by Rolf Nelson
Out hopped a broadly grinning man in a monk’s habit. “You must be Mathews!” he exclaimed. “Mickey Finnegan. Novice-master and head whip-cracker for St. Possenti’s. Glad you could make it. Been keeping the good bishop all too busy.” Mickey enthusiastically pumped his hand once, tossed the suitcase in the back, and waved cheerily to the priest before he could answer. “Got a lot to do. Grab a cart and follow me.”
Twenty minutes of high-speed shopping later, loads of dry goods, foodstuffs, hardware, and lumber were being loaded into the back of the truck. McKale had hardly had a chance to get a word in edgewise. He was sweating in the cold air by the time they hopped into the cab and sat, suddenly motionless for a moment. Mickey grinned again. “Doing fine so far, Padre! Buckle up!” With tires spinning gratuitously but with remarkable skill, they were on the road out of town.
As he drove, Finnegan filled the younger man in on the details of his new assignment, which had been, until now, kept rather sketchy. The veteran and PTSD angles had been covered somewhat so that he could do his own research before he arrived. The job training had only been hinted at, and the breadth and scope of the plan was a surprise. But it was when they got to the shooting portion of the training regimen that the light bulb came on as to why conversations until now had been so guarded. He sat in silence, shocked to his core. He’d been tossed in with heretics. Violent, brain-damaged, murderous, armed, emotionally unstable heretics.
He started praying more fervently than he ever had in his life as he listened to Mickey lay out the plan. He had to let the pope know!
“Yeah, it was a hard sell,” postulant Finnegan said, continuing. “But once he saw the possibilities, His Holiness managed to convince enough of the hostile cardinals to grudgingly not fight it on a very low-key trial basis. Most of them are still not totally on board and are sure to be following the news hoping to see us there screwing it up. But, so far, so weird.”
“Pope Leo XV knows this is happening?”
“Of course. Couldn’t found a new order without papal blessing. And seed money. He’s a very practical man. He saw the carnage of soldier suicide and degradation and agreed that on balance, this is a risk worth taking. So what do you think of it?”
“I’m not sure just yet. It sounds very… strange,” McKale said cautiously. “I’ll have to see it all first hand before I’m ready to voice a judgment about it.”
“Wise beyond your years, Father. Or else just acting polite while looking for a good place to jump and run from this bin of lunacy and heretics you got tossed in with.” Finnegan shot him a knowing look. “Seriously, though, it’s a great group. Not the normal sorts you might meet and a bit rough around the edges… Okay, more than a little rough in some cases. But good men nonetheless. And from what I know of your past, I think you’ll fit in better than you might believe at the moment. They respect direct action.”
McKale’s eyes narrowed. “What have you heard about me?”
Finnegan’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s just say that you won’t be surrounded by shrinking violets, submissive metrosexuals, hidebound proceduralists, mincing pacifists, or dogmatic fatalists. We tend to like men who look a problem in the eye, stand tall, and deal with the issue head on. Assault through the ambush, as it were. More than one guy at the abbey has been cheated on while deployed. Hearing of a priest getting verbally Old Testament on a wayward harlot in her own home made the vote to recruit you unanimous.” Of course, it was only Thomas and five others voting, but still. No need to tell this promising young man that. “Sometimes, you have to call a ho, a ho. To hear Father Compton tell it, it sounded downright epic.”
“You… He… Really?”
“Yes, indeed. Being entirely too nonjudgmental has gotten the nation into a lot of the problems it has now. Putting the biblical smack-down on someone that needs it was truly Good News. Judgment is what God is all about.”
“I gained the distinct impression he was most dismayed by it.”
“Oh, he was angry about the methods, but he liked the result even if he was surprised by it. And I think he may have been slightly envious of your success using somewhat old-school methods. You can bring the brimstone.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“No problem. Ever shot before?”
“No.”
“Know much about machine tools or construction?”
“No.”
“Farming?”
“No.”
“Institutional cooking?”
“Not really.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“So we can bring the fire; you can provide the brimstone.” Mathews wasn’t sure what to say. Finnegan chuckled at the other’s obvious discomfort. “Seriously, though, Padre, if you’re raking them over the coals on their biblical learning, it’ll be good for you to be humbled on the rifle range. And machine shop. Wherever. Helps keep things in perspective. We are all humbled every day out there about what we can, and can’t, manage to know and do.”
Father Mathews looked at the ruddy-faced man in a monk’s robe sitting next to him, not sure what to say. He looked out the window at the passing farms a while before answering. “I never really imagined I would be in a monastery. Still not too sure about it.”
“Me neither, Father. Me neither. But it’s been a hoot so far. Well, other than the permitting problems. But I haven’t had so much fun since boot camp…. Speaking of which, if you’ve never shot a rifle before, I’m guessing you are not prior service, unless it was Air Force, right?”
“No. I have never been in uniform.”
