I come from a long line of storytellers. Or at least so I'm told. I do know that there is at least one, my grandfather.

Grampa Charlie was one of the best. Every chance he got, there would be another story from the family past. He would become a whole different person for each particular epoch. And he would take on the various characters in his stories from the deep and blustering mean old man to the sweet young thing. He would always have us grandkids wanting more. And we would always believe him when he told us that these were stories passed down to him from his grandfather, who got them from his grandfather and so on. There was no doubt that these people and events were true, although his grandfather spent more time in Idaho than West Virginia and the other grandfather would only have stories of the Bartletts, Timberlakes and Hathaways.

His favorite story was always the one he told around Christmas about Sean and Shelagh. Each time he told it, it always seemed to start on a different day-Midwinter Eve, Christmas Eve or Lá an Dreoilín (Wren Day or St. Stephen's Day, Dec. 26)-but it always ended on Twelfth Night.

Once I actually tried to find out about them, but they seem to be in the haze of the historical past. I did find a John and Sheila once, but no, Gran'da would never accept those names.

You see, when he talked about Sean and Shelagh, he became his Irish ancestors. He would take on the persona of this Irishman telling his tale. His green eyes would sparkle, his wispy hair blew around on an invisible breeze. He would scrunch down all cozy into his blue mohair-covered armchair (how he did that, I'll never know-to me it always felt like sitting on a hedgehog or a very soft cactus). His gentle voice would turn softer and an Irish lilt, that often sounded more piratey than Irish, took over for the typical Tidewater Virginia accent. He would start calling me "Doogie" and insist we call him Gran'da.

So here he was, his lanky frame curled up, looking down at assorted grandkids (I was the only one to get the "Doogie" treatment, although my cousin Dave would get "Daffyd" if a tale ended up in Wales). We'd sit with our backs to the fireplace, which housed, rather than a blazing Yule log, a strange looking gas heater, but we played along with his description of how he had just come in from splitting the logs and to mind the fire that we didn't get too close. Then he would have to recite the "Little Willie" poem- Little Willie in bows and sashes, Played too close to the ashes. Though the room gets cold and chilly, No one cares to stoke up Willie."-to which we responded with appropriate laughter. He is the one I got not only my green eyes from but my equally strange sense of humor.

So here we are, Gran'da facing the fire, kids on floor with a various assortment of toys and animals sitting in anticipation of "the story."

There was ritual to this as well. He always had a brandy snifter filled partway with a glorious amber liquid. We never got to sample it, even when were old enough to, but I had it on reliable sources that it was a blend of the finest Irish Whisky and some homemade poteen, the Irish version of moonshine.

He would first warm it up in his hands, swirl it around and take the tiniest of sips. He would close his eyes, his face would relax and the years would melt away. Then he would look at us and say, "Have you been hearing the one about Sean and Shelagh, the saints of Connemara?"

"No, Gran'da, we don't know that story," we would say every year.

"Ah, youth, what is this world comin' to? Not knowing about the famous Saint Sean and his lovely wife."

"Please, Gran'da, tell us."

"If you insist," he would always reply and put his drink down. Now sometime during the evening, that glass would empty and refill several times, yet I never remember him taking a drink after that. He would clear his throat, adjust his sweater and start.

The Saga of Sean and Shelagh

'Twas in years gone by between the times of Cromwell, when good Sir Nick first came to Eire and took Mhari from Drogheda as his bride, and An Gorta Mór, The Great Hunger, that this all happened. And I know it to be the truth, as God is my witness, as I heard it meself from the lips of me own Gran'da and he heard it from his.

The name of the venerable village is lost to the sands of time, but it was said to be Baile Beag in Connemara, where the blesséd St. Patrick himself did walk, that our story unfolds. Amongst those grand hills, not too unlike our own.

A pair of them came out of the East, himself a strappin', dark-haired lad, pullin'; a cart and she flashin' her bright red hair. To her uncle's house they were travelin', said she. But alas, they were too late by but a week. Uncle had died and left no one behind. But his cottage, a mean thing, had no one to care for it. So in moved the handsome Sean and his young bride Shelagh. And that was the month of October, just before Oíche Shamhna.

Sean had a hand with Connemara ponies. He could choose the finest with just a sight, knowin' which stud would bring the best stock, so he said. And the local squire needed a man like he. So there he was, all muscle and sweat, having a hand with the young ladies as well.

Not to say that Shelagh was in any way missin'. Her fine red hair and flashin' green eyes could move the head of the most any man, married or no. Her voice was the voice of an angel's it was said, her heart was the same as well.

So it came as a shock on that midwinter morn, when the Wren Boys came singin' to their door:

The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,

On St. Stephen's Day was caught in the furze,

Up with the kettle and down with the pan,

Give us some money to bury the wren.

