
"You could have spoken to me."
"Oh no Ted, you've been very busy entertaining Father Larry, stealing his money off the floor and all. Besides, it's usually all lovely and quiet and all around the Holy Stone, so I can think there. I've been kinda lonely since you started paling around with Father Larry and all. The magic cat was great company. He told me I'm going to be a rockstar and gave me this lovely horse as proof."
Ted remained silent for a moment. There was no point in trying to convince Dougal that his magic cat wasn't real but his mention of Father Larry reminded Ted why Father Larry had come to Craggy Island in the first place: He wanted the lovely horse that Ted and Dougal had sung of in their Eurovision entry. He was also willing to give Ted a great deal of money if Ted was able to produce the horse Father Hortler believed that Ted had. And the money off the floor, that was finders keepers, wasn't it? Sure it was. And now, here was the most beautiful stallion Ted had ever clapped eyes upon. The gears began to turn in his head. He was going to get the rest of Father Hortler's money.
Just then, Mrs Doyle bustled in with a rag mop and a pail of water. She had been up on the roof, cleaning the slates.
"Ah, what a fine horse!" she stood and admired the beast as if she were used to finding livestock in her kitchen. "Does he like cake?"
"I think he might welcome some carrot cake, thanks, Mrs Doyle," Dougal responded and then asked the stallion its opinion. The stallion stomped the linoleum once as if to agree with Dougal's assessment and went back to eating greens out of the sink.
"I'll get on that right away just as soon as the slates are sparkling," she sat the pail on the floor for a moment. "Does he have a name?"
Dougal's face went entirely blank. "Ehm," his eyes turned glassy. "I haven't asked him."
"Oh come on, he has to have a name," she prompted. "Everyone has a name."
"Well, he hasn't told me."
"You should give him a name."
"Ahhhhhh," Dougal looked around the kitchen frantically. "Frigidaire? No. Rubbish Bin? No. Ehm... Ehm..."
"You can do better than Rubbish Bin," Ted tried to be encouraging. "How about Midnight or maybe something biblical, like Ephram?"
"Ehm, no. It's coming to me. It's coming... Yes! That's it..." He grinned triumphantly.
"What is it?"
"What is what?"
"The horse's name, Dougal. You said you had the perfect one. What's his name?"
"I forgot."
Ted exploded. "You forgot? you only just came up with it."
"Coming up with the perfect name is a lot of pressure, Ted. The pressure made me forget. His name is... ehm... that is, I'm going to call him..." Dougal's eyes roamed the room and settled on a roll of cling film that Mrs Doyle had left on the counter.
"Saran...." his eyes met Ted's.
"Saran?"
"Saran... Wrap. Yes. His name is Saran Wrap." Dougal nodded vehemently and then smiled at his own cleverness.
"Saran Wrap? That's a terrible name."
The young priest's face fell.
"I think it's a wonderful name," Mrs Doyle's voice had a soft, dreamy tone to it. "It's simply lovely. It sounds Welsh, I think. Saran Wrap. It suits him- He's so glossy and handsome. Saran Wrap. I'll put his name on the cake when I frost it." She picked up her pail. "Well, back to work. Those slates aren't going to clean themselves, you know." She let herself out the back door and they could hear the pail banging against the ladder as she climbed back onto the roof.
"Y'see- Mrs Doyle likes it and I like it..." The stallion gave a happy whicker. "Saran Wrap likes it. So I'm sorry Ted but his name is Saran Wrap and bollocks to what you think."
Ted rolled his eyes but he knew better than to argue. Especially now when a lovely horse had appeared in a seemingly Provedential manner. Now he wouldn't have to keep making excuses to Father Larry about why he couldn't see the horse he sought. If he played his cards right, Ted knew he could be in Las Vegas within the week, wearing his leisure suit and dancing under that mirror ball, maybe next to a beautiful woman or two.