Epiphany
Mike Lee
In the time of the Governorate in the territory of New Settlement, it was an area designated for a group of Irish immigrants who settled in these far outreaches of South America.
The population was only several thousand, scattered across small villages tied together by a network of roads that barely passable dirt roads.
Originating in the nearby mountains, relentless rains came in springtime, causing these tracks to be often impassible except by horseback, thus leaving these communities isolated in means of trade.
Despite these difficulties, the struggling small farmers grew enough for themselves, though often unable to profit except by barter at market when egress was available.
Yet they made do, hearts filled with stoic gratitude that life in the Governorate was better than famine they left behind. Still, though, life was never comfortable—they held nagging doubts about their future.
Amid the rolling treeless green hills laid out before the mountains above, the people survived, counting their grace to God, gathering in prayer on Sundays, murmuring their prayers of deliverance from the horrors they had recently escaped.
On the morning after the last heavy rainfall, a farmer woke before dawn. Putting his boots on to slog through the mud outside his grass and mud brick hut to check on his goats, he said to himself.
“This time is the last time I will thank God and ask instead for a little bit more.”
He crossed himself, realizing he might offend.
He was taught that when a prayer becomes a wish, bad things happen. But with no priest to intercede, he shuddered a nagging fear of retribution.
God granted them life here in the New Settlement, and though the weather and treeless plain lacked most of the necessities of a stable and good life, God brought to His people life with half-full bellies than the starvation they had recently experienced.
For that, he should be grateful, and after tending to the goats, the farmer made his way back, obsessively repeating the Act of Contrition.
Later, the villagers gathered at the hill to pray. The farmer was among them, with his wife holding their baby, crying. The tears of his child at first annoyed him, but after a while he began to tear up as well. The farmer felt guilt for thinking that he wanted something better than the rains to end, and that the road to the next village dried enough for him to walk his goats to barter at the next village.
As he crowd began to kneel, the farmer felt a growing sense of resentment and impatience.
Not in heart, mind you, but in his head. Something sparked from deep inside him. He remembered burying his father, having to take handfuls of dirt from the parish priest because under English law, no Catholics could pray openly outside of church. He had to silently take the blessed ground to enter the cemetery and drop it upon the rough-hewn boards of the coffin holding his beloved father.
“And this is any better?” the farmer said aloud, and then fell silent.
His wife heard him.
“Shhh.”
The farmer bowed down, but this time did not feel a sense of guilt. He looked away at his baby, she no longer crying.
She stared at him with dark blue eyes, darker than the sky above.
And she was smiling.
As the crowd began to say the Act of Contrition in unison, the farmer remained silent. First, his wife noticed. Then, those around him began to turn in his direction. His voice was usually the loudest, a tenor that at festivals when he sang the songs of Ireland.
One by one, their voices began to falter, straining to continue the rituals of begging for forgiveness and expressing gratitude for their fortune.
Eventually, the gathering fell silent. They rose and returned to their homes. Never again did they gather at the hill on Sunday.
Two months later, a caravan carrying representatives of the Governorate arrived at far reaches of The Settlement, making its way on the now-dusty track, bringing with them a priest of the Faith, and timber and glass panels to build a church.
Yet when they arrived at each village, the inhabitants ignored them. Instead, they tended to their plots of land, or hid indoors. The priest wondered why such a pious people seemed unconcerned that a great step undertaken by the Governorate was met with indifference.
It was on Sunday when they arrived at the village where the farmer resided. It was on the time where they had once gathered at the hill. Instead the field was planted, with stalks of wheat sprouting up almost to the summit.
They stopped at the farmer’s hut. He had made improvements, adding window frames salvaged from a broken cart, and he was outside with a spade, digging a trench for his wife to plant a garden.
“Hail there! What gives?” asked the lead representative. “We have come to build a church, but no one seems to give any care. We have brought a priest here, of your own people, to administer to your needs and to give aid and counsel.”
The farmer counted six carts carrying building materials. His gaze fell on the lead cart, carrying the priest. The priest smiled and waved.The farmer tossed a spade of dirt aside.
He said, “We need the wood and the glass. If the priest has good hands, we keep him. If not, go find him a place elsewhere. We also need mules. We want to go to the mountains to gather wood to build proper homes.”
The priest shouted, shaken, “But what of your salvation?”
Without hesitation, the farmer replied. “We save ourselves. Now, what are you willing to barter for the mules?”
Mike Lee
In the time of the Governorate in the territory of New Settlement, it was an area designated for a group of Irish immigrants who settled in these far outreaches of South America.
The population was only several thousand, scattered across small villages tied together by a network of roads that barely passable dirt roads.
Originating in the nearby mountains, relentless rains came in springtime, causing these tracks to be often impassible except by horseback, thus leaving these communities isolated in means of trade.
Despite these difficulties, the struggling small farmers grew enough for themselves, though often unable to profit except by barter at market when egress was available.
Yet they made do, hearts filled with stoic gratitude that life in the Governorate was better than famine they left behind. Still, though, life was never comfortable—they held nagging doubts about their future.
Amid the rolling treeless green hills laid out before the mountains above, the people survived, counting their grace to God, gathering in prayer on Sundays, murmuring their prayers of deliverance from the horrors they had recently escaped.
On the morning after the last heavy rainfall, a farmer woke before dawn. Putting his boots on to slog through the mud outside his grass and mud brick hut to check on his goats, he said to himself.
“This time is the last time I will thank God and ask instead for a little bit more.”
He crossed himself, realizing he might offend.
He was taught that when a prayer becomes a wish, bad things happen. But with no priest to intercede, he shuddered a nagging fear of retribution.
God granted them life here in the New Settlement, and though the weather and treeless plain lacked most of the necessities of a stable and good life, God brought to His people life with half-full bellies than the starvation they had recently experienced.
For that, he should be grateful, and after tending to the goats, the farmer made his way back, obsessively repeating the Act of Contrition.
Later, the villagers gathered at the hill to pray. The farmer was among them, with his wife holding their baby, crying. The tears of his child at first annoyed him, but after a while he began to tear up as well. The farmer felt guilt for thinking that he wanted something better than the rains to end, and that the road to the next village dried enough for him to walk his goats to barter at the next village.
As he crowd began to kneel, the farmer felt a growing sense of resentment and impatience.
Not in heart, mind you, but in his head. Something sparked from deep inside him. He remembered burying his father, having to take handfuls of dirt from the parish priest because under English law, no Catholics could pray openly outside of church. He had to silently take the blessed ground to enter the cemetery and drop it upon the rough-hewn boards of the coffin holding his beloved father.
“And this is any better?” the farmer said aloud, and then fell silent.
His wife heard him.
“Shhh.”
The farmer bowed down, but this time did not feel a sense of guilt. He looked away at his baby, she no longer crying.
She stared at him with dark blue eyes, darker than the sky above.
And she was smiling.
As the crowd began to say the Act of Contrition in unison, the farmer remained silent. First, his wife noticed. Then, those around him began to turn in his direction. His voice was usually the loudest, a tenor that at festivals when he sang the songs of Ireland.
One by one, their voices began to falter, straining to continue the rituals of begging for forgiveness and expressing gratitude for their fortune.
Eventually, the gathering fell silent. They rose and returned to their homes. Never again did they gather at the hill on Sunday.
Two months later, a caravan carrