A Secret Mission

The Infant Jesus, nestled in His usual spot, seemed to shiver beneath the flickering candlelight. His little wooden arms were outstretched, forever reaching, and the white swaddling cloth, meant to be a cozy blanket, looked thin and inadequate against the chill that seeped from the stone walls. Angela imagined Him, small and alone, His painted eyes wide with the cold. It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right.

She glanced towards the heavy oak door, then back at the altar. No one. Not a soul. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Angela tiptoed forward. Her worn leather boots made barely a whisper on the flagstone floor. She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against the cool, smooth wood of the Infant’s tiny body. He was so light, no heavier than a robin’s egg. Gently, oh so gently, she lifted Him from His cradle. The swaddling cloth, surprisingly soft, felt like a whisper against her palm. She cradled Him close, tucking Him inside the worn wool of her shawl, the little wooden limbs pressing against her own. He was hers now, at least for tonight. She would warm Him. She would make Him feel safe.

The journey home was a blur of furtive glances and quickened steps. The gas lamps cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock her clandestine mission. She imagined the Virgin Mother, her brow furrowed, wondering where her precious child had gone. But Angela pushed the thought away. This was for the best. This was for Him.

Back in the cramped two-room cottage, the air was thick with the comforting, familiar smells of home. Her mother was stirring a pot over the fire, her back to the door. Aggie, her little sister with eyes like forget-me-nots, was drawing pictures with a stub of charcoal on a scrap of newspaper. Pat and Tom were engrossed in a game of marbles on the floor, their hushed bickering a constant soundtrack to their lives.

“Angela! Is that you, girl?” her mother called, not turning around. “Wash your hands and set the table. Supper’s almost ready.”

“Yes, Mam,” Angela replied, her voice a little too high. She hurried to the small washbasin by the door, her heart still pounding. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to erase the guilt that was already beginning to prickle at her conscience.

Once the table was set and supper – a thin potato soup with a crust of bread – was being doled out, Angela slipped away to the small alcove that served as her bedroom. It was a dark, stuffy space, barely large enough for her straw-filled mattress. She carefully unwrapped the Infant Jesus, placing Him on a clean rag beside her bed. She found a scrap of flannel, soft and warm, and tucked it around Him, tucking it in as she would a real baby. She even found a tiny, dried wildflower and placed it beside Him, a splash of color in the gloom.

“There now,” she whispered, stroking the smooth wood of His cheek. “You’re warm now. You’re safe.”

She lay on her mattress, listening to the muffled sounds of her family. Sleep, usually a welcome visitor, eluded her. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside, sent a jolt of panic through her. What if her mother found out? What if the priest came looking? The thought of their stern faces, their disappointed eyes, made her stomach clench. But then she looked at the Infant, nestled in His makeshift crib, and a wave of fierce protectiveness washed over her. She would keep Him safe. She would keep Him warm.

The next few days were a tightrope walk of secrets. Angela would sneak glances at the statue whenever she could, fussing over Him, whispering reassurances. She imagined Him smiling, His painted lips curving upwards in gratitude. She even managed to sneak a small saucer of milk, a precious commodity, and placed it near Him, pretending it was for a stray kitten.

Outside, the world seemed to mirror her inner turmoil. The wind began to howl with a ferocity she hadn’t heard before. The sky turned a perpetual, angry grey, and the rain lashed against the cottage windows with relentless fury. Limerick, usually a bustling city, seemed to huddle indoors, its streets deserted, its usual cheer dampened by the storm.

Angela watched the tempest rage, a cold dread creeping into her heart. Was this a punishment? Had God seen her theft? Had He sent this storm to show her how wrong she was? She imagined the Infant Jesus, now presumably back in His cold church, looking down at her, His little face etched with disappointment. The thought was unbearable.

Then, one morning, a new fear took root. Aggie, her bright, bubbly Aggie, woke up with a fever. Her little face was flushed, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She whimpered and cried, her usual playful spirit extinguished. Angela’s mother, her face etched with worry, tried everything she could think of – cool cloths, herbal teas, prayers. But Aggie only grew weaker.

Angela watched her sister, her heart aching with a grief so profound it felt like a physical blow. And then the terrible thought struck her, sharp and undeniable: Aggie was sick because of her. Because she had taken the Infant Jesus. Because she had angered God. The storm outside, Aggie’s fever – it was all a consequence of her own selfish act.

She crept back to the alcove, her eyes falling on the little statue. He looked so peaceful, so untouched by the chaos outside. But Angela knew the truth. He was the reason for it all. The weight of her secret, combined with the fear for Aggie, became too much to bear. She had to fix it. She had to make it right.

That night, as the storm raged on, a new resolve hardened within Angela. She couldn’t let Aggie suffer any longer. She couldn’t live with the guilt. She had to return the Infant Jesus. It was a terrifying prospect, a mission fraught with peril, but the image of Aggie’s pale face spurred her on.

Under the cloak of darkness, with the wind whipping her hair around her face and the rain stinging her cheeks, Angela slipped out of the cottage. The Infant Jesus, wrapped carefully in flannel and tucked securely inside her shawl, felt heavier than ever. He was no longer a precious secret, but a burden, a testament to her transgression. She clutched Him tight, her small hands clenched into fists, and set off towards Saint Joseph’s, a tiny figure battling the elements, her heart a battlefield of fear and newfound courage. The fate of her sister, and perhaps her own soul, rested in her small, determined hands.