Those boys they found the fair Shelagh her eyes filled with tears and Sean was laid out, his body as stiff as a board.

The first to arrive were the sisters Birdie, who lived up to their name. Small and nervous, they arrived to a disappointment as Shelagh had already laid out her man Sean.

"Too bad it was so quick," said Dovey, the eldest of the two, although they both appeared to be of an age.

"Yes," agreed Covey. "We always make the shroud. No one dies from hereabouts without a Birdie shroud."

Quickly reachin' into basket, Dovey, or maybe Covey, pulled out a fine lace antimacassar.

"One of our best. It will have to do. You will be good enough to let us know when you are planning on passing on, will you not? We do need a little time to prepare."

And with that, she placed it over Sean's head.

The mourners then began to arrive in earnest. Soon the small cottage was filled with well-wishers and food. The children played outside, although it was cold, but young ones never seem to realize that (mind you watch the fireplace). But all remained silent except for the sobs of the young widow. Then came a knock at the door to break the silence. It was Father Christmas.

Not THE Father Christmas, but the local parish priest, although he could pass as the former. Rotund and ruddy, his parents all too Catholic. All their seven children were named for the Saint of that day they arrived. When Christmas arrived, as did the boy, they could not find a better name.

"Good that I came after midnight," he would say. "Elsewise I would have been Eve."

He brought with him all the appropriate wares of his station and performed those rites that had been denied with Sean's final breaths. Then he sat down next to the fire and the Misses Birdie.

Again a silence fell.

A gasp.

"He moved."

"No, your imagination moved."

"It was just a breeze."

"It wouldn't have happened if we had made the shroud."

Again silence. Then another knock at the door.

This time it was a man in fine livery.

"Missus? The squire sends his regrets. Sean was a good man. For you, he sends his musician and a stock of his finest."

In came Brian the fiddler followed by two servants with baskets of food and drink.

"Just send Brian home after the necessary is done." And with a bow, he left.

There was a silence.

"Well, Brian, are you just going to sit there or what," said Paddy, a neighbor.

"Yes, Brian, appropriate music for a wake," shouted another.

They all started talking at once.

"Shhhhh!" said Brian.

Silence again fell as Brian tuned his instrument. All held their breath, anticipatin' the first notes.

Then he drew his bow and the most sorrowful tune erupted. Only to be followed by the liveliest tune even.

The corpses attendin' the real one reanimated at once. There was clappin' and singin' and even a step or two.

"Shelagh, shall we serve?" asked the Birdies.

She nodded her approval. A veritable banquet was laid out with her man. Bein' the only table large enough for himself, he shared it with the turkey from the squire.

"A fair brew," said Father Christmas, admirin' the whiskey the squire had sent.

As the crowd began to feel the effects of the fire, food and fruit of the vine, a cry came up.

"A recitation, Paddy. You're the finest around."

Paddy demurred.

"I'm no such t'ing, just a humble farmer with a fair ear for the story."

"Nothing fair about you Paddy. That ear's not seen water since Spring."

Paddy stared at his taunter, then broke out in laughter himself.

"Longer than that, I wager. But a verse I do have. But first, a toast to the host. To himself, we are all sorry you could not be here, but here we are!" Paddy proceeded to down more than a human should be able in one drink and promptly passed out. No recitation that night.

So through St. Stephen's night flowed whiskey, wine, poteen and song until, at last, they all fell asleep.

"Can no one stay awake with me?" asked Shelagh, the first words she spoke of the evenin'.

The only reply was a snore from one of the sisters Birdie.

"Good," spoke she and promptly removed the shroud.

"Time to get up now, John."

The corpse moved. Or more appropriately, the corpse who never was.

"Thank God. I was getting a little stiff there," said Sean a little more loudly than necessary.

"Hush now. Don't awake them," she reprimanded.

"Little chance of that. Watch me."

He went over to the closest Birdie sister.

"Aren't you the lovely one?" He gave her a small kiss on the cheek. She giggled in her sleep.

"John, you're incorrigible." Shelagh slapped him on the arm.

"You're right about that. That's what the Justice said at the last town. And you will notice that justice hasn't prevailed?"

"We don't want to mess up this opportunity. Our names are not known in these parts. Let's keep it that way. Have you had a chance to do your investigations?"

"Except for the squire, there's not so much we can plunder. Those two have a few pieces of fine silver and the O'Malleys have some small things as well. But for the rest, they are much like us."

"Not so much or they'd known us from the start."

"But for my winning smile and your fancy charms..."

"I'll winning smile you." She hit him again, this time a mite harder.

"Ow!"

"You're been kicked harder by your horses."

"But their nails aren't as sharp. Nor their tongues, Shelia."

