The Priest & the Brat

Placing the basket on the footsteps of the church, the unrepentant man knocked on the door before turning back and vanishing into the dark night. Without looking back. Without a shred of remorse. As if the bundle meant nothing.

Howling winds and rattling window glasses reduced the knock to a faint tap. Or perhaps the priest was too absorbed with his study. Winter was a month away, but dusk had brought along gusts of chillingly dry winds on the moor, and ended an otherwise balmy day in a cold, dreary night.

The old, ‘lighthouse’ church stood atop a small hill that rose gently from the main village street. Although well past its ancient glory with its ragged walls wearing a dark, soiled look, the graceful architecture and sturdy built of the church was alluring, and bore testimony to its bygone splendor.

Church architects had put up a glass walled fire pit over the bell tower. Every evening, church servants lit the fire and, even on this bleak night, the church shimmered like a beacon from afar. Just like a lighthouse.

Diligent and forthright with exhaustive knowledge of the world and its religions, the priest hated interruptions when studying religious scriptures before he retired for the night.

Nine hours a day was about the only time he could dedicate for study these days. He never slept more than six and began his day at the crack of dawn. A bachelor by choice, he focused on God with single minded devotion.

Just as he was about to dismiss the hazy knock as a figment of his imagination when he heard a muffled, barely audible cry. That was it. The priest strode purposefully to the main door and opened it on to the spacious front porch.

Placed on the porch was a bundle wrapped in a warm blanket. The priest rushed to the basket just as the moon brushed aside the veil of clouds and unleashed milky white light right on the bundle. It was a baby!

Spontaneously and without a moment’s hesitation, the priest picked up the basket. His first concern was the infant’s health. Deeply religious with an unshakeable belief in doing good, he would never make a burden out of the bundle.

‘Richard,’ the priest called in a gentle but commanding voice as he picked it up.

‘Yes Father,’ replied the attendant hurrying to the front door.

‘Some warm milk, err . . quick.’

Richard did what he was told. As always. The baby boy stopped crying and lapped up the milk greedily. After that, the boy did not waste time getting used to the new setting. And when he slept, he did as if he belonged there.

‘Just like his heartless real father,’ thought Richard but did not dare say that before the priest.

‘Isn’t he beautiful Richard? He’s a gift from God. We will call him Gabriel,’ muttered the priest.

And that was that. Gabriel grew up quick into a mean and naughty brat. Richard was often the target of his pranks that bordered on the terrifying. He roamed around with his ‘gang’ for days at end. He got into fights with village lads. And he developed an eye for girls as the girls did for him.

‘Just like his womanizer real father,’ Richard went gossiping around the village, making sure the priest never heard any of this. But Gabriel did. And he decided to teach Richard a lesson.

One fine day, Gabriel killed a snake and hung it over a sleeping Richard. It almost gave Richard a heart attack, and put him out of action for a fortnight.

“Just like his spineless real father.” It was now Gabriel’s turn to spread the gossip around.

Always busy with pranks and fights, the brat never learned to read and write. More than anything else, this irked the priest. But Gabriel did have a talent for tough bargaining that was lost on his bookish father.

Within minutes he could tell if the person he was dealing with was a tough nut or a chicken. A big mouth or a silent snake. A conman or a sincere guy.

The priest decided to educate Gabriel. And he played it smart. Or he thought so. He made Gabriel ring the church bell daily for a small stipend. After a while when Gabriel got used to the stipend, he ordered all church workers to be at least barely literate if they wanted to keep their jobs.

All in vain. Why would Gabriel need a stipend when he made much more in card games at the run-down village bar? Helped, of course, by one of his gang who could lie hidden on the battered roof! And another sitting on an outdoor table. The boy readily gave up ringing the bell. That broke his father’s heart.

Gabriel’s exploits and notoriety spread afar with complaints and protests pouring in from neighbouring villages as well. Twice, the priest had to intervene personally and use his goodwill build over a lifetime to prevent angry mobs from lynching Gabriel and his gang.

