The Secret Village

Noreen Wrenne

Promise not to tell the secret I am going to reveal to you now –– not to anybody at all. If anyone anywhere heard it, they would flock to a certain place in their thousands, and everything would be spoiled. No, it's not a moving statue or anything like that. It's –– is there someone listening over there? –– it's a little village near the sea in East Cork, the inhabitants of which have not yet heard about the great tourist drive.  Now, don't get me wrong –– tourists do pass through the locality, but usually stay at the adjoining resorts. No one has told them yet about my little village –– and I sincerely hope nobody will –– remember that, will you?  To give you an example –– there's a small church there, with old timber pews and a gallery. I went into it the other day, to admire its colourful walls and plethora of statues –– they hadn't taken any notice of Pope John's Council –– and knelt down in accordance with custom. A cleaner, equipped with bucket, mop and a bag of dusters, was half way through his work among the seats. Without even a glance in my direction, he left his task, packed his materials into the bucket, and retreated to the sacristy, leaving me to pray in the stillness of the sanctuary. You know, I liked that –– it showed a rare respect for the other individual's privacy.  Afterwards, sitting in the car in the adjoining empty car park, I was still basking in this warm feeling of –– what's the word? recognition, when up the road into the village, came a flock of sheep. They were being herded by a young man, and a small boy on a bicycle.  None of the animals even glanced into the car park, let alone enter it. The exception was a small stray, who, separated from the main flock by several yards, baa-ed rebelliously at all and sundry. A man in a car followed the rebel, but the latter spotted the pedestrian entrance to the park, and bolted through it. I tell you, I felt real sympathy towards that little animal –– he was an individual, like myself, I thought. The car stopped, the driver got out, and cornered the renegade, who bravely continued to show his defiance. Eventually, the shepherd lifted him, and carried him across the carpark to a field below the church. There he released him into solitary pasture, pending his retrieval, later.  I thought of the Biblical parable of the lost sheep, and the importance attached to the individual, whether he strays or not. It wasn't in a tourist centre that Christ saw that scenario, but in a little village like the one I'm telling you about, where everybody is somebody, even a stray lamb.  Don't forget now, keep all this to yourself. Oh, the name? –– well, maybe some other time –– you might talk in your sleep, you know. Copyright © 2000 Noreen Wrenne