"Now quickly. I've got our belongings in sacks. Use that by the door to collect the rest. Now off you go."

With that admonition, Sean snuck out of the house.

Shelagh herself said back in her place. Nobody stirred.

"What's taking himself so long," she asked no one in particular.

Father Christmas stirred. Shelagh caught her breath.

"Me darlin'," he slurred and promptly returned to his dream.

Just when she thought she cold breathe again, she heard the door squeak.

"Just me," whispered Sean.

"Now we can get out of here at last."

"Wait a moment. How about this fiddle? We could get a good price for that." Sean went over to Brian.

"No fooling with the musician. They say that is bad luck."

"The only bad luck is getting caught."

That's the strange thing about luck, it comes and goes. Now while they'd been lucky the last several places they'd been, that luck was about to change.

As Sean turned to leave, the sack he was carrying caught on the edge of the table, the one he was to be on. It tipped ever so slightly, but enough to cause an empty bottle to fall off the edge. Shelagh then saw what was to happen, stepped forward and caught the bottle, but in the process stuck out her leg. And wouldn't you know that Sean would take that same exact time to be walking into its path. As he fell, he dropped his sack of booty into the expectant lap of Father Christmas and proceeded to fall into the arms of one Miss Dovey Birdie. At the same time, Shelagh twisted to the left, pushing the table further over. The remains of the dinner landed in the lap of the other sister, the head of the musician and two people that no one had seen before. The silence was broken, along with six bottles (empty) and two dinner plates.

"What was that?"

It was Dovey waking with a start.

"Thieves!" yelled Sean.

"Thieves?" said Father Christmas.

"Thieves," said Shelagh.

"Where?"

"He went that way," said Sean, indicating to the door.

"Let's go after him," said two of the burly farmers.

"No need," said Sean. "He dropped his bag here."

It was then that it dawned on Covey or what is Dovey?

"You're dead, aren't you?"

"Yes...well, no...Well, I was but now I'm not."

"Not what?" said Father Christmas, not quite awake.

"Dead"

"Of course you aren't. When you accepted...wait a minute, you were dead as in dead of the body."

"Not now, I guess. Maybe this is just a dream and you should go back to sleep."

By then, the whole room was awake.

"Father, what is it that this man come back to us?"

"I'm sure there is a good explanation, but I will have to think on it."

"Angels," suggested Shelagh.

"That's right," added Sean. "Angels. Angels came to me and said that I had a mission to complete on earth before I could return to the spiritual realm. They saw the thief coming into our houses and sent me back to stop him."

"That was noble of the angels, but when you're dead, I expect you to remain likewise," the fiddler added. "I'm not sure my master would be happy wasting my time and his money as a gift for the deceased. Dead men are supposed to stay that way, at least to my way of thinkin'."

"Yes, but..." Sean looked to Shelagh for guidance.

"But the angels being of the compassionate nature saw a need and...my guardian angel had no one else to do that which must be done. So she sent Sean to do it. That's right, isn't it, Sean?"

"Oh yes, oh yes. She was doing some other heavenly duty at the time and told me 'Sean, you get yourself back there and do that thief great harm. I cannot go and as guardian angel, it is but my job to see those good folk protected.' So I came straightaway and grabbed the thief's bag and gave him a good knockin' as well. I don't think you'll have to be worryin' about that one again."

"But this is a miracle," intoned Father Christmas.

At this point, I'm thinkin' that Sean and Shelagh didn't know what to be thinkin'. Getting out of a jam is one thing; becoming God's latest miracle is something quite else.

"Na, it happens all the time, don't you know," said Sean, tryin' to get the crowd to think of something else. "Why it must've happened three or four time just earlier this year where we...came from."

No one appeared to believe that. Or if they did, it hadn't happened here. Now that they had their own miracle, they were loath to let go of it.

"Nonsense," said Father Christmas, "miracles do happen every day, but not to this scale. I'm thinkin' we might have a saint in the makin' here." And he went to mull this over some of the squire's mulled wine.

"I was thinkin' just the same," said Dovey or Covey. The other supported her wholeheartedly.

"We need to get back to our house and start on the memorial shroud," said the other. With that, the two of them left.

They were soon followed by the rest of the crowd, each talkin' among themselves about plans to make. Brian the fiddler was composin' a new tune in Sean's honor as he set off for the squire's manse. Father Christmas was the last to leave.

"I'll have to be takin' this up with the Bishop, maybe even the Pope. A new saint is just what we be needin' about this time," he said, taking one last gulp of wine and brushin' the crumbs from his cassock.

"Now what are we to do?" asked Shelagh.

"Wait this one out, like the ones before."

"I don't think that will be happenin' any too soon."

"We'll see."

