The bishop came to breakfast every third Tuesday, and on that particular morning the housekeeper served him an egg in a cup shaped like a church tower. When he tapped the shell, the top came away in a single piece and released a smell complicated enough to suggest several breakfasts had been cooked inside it at once. The curate apologized. The bishop, who disliked embarrassing anyone, tasted a careful spoonful and declared that parts of it were excellent.
They genuinely were. One section of yolk tasted of a summer from his childhood, complete with warm grass and his mother calling from an upstairs window. Another carried the sweetness of corruption. A third contained a small white object resembling a tooth, though the curate quickly described it as an unfortunate mineral deposit and changed the subject.
The bishop noticed other imperfections after that. The curate’s left hand seemed older than the right. His smile occasionally arrived later than the rest of his face. The housekeeper answered questions about parishioners who, according to church records, had died years earlier but were currently sitting in pews downstairs.
Eventually the bishop asked where the eggs came from.
The curate explained that the parish had always suffered from shortages: not enough money, not enough clergy, not enough healthy bodies willing to remain. The hens in the rectory yard had solved certain practical problems. They did not lay ordinary eggs. Each contained usable portions of what the parish lacked.
A good memory. A healthy kidney. Twenty years of youth. A hand that did not shake. A congregation member who could still sing.
Nothing emerged whole.
That was why the curate looked assembled.
The bishop set down his spoon.
The housekeeper entered carrying another egg, still warm from the coop, and placed it beside his plate. This one bore a small purple mark on the shell shaped remarkably like his episcopal ring.
The curate looked embarrassed and explained that the parish had recently found itself in need of stronger leadership.
The bishop rose quickly, but his right knee failed beneath him.
Across the table, the egg cracked by itself.
Inside, something flexed.
The curate offered him the apologetic smile of a man accustomed to receiving imperfect gifts and making use of whatever parts were excellent.
©2013 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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