“That’s okay. Tom—Father Abbot Thomas Cranberry, recently Bishop Cranberry—isn’t either. Ironic, that. But Chaplain Bunt was, so there is that. Some things you’ll just have to go with the flow on. Focus on the book learning more than the behavior for now. I’ll get on their case when behavior is a problem. But they are a little like grown-up kids having bad nightmares on occasion, so if in doubt, we’ll work it together, at least until you get to know them. Sound good?”
“Yes. Reasonable enough.”
“Okay, then. Sit back, enjoy the ride, and tell me anything about yourself you think we should know, or that you’d like to know about how all this came to be, or whatever is on your mind.”
Cells
Let them sleep clothed and girded with cinctures or cords, that they may be always ready; but let them not have knives at their sides whilst they sleep, lest perchance the sleeping be wounded in their dreams; and the sign having been given, rising without delay, let them hasten to outstrip each other to the Work of God, yet with all gravity and decorum. Let the younger brethren not have their beds beside each other, but intermingled with the older ones; and rising to the Work of God, let them gently encourage one another on account of the excuses of the drowsy.
The Holy Rule of Saint Benedict, Ch. XXII
With the foundation, slab, plumbing, and wiring mapped out and understood, the repairs, upgrades, and new construction were expected to move fast.
Only a few relatively small portions of the foundations had to be fixed, so a five-man team was able to take care of it in four days though they wanted to make sure it cured for longer than that before they gave it any significant load. The slab-work took a lot more people—but not much longer because of the amount of badly cast, supported, and reinforced sections they had to break up and clean out, lay some new plumbing pipes and conduits for wiring, fill and re-compact, and then re-cast.
While that was going on, some of the design details were being worked out. The plan was to have each monk get a six-by-eight-foot room of his own, and they’d be stacked together sort of like dorm rooms, with communal bathrooms in the corners of each level. Inside the covered arena they had room to frame in the first set of them, but not enough space for the entire monastery when fully under way because they liked the idea of a covered training area. But one 150-foot wall, lined two stories high with a row on the outside and another facing inward and bathrooms on the en
d, would accommodate eighty rooms. Extending the roof a ways and building more outside in similar fashion around the outside would make room for more. In the end, though, they figured they would definitely need another building as well. But that would come with time, and they could always slow the rate of recruitment to fit the space they had.
In the immediate future, bathrooms, food prep, and septic lines being readied for the SS509 had to be done. The planning, framing, wiring, and plumbing for those were attacked first.
Abbot Cranberry was distinctly uncomfortable with the lack of a proper church and irregular prayer times beyond Mass. He knew that any established monastery would have a much more settled schedule, more frequent prayers, regularly assigned duties, and a much greater number of experienced hands relative to the number of novices. But, given the limitations of time and manpower, they had chalked out a space for the church until they could build a more official one and consecrated it so they could start building as time allowed. It was a humble beginning—very humble indeed—but it was a beginning. It was a necessary compromise made to allow for the timely expansion and growth of the abbey. If there was a church but no place to cook, eat, sleep, relieve themselves, or provide sufficient physical and mental respite for men who might see returning to life on the street as a viable alternative, then it was an acceptable and temporary balancing act, albeit one that was somewhat unsettling to him as the abbot who would be held to account for all decisions and results. They would get to all necessary parts in due time, and this initial very worldly part of the program was unavoidable.
Cranberry and his “henchmen” (as they had taken to calling themselves) had chosen their first picks as much with an eye toward skillset as psychological need. Bill’s recommendation about starting with a relatively small cadre of leaders with skills was already paying off. Those with trades experience could be given the plan outline. They’d find who had the specific knowledge they might need, and then they were on-task and doing good work with very little detailed guidance. The argument over how large to make the kitchen and how it should be laid out took the four men with serious food-handling experience (two Army, one Marine, one Air Force) all of two hours to hash out once they looked over the secondhand equipment they had available to install. On the other hand, they also had to give Mickey a list of significant items he’d missed and they would need to track down, things like a lot more refrigeration, preferably a walk-in; but they could rough in the fittings and leave space for such known quantities.
Thomas was surprised at how much room would be required. But when they explained that four hundred men, three meals a day, minimal automation and maximum from-scratch cooking, expected training duties, and duplicated critical equipment to cover for repairs and downtime plus serving space, it all added up to a significant number of square feet. Adding even a minimal dining area expanded it even more, and they all agreed that communal meals were a good idea, as well as being very traditional, although few monasteries in the modern day would try to seat so many. As they chalked out where walls would go, the initially expansive-looking arena started looking significantly smaller one rectangle at a time. Thinking about it more, Cranberry realized that in all likelihood this structure would end up being temporary, and a larger and different design would have to be pursued for the long haul. Perhaps they should do construction with an eye toward eventual removal as well.
But for now, it would suffice.
Cowgirl
Let the brethren who are to be sent on a journey recommend themselves to the prayers of all the brotherhood and of the Abbot. And after the last prayer at the Work of God, let a commemoration always be made for the absent brethren.
The Holy Rule of Saint Benedict, Ch. LXVII (Brothers sent on a journey)
Brothers Hugh and Bill drove to town on Tuesday, wearing ordinary street clothes for the day as their habits were in the laundry. It was rapidly becoming apparent that as a rule most of the monks would likely need two of the heavy-duty robes, if not more, or else some cheaper and lighter-weight alternatives if they wanted to regularly present a clean front to the world.
