The bell of St Raphael

A short story by Fr Ralph de Hahn

Port Raphael, on the Cape’s West Coast, was just a small insignificant fishing village, no more than 150 inhabitants, mostly of Portuguese descent, but with a dialect of their own.  The people lived off the sea. Because of the salty ocean winds and the hot blazing sun, all the surrounding sandy wastelands were barren.

There were good days when the air was fresh and clean, especially when the sky had been washed by the rains and scrubbed by the wind. There were those haunting mornings gowned in ghost-like mist when visibility was nil. And  those deadly quiet nights—no wind, total darkness, and in every village home tiny candle flames standing on tip-toe. A remarkable village, for most who lived there a paradiso!

There were those many days when the angry seas would make its presence felt by lashing out at the disfigured rocks and crawling high up on the beaches. But the fisherfolk were fearless, believing the Archangel Raphael to be their faithful protector; and the fishermen, without any fancy instruments or radio, believed that the archangel was ever in the boat with them. Reading the signs in the heavens and the stars was enough for any noble soul born to be a fisherman.

And, of course, there was a little chapel, a simple structure of mud, clay and asbestos which stood near the beach. Not a pretty sight but a chapel all the same, and Fr Leonardo Nzini was always happy to lead the community in worship once a month.

However, the zealous priest was unhappy with the bell that was somewhat hidden between the rafters above the entrance to the chapel.

“That bell is badly cracked,” he muttered. “It’s surely a danger to anyone moving in or out of the church.”

“But, Father, we hardly use the bell,” replied Belinda, the only teacher in the village.

“The bell is rung on only two very special days—Christmas Day and Easter Sunday—the day He was born and the day He came to life again.”

“Oh well, that shouldn’t harm the bell too much,” stammered the pastor while pausing to study the crack so clearly visible above his head.

“But who can ring such a bell? There’s no chain, no rope, no nothing…”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Belinda replied promptly. “My husband Dirkie is the only one allowed to ring it.”

Dirkie, usually called Stompies, was a short fellow, a cripple and blind in the one eye. But, Belinda explained, “he climbs the rafters and moves the bell to and fro, and the sound is too wonderful.”

Fr Leonardo wasn’t quite sure what was meant by “wonderful” since he was himself a musician.

And so it has always been—Dirkie Stompies, the only authentic bell-ringer in the village of Port Raphael. And for the 39 year-old fisherman and “Port Chaplain” it was the angelic choir in full swing!

Once he had made a promise: dead or alive, he—and he alone—would ring those bells on those two auspicious occasions.

It was indeed an unusual sound. Despite that crack from top to bottom it sent out peals of happiness and joy far across the ocean, across the sand dunes and koppies which brought the people of all faiths together in praise and worship.

The voice of that cracked bell elicited an incredible response from the villagers; even the deaf claimed to have heard it. Fr Leonardo, for one, did not believe in the local “miracles”.

It was the Christmas vigil. The wind was moderate, the seas choppy, the mist light. Stompies and his three mates ventured out into the wide ocean on a fishing spree.

“Do you guys have to go out on a day like this?” cried Belinda. “It is the vigil, you know, and, look, the weather could change for the worse.”

Stompie kissed her totsiens and shuffled into the little fishing boat. “It’s a good day for us, and the fish love this weather,” he said. “We’ll make a great catch for a grand christmas dinner… And don’t worry, the bells will ring in the early morning.” And with that the boat bounced out into the waves.

The day plodded on, dark clouds began to hide the sun under their mantle, and one could feel the wind shrieking out an uncanny warning.

“I pray St Raphael will protect our men out there,” prayed Amy the sacristan under her breath. Fr Leonardo loved having Amy around because her responses in the Holy Mass were above all the rest, usually in F Major. Her church decorations for any feast were out of this world—truly out of this world!

The hours passed. The weather got no better. Daylight was gradually swallowed by darkness. In every village home one saw the candles come alive.

“May God have mercy,” prayed Belinda, “there is definitely a storm on the way.” Most of the villagers agreed. And so a litany of prayers bombarded the archangel. Still the storm grew worse as the night moved on, the North-West  wind sprinkled  sand in every direction—and no sign from the fishermen.

There was some relief as Fr Leonardo arrived safely in his jeep. “Will the bells be sounding tonight?” he enquired.

“No Father,” shouted Belinda against the noisy wind, “but tomorrow morning at six Stompies will be here to ring them—that’s for sure!”

Midnight came and still no sign of the little boat—no flares, nothing! Many in the fear-gripped village could not sleep that night. Could such a little boat withstand such a tempest?

Oh, but one must never discount the skills and natural gifts of these four fishermen. The early morning came slowly. It was torture for those waiting, praying a  multitude of “Lord have pity on us, Lord have pity on them.”

Amy made sure that everything was ready for the priest, and as the clock drew nearer to Mass every villager was already in the chapel, seated long before that hour—waiting, waiting, praying…

But no Stompies, no boat. Were he and his mates lost at sea? Only God knew.

The celebrant appeared in the sanctuary, wearing his very special chasuble. And the people began singing: “Christ is born to us… come let us adore him.” Father turned to the people: “ In the name of the Father and of the Son, and of…”—and the bells began to chime, louder and louder. It filled the chapel, the whole countryside, and the very hearts of the congregation.

Smiles lit up on every face, eyes sparkled with delight: Stompies had kept his promise. The congregation burst into song…and then…a bang!

The bell had crashed to the earth, broken. The crack had widened and split the bell.

There it lay dead. No sound, no angelic choir, just dead. The message was clear.