The Magic Porrige Pot

A fairy tale for Adults

“How are we going to cope, Father?”

Helen knuckled her bloodshot, weary eyes, trying to stay awake just a little longer.

Father Quinn muttered a blessing over the emaciated body at his feet, and rose. The extremes of baking heat in summer and bitter, soul-numbing cold during the winter months had decimated the numbers of children in Romania: even those fortunate enough to have found sanctuary in one of the country’s overcrowded orphanages.

We could never manage more than we have here, he thought wearily as he gazed around the hall. Rather more than two hundred children sat on the wooden floor, cross-legged and patient, their ages ranging from perhaps six to about thirteen. Younger children had perished during the previous winter: any who had survived and reached their teenage years were urgently needed elsewhere as adult labour.

Sadly, he foreshortened his gaze and concentrated instead on the adults who lay suffering in stoic silence on the freshly-cut rushes spread deep and crisp and even all over the slightly raised dais which formed a token attempt at a stage area at one end of the room.

Behind this area, rooms which had been intended as dressing rooms when the hall was first built had been commissioned as a makeshift soup kitchen and a repository/pharmacy for their pitifully few medicines and medical equipment.

His eyes scanned past the patient he had just tended, noticing a slight difference: a cessation of the merest suggestion of a movement which told him that the child trapped within the body of an ancient, semi-mummified crone was now at peace. He crossed himself and knelt once more. As he did so he noticed that several patients attempted to emulate his action, crossing themselves with varying degrees of difficulty, easing the passing of the latest soul with their own selfless prayers. He felt truly humble: how could a people who had endured so much for so many years still demonstrate a child’s blind, unequivocal faith in a God who saw fit to inflict such atrocities on them? No, he rebuked himself, sternly: there was no way he could ever believe that God was in any way, shape or form responsible for the outrages which he had witnessed every day throughout the region during the last five years. He was fit and in good health; furthermore, he carried a passport which identified him as a citizen of one of the richest countries in Europe. There was no way he could ever bemoan his own circumstances ………. He felt a flush of shame at his own private, selfish thoughts: stooping lower, he closed the unknown patient’s eyes.

“In Paradisium te ducant Angelis ……… ”

“May angels lead you into Paradise ………….”

The familiar rhythm of one of the Latin phrases commonly spoken over the dead calmed him, helped him to find an equilibrium.

“Father: somehow, somewhere, we have to find something for them to eat.”

Helen’s voice intruded on his thoughts. Despite the helplessness of the situation, she evidently had a naїve trust in his ability to achieve what was patently an impossible task.

He sighed.

“If only it were as simple as Matthew’s Gospel, Helen!” he said, resignedly “Chapter 14: the Feeding of the Five Thousand. With just a few fishes and a couple of loaves of bread, I sometimes feel I could ….. ”

His voice faltered. Touched by his young assistant’s unquestioning faith the priest’s shoulders drooped. For a brief moment he shed his pastoral cloak of authority and became the secular citizen, Paddy Quinn.

Exhausted, he collapsed onto an upturned plastic milk crate and buried his face in his hands. Helen hesitated, unwilling to intrude on his brief escape from the harsh realities of Romanian poverty. Fr. Quinn was a relatively young priest, barely a handful of years older than his volunteer assistant who was now looking to him for guidance.

Abruptly, but without fuss or fanfare, the door leading to the requisitioned kitchen opened. The cook and an older teenage resident orphan manœvered a cooking pot into the hall, its surface blackened from years of standing over a fire: Father Quinn was absolutely certain that he had never seen it before. It was evidently heavy: the muscles on the forearms of cook and assistant were bunched tight with the effort involved in carrying it. A number of plastic milk crates were found and placed together on one corner of the rush-filled platform.

“An old lady left this pot, Father” the cook gabbled  “ … look!”

He removed the lid: immediately, the most incredibly delicious aroma filled the room. Stunned, but thinking rapidly, Fr. Quinn nodded silently to two boys sitting closest to the still-swinging doors: they rose and disappeared, returning with stacks of bowls and spoons. He addressed the remaining boys:

“For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful!” he said, sketching an elaborate Cross over the pot. Automatically, the still-seated children followed suit. He continued:

“Will the boys in the first row please stand, collect a bowl and a spoon, and start by helping the sick people who are too ill to sit up and feed themselves. The rest of you can form a line behind them.”

The scent of the thick soupstew had an invigorating effect on even the most lethargic of the patients. After a few minutes, many of them were able to take the spoon and feed themselves as their strength rapidly returned.

Line after line of boys stood and took their bowls to the cook and his assistant, who dipped their ladles into the pot with a metronomic rhythm.

The cook raised his eyes, silently indicating that Fr. Quinn should approach as he served the last few boys in the room.

“There’s plenty for all, Father.”

“How can that be? You’ve already served at least two hundred boys ….. !”

The amount of soup in the pot appeared unchanged.

Father Quinn accepted two bowls, one for himself, the other for Helen. A peaceful, calm silence filled the room: the only sound to be heard was the click! of spoon on bowl.

“Vegetable!”
“No, chicken……….. !”

“Tomato, surely!”

Priest, cook and volunteer all spoke simultaneously, each naming a soup with an unmistakeable taste. Helen giggled.

“Perhaps everyone tastes their own particular favourite?”

“Yes, why not?” grinned the priest: his first genuine smile in months. He clapped for everyone’s attention.

“Boys, we have been fed well by an unknown benefactor. The least we can do is share our good fortune with as many others as possible.”

“I want you to go, as Jesus once told his followers, out into the fields and hedgerows. Tell everyone you meet that there is food, here in the church hall. Go now, while the food remains hot!”

Almost everyone had emptied their bowl at least twice. Some of the more seriously ill seemed to be well on the way to a full and amazingly rapid recovery.

Soon people began to arrive, singly and then in larger family groups. Many carried their own bowls and basins: almost everybody had brought with them some form of bread to share, perhaps to offer in barter if asked.

All tiredness, despondency and despair forgotten, Fr. Quinn and Helen hunted down further ladles from the kitchen to help with the serving of the soup. The enthusiasm and joy of providing a nourishing meal for everyone who needed it was infectious, and seemed to add a further zest to the stockpot. Before long, everyone in the hall (and those who had spilled onto the grassy fields outside) were laughing freely. Many of the children had never experienced laughter, and were hearing it now for the first time.

Fr. Quinn turned to the cook.

“You spoke of an old lady who seemed to know the contents of your storeroom as well as you do.”

The chef looked up and nodded.

“Yes, Father: and she also said I had to remember to say: “Cook, little pot, cook!” when I put the ingredients into the pot.”

“ I don’t suppose there was any chicken, or even tomatoes, to put in the pot?”

The chef shook his head, regretfully.

“Oats, corn meal, some spices: I think I’ve forgotten what a chicken looks like! But I know what it tasted of, at least to me!”

They had handed over their ladles to a relief crew. There was still a steady stream of people arriving from the nearest villages for their portion of life-saving soup from the apparently bottomless cornucopia.

Instinctively he reached out: the three of them linked hands.

“Let us pray. We must give thanks and seek guidance about our next move .How can we repay this kindness?”

All background sounds of voices and laughter became muted, distant, as if they were encapsulated in an intangible protective bubble. Peace and tranquillity overwhelmed them..

The idyllic scene was rudely broken by an unnatural, jarring discord. Fr. Quinn became aware once more of his surroundings and discovered that the room had been reduced to bedlam. The miracle of feeding so many had degenerated into a mælstrom of anguish, hurt and despair. The milk crates upon which the pot had been placed were scattered, the servers lying ominously still nearby. The pot itself was missing.

One of the patients lying on the makeshift bed of reeds gazed up at Fr. Quinn. Bright red, oxygenated blood trickled from both sides of his mouth. Wide, distinct, tyre tracks lacerated his chest.

“Police!” he managed to whisper, with what was to prove his final breath. Closing the injured man’s eyes Paddy Quinn drew a cross on his forehead, lips and chest, while reciting a brief absolution. Several children of varying ages surrounded the cook, howling their rapid-fire language at a speed which left Helen feeling helpless.Fr. Quinn listened briefly to their tales of woe, then turned to translate.

“The police arrived on two quad-bikes. They burst in, killed the people giving out the soup and rode off with the pot tied to one of the bikes.”

He glanced around the room once more. His grey eyes missed nothing. Injured children, ridden down because they were unable to jump aside quickly enough, were being tended by other children. They were offering them sips from soup bowls.

“Father, look: is it possible?”

All around the room an instantaneous recovery was taking place. Pale but defiant, the injured thanked their helpers and rose to their feet – all bar a sad few who lay ominously still, too badly injured to respond to treatment. On the sleeping platform, a similar number of the more seriously ill patients were also showing definite signs of recovery.

“We have to follow them, try to recover the pot!” cried the cook. This was greeted by a chorus of agreement, and Fr. Quinn had to calm everyone down to make himself heard.

“We must also look after those who are too ill to be moved!” he insisted, and quickly chose at least one of the youngest boys to stay with each invalid: this still left well over a hundred fit youngsters ready to follow wherever they were led.

The trail was easy to follow: the broad tyres of the quad-bikes, driven at full throttle, tore gaping wounds in the grassy fields.

They met no opposition, which surprised Fr. Quinn, as they had made no secret of their approach. There was a curious, low moaning as they entered the village, but no sound of bike engines or raised voices.

The pot lay on its side. For the first time, it was nowhere near full: in fact, it was almost empty. However, the unappetising sludge left congealing in its base was clearly inedible: and the stench rising from the pot was enough to warn anyone away.

Fr. Quinn looked first at the prone, writhing villagers and the police officers who had stolen the pot, then at the cook.

“The lady who brought it told me to say “Cook, little pot, cook!” before serving: but they didn’t ask, so they wouldn’t have known ….!”