Shelagh was right. It was a steady stream of people, wantin' advice, wantin' blessin's, wantin' this, wantin' that. At first, Sean took to it, with more applause than he'd known on the Dublin stage. Then it became burdensome. People lookin' in the windows, people at the doors.

"And they won't even let me take a pee without someone tryin' to collect it," Sean ruminated.

"To fill their holy grail, no less."

"We got to do something, I'm thinkin' now. Word's getting' out and around. We had visitors today from our last town."

"Did they know you?"

"Na, but you can't be too careful. Justice is still on our tail. But I've got meself a cunnin' plan."

"And what cunnin' plan might that be?"

"I'm goin'ta die again."

"And this time?"

"Stay dead."

"And the cunnin' plan?"

"We'll call them all together for Twelfth Night this very night. Meself will be the King of Misrule and you my queen. Everyone knows of the magic of that night. We'll be havin' us some cake with the bean hidden. I'll pretend to choke on it and die right before their eyes. When I disappear in the night, you'll say I was taken back up into heaven. It'll be over, you can join me down the road and we'll head back to Dublin and Carter's Alley."

"It's been fun, but you're right, John."

"Shh. Sean, please. Someone may be listening at the door."

"Right...Sean."

"So go you on out and get the crowd to come again. I'll be me finest performance."

And so Shelagh did as her king commanded.

It was a right festive party for all, not only the end of holiday season, but some good news as well.

"I had news back from Rome," said Father Christmas. "They're looking into Sainthood. A little early, I ken, but with the miracle of Paddy's cows, the healin' of Miss Birdie's warts, and with them bein' a problem this last thirty years, and the face of St. Wolfstan appearing in me sleep, albeit he looked like me own brother, Wolfstan, their willin' to speed things up a bit. We're to be expecting a 'delegation' on this very week."

"I can hardly wait," said Sean, givin' a wink to Shelagh.

"And we have made an appropriate shroud," said on the Miss Birdies as the other held it up for all to see. "You will notice here that we have embroidered the life of Sean the Blessed, starting with his own miraculous birth to parents who hadn't been with each other for five years, himself being a sailor and all. If you'd be noticin' here, this is me and me sister working on the shroud as you shine on us with the Holy Spirit." The other Birdie beamed with pride, outshining the golden Sean on the blanket.

"A fine work of art." Sean smiled on the two of them and they turned a shy eye.

"Worthy of the Vatican archives, if I don't say so myself," added Father Christmas.

"Worthy beyond compare," added Sean.

When Brian the fiddler appeared, courtesy again of squire, who was needin' a bit of dispensation, the party began in earnest. The music was lively and again the wine flowed. Sean was on his 'throne' atop the table, with the feast at his feet. As the hour approached midnight, the end of his rule, Sean prepared himself for his 'death.'

In the distance, bells tolled, marking the hour of the new day. Suddenly, Sean looked up to the roof.

"Yes," he said to no one in particular. "I understand. You need me at once." With that he slumped in the chair.

A cry rang up from the crowd. Shelagh was the first to speak.

"The angels have come for him again. The Lord be praised."

"The Lord be praised," intoned the crowd.

Sheila grabbed the shroud and threw it over Sean.

"Now Father, if you would do the necessary. And then I would ask you all to go and pray at the church that his soul fly quickly back to where it belongs."

The priest enacted the rites and said the final prayers. The crowd was still. As the priest went to the door, the crowd started forward, but stopped. Dovey Birdie, who was at the door, turned.

"That shroud, don't you know, it will be important. Covey, join me."

The two elders went back towards Sean.

"No you don't, you two old biddies," said one of the neighbors. "It being holy, I want some of that, too."

The crowd started fighting over the shroud. It ripped and tore into a multitude of pieces.

"And I'll need some of that, too," shouted another, grabbing at a pot Shelagh had on the table.

"Holy relics!" shouted another.

Soon the whole room was turned upside down with people grabbing at holy relics of their only homegrown Saint. Someone grabbed at Sean's chair, only to have himself fall into a lump on the floor. One Miss Birdie paused, took out her hankie and placed it over Sean's face.

"It is a decent shroud, after all, being a Birdie," she added as she continued on her treasure hunt.

Although it seemed like hours, it was over in minutes. As the crowd dispersed, Father Christmas paused and blessed the house.

From that night on, neither St. Sean nor assistant St. Shelagh were seen or heard of again. The constables came two days later, only to hear of what Father Christmas called "the transubstantiation of the two."

"Transubwhat?" asked one.

"They went up into heaven," said Father Christmas, not knowin' he'd got that wrong in more than one way.

"More likely, they're just down the road," said another. With a shrug, they left.

It was told that a John and Sheila appeared on stage in Dublin soon thereafter, givin' the most fabulous of performances. John was said to have a winnin' smile and Sheila the most lovely of voices.

Just like angels.