The Miracle Man by James Skivington

Limpy said in a measured tone. He was quite getting used to these announcements regarding his new status as a miracle recipient and probable future object of veneration. “Last night the Virgin Mary cured my bad leg.”
    Dermot could not have looked more surprised if Margaret Garrison had just paid her last two month’s bills in hard cash.
    “What?”
    “Show him,” the Winter Cook instructed, poking Limpy in the shoulder. As Dermot came to the door of his office, Limpy took off down the corridor like a greyhound from a trap, executed a brisk turn at the kitchen door and almost sprinted back to where he had started.
    “Good God,” Dermot muttered. “How did that happen?”
    “Last night, at the Mass Rock,” Limpy told him. “The VirginMary appeared to me and then – wham! – the leg was as good as new. You’d hardly believe it, Dermot, only you’d seen it with your own eyes.”
    “Jesus,” was all that Dermot could venture.
    “It’s a miracle, Mr McAllister!” Mrs Megarrity said reverently. “It’s a proper miracle!” She blessed herself. “Oh, thank God. Thank God Almighty.” She clapped a congratulatory hand onto Limpy’s shoulder. “That’s what comes of leading a good life.”
    But this contentious statement was lost on Dermot as he stood with a puzzled look on his face but the beginnings of a smile creeping across his lips. He slowly shook his head.
    “Well, Mrs Megarrity, you might be right,” he said. “It may indeed be a miracle.”
    When Father Burke called, it took a long time for Bishop Tooley to come to the telephone. Age had slowed him, and the only reason he didn’t use a walking stick was the little touch of vanity against which he had fought for so many years. And to no great effect, he thought. He should have gone long ago, of course, back home to Cavan to live out whatever time the Good Lord allowed him, but because of the shortage of priests, he had been asked to stay on, long past normal retirement age. And these days half the parish priests were mere youngsters. Either that or they were decrepit, like himself. Oh, he had prayed hard and often for more vocations to the priesthood, for more young men to take up the call, but so far the Lord had not chosen to answer his plea to any great extent. Now there was this new one in Inisbreen who had the kind of light in his eyes that usually spelt trouble. Perhaps it had been a mistake to give him a position of authority at such a young age, but what choice had there been?
    “Good evening to you, Father.” The Bishop’s voice was soft and reedy.
    “Ah, Bishop, there you are. I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a matter of considerable urgency that I’d like to discuss.”
    With a sinking heart the Bishop noted the enthusiasm in Father Burke’s voice.
    “Oh, I see. Will it take very long? Only I am rather – occupied.”
    Dozing in an armchair had long been an essential part of his afternoon routine. “Only a moment or two. I just wanted a piece of advice, really.” Father Burke cleared his throat. “I think, Bishop, I have a case in my parish of,” he paused for effect, “what appears to be a – miraculous cure.”
    “You – what?” Bishop Tooley’s degree of deafness was often dependent upon the subject under discussion.
    “An apparent case of a miraculous cure, Bishop,” Father Burke repeated more loudly. “I believe I have one in my parish.”
    What had he said? A miraculous cure? Not another priest with a drink problem. And there was no use him blaming it on the communion wine.
    “And what makes you think it’s miraculous, Father? People are cured all the time using the unmiraculous technique of medicine.”
    “Ah no, Bishop, no. This was instantaneous. No doctors involved at all – except that a doctor has declared the limb in question perfectly normal. No, this was a man cured of a major and long-standing affliction while passing an ancient shrine last night – the Mass Rock here in Inisbreen. And