The road from the monastery was still icy and only minimally cleared, but the county road was maintained well enough. They waved politely to the two trucks they passed, driving in silence and watching the wintry farm country roll past, with scattered patches of trees and buildings white on the upwind side.
They pulled in to the store and parked next to the only other vehicle there, another ubiquitous pickup truck much like their own—slightly dirty, obviously well used, more than a few years old, and already half filled with odds and ends in the back. It had more pro-rodeo bumper stickers and fewer pro-gun stickers. Mickey couldn’t help but put a μολὼν λαβέ sticker on every vehicle they purchased along with a pro-Christian slogan or four.
The sidewalk was quiet, as expected in the middle of a cold and windy weekday, and the store inside almost as silent. They each grabbed a cart, looked over their part of the shopping list, and split up.
Hugh went down the grocery aisle to the right, Bill down the left, headed for the hardware section. Hugh saw the driver of the other pickup parked out front almost immediately—a very cute 20-something cowgirl with a bit less bundling up than the weather might indicate would be prudent. She was picking through the bin of onions at the far end of the store. He thought about recent conversations, smiled slightly to himself, put on his best bland expression, and started working his way down the aisle, checking his list and shelves in turn, noting from the corner of his eye that the cowgirl had noticed him, too, but he ignored her utterly. He didn’t change his pattern or course.
When Hugh got to the onions, where she was still deliberately looking them over, he continued to overlook her, taking all four of the large bags and leaving only the few remaining loose ones and the half-empty bag they came from, before glancing down at his list and looking around for the next item.
She looked at him in surprise before saying brightly, “New in town?”
Hugh nodded indifferently, said nothing, and moved on toward the end-cap display of rice in 25-pound bags.
“Got a name, stranger?”
Hugh again nodded and put two of the bags in his cart, but said nothing.
The cowgirl’s face clouded a moment, clearly not used to being something other than the center of male attention. “And that name would be…?”
“Hugh.” One syllable, clearly pronounced but as uninflected as if he’d been replying “soup” to an inquiry what was next on the list. His eyes still scanned shelves and list as he moved on.
“If you’re new here, where’d you move in from?”
Again keeping his eyes on the list and scanning the shelves, he said nothing, just pointed in a generally easterly direction and moved around the end-cap to locate the next item. The cowgirl followed. “Move here permanently, Hugh, or just a short-term thing? An oil-patch job?” She knew those almost always paid well. “Are you listening to me?”
Hugh shrugged, put a gallon jug of molasses in the cart, and looked back at the remaining onions. “Do I have a choice?” Her jaw nearly hit the floor. “Will you be buying those?” He looked pointedly at the onions, none of which were in her hands or cart, and then directly into her eyes. He was careful to not even hint at making an appreciative scan of her tightly-dressed curves.
“What? Yes. Two or three of ’em.”
Hugh nodded curtly in acknowledgment, went back, scooped up all but three, put them in the remaining half-full bag, and set them in his cart. The young lady’s expression exposed the surprise she obviously felt at being so noticeably not interacted with. Clearly she wasn’t invisible, as men don’t usually talk to the invisible, but they were always supposed to take notice of young and attractive women.
Hugh kept moving, rapidly filling the cart with staples as well as odds and ends. She went over and stood in front of where he would reasonably be headed next down the aisle, stuck out her hand, and introduced herself. “I’
m Liza. Liza Aker.”
Hugh paused in his search for baking powder, looked her in the eye, pumped her hand once with a firm and calloused hand (a notably non-office-worker hand), and said, “I’m still Hugh.” He let go of her hand and retrieved it firmly, leaving her standing awkwardly, not sure what to do next. He moved on around her, eyes already back on the shelves.
She stood, arms akimbo and expression somewhere between confusion and anger, looking like she was almost ready to stamp her foot and demand he stop and pay attention to her. Hugh went around the far endcap and continued down the next aisle, humming faintly to himself as he continued shopping.
He finished walking all the aisles and headed for the register, where Rodger Sellers was leaning against the back wall, ostensibly reading a book. He’d seen the whole exchange and nearly busted a gut yet remained silent and unnoticed. He looked at the very full cart. “Is it Brother Hugh?” His words were quiet, barely heard.
Hugh nodded. The corner of his mouth twitched up for a moment, acknowledging the scene and situation.
“More than one cart, I assume?”
Hugh smiled and nodded again. “Another two, more or less. Get most of the fresh stuff in the last load. And here’s a list of the things I didn’t see in bulk that we’d like to have sometime in the next week or two.”
Rodger looked over the list. “I can show you where a couple of these are.”
“Figured I didn’t find everything.”
“Going to be in every Tuesday?”
“Likely. For a while, anyway. Tom—Abbot Cranberry—said you normally got fresh deliveries on Wednesday and Saturday. If we can reduce your waste and get a bulk just-about-expired discount… win-win.”