The priest shushed them, and waved them hopelessly back towards the gate. He was a quiet man who sought quietness, and was suddenly alarmed at what had landed in his parish. Panic prickled in his lower stomach like a bag of needles. It was the kind of thing you wished on your worst enemy, this: miracles. Let the Bishop have them, give them to Galway, but not here. Why were they always happening in out-of-the way rural places? God!