Finally, on Gabriel’s fifteenth birthday, the priest summoned every ounce of his rather limited resolve.

‘If you don’t learn to read-write and do not straighten up, leave my church now,’ the priest put down his shaky foot.

There followed a bitter war of words. The father steeled his soft mind and, finally, threw out his adopted son.

The priest could not touch food for two days.

Neither could Gabriel. But only because he could not steal any. Having squandered his winnings in the village bar right before his father kicked him out, he couldn’t buy any either. The rascal was of the kind born without a sense of guilt.

Wandering cold and hungry on the rugged, desolate moor for two days, he finally came across the farm of a well-off cigar trader. Gabriel begged for food. The owner took pity and fed him leftovers. He was a good actor.

This brought our lad back to his true self. He prayed the owner to let him sleep in the barn for the night. And then, without so much as a whisper, stole a box of cigars, a horse, and some clothes before disappearing into the thin night air.

Two hungry days had taught him something about life although he would never admit it. Not even to himself. His first stop was the house of Edward, his most trusted old gang friend. Edward was also the toughest, the only one to have beaten Gabriel twice in friendly bouts.

Together, they rode hard for a day to a distant village where cigars were a prized commodity. Gabriel and his gang had often visited the village for its distinctive sweet wine and knew who could shell out the most for cigars. After making a windfall and regaling for a day, Gabriel and Edward purchased guns before returning to the cigar trader’s farm.

Now, he did not steal. He demanded partnership! Even after spending nearly a quarter of his recent fortune over wine and women, Gabriel had enough left to impress the trader. In fact, the trader was awed – he had never yet seen such huge profits.

Within two years, Gabriel amassed enough wealth to start his own cigar factory. And within five years, he was a filthy rich tycoon. He knew all the places and people who could cough up the most for cigars and abused the information to the fullest. The cigar trader was now his junior partner!

Not the one to follow the law, Gabriel rarely paid taxes. Or paid the least possible sum. His business tactics were simple – beg, borrow, steal, and bribe. And if these failed, shoot! Edward came in handy here.

To cover his dark deeds, he began donating to charity. With much aplomb and always making the handout look more than it was. He even contributed to his old father’s church find. But the priest would not approve of his ‘sinful’ ways.

Gabriel was now looking to invest his wealth. Loading two stagecoaches with gold, silver, and coin money, he took his lawyer along to meet an investment banker in the next county. Edward and his mounted musketeers rode along for the convoy’s security.

The investment banker had heard of the notorious Gabriel Gang. If he ever wanted a client, this was it! Not just for the money, but also for the influence that would come along. He rolled out the finest red carpet, wore his best jacket, ordered the most delicious lunch from town. He even purchased the sweet wine from the village where Gabriel had made his first fortune.

Gabriel ‘the tycoon’ arrived late and got down to business without as much as nodding to the banker. Even the seasoned banker was fascinated by Gabriel’s shrewd investment sense and grasp over tiny details.

After lunch, the lawyer and the banker drafted a detailed contract. Smiling eagerly and respectfully, the banker presented his gold-nipped pen to Gabriel to sign the contract, bowing slightly as he did so.

‘Forget the pen. Get me the ink,’ Gabriel ordered gruffly. ‘You’ll need my thumb mark,’ he added without a shred of embarrassment.

For the first time since Gabriel had ignored him after arriving late that morning, the banker felt sure of the ground beneath. After all, he was highly educated and had at least one thing his prosperous client did not.

There was now the faintest of glows in the banker’s otherwise cold, expressionless eyes. Sometimes, even the most seasoned of professionals allow their eyes to betray their inner feelings.

‘Forgive me Sir’, the banker interjected withdrawing his pen, ‘but you could have made much more with education’.

Gabriel had already noted the glow. He was after all a master at reading people.

‘Wrong,’ growled the tycoon, ‘with education, I’d still be ringing the darn church bell!’

Moral of the Story: Education is important. No doubt. More so in this age of technology. But don’t judge a person by his education alone. Being educated is one thing. Street smart cunning is another. Again, its not that these two things are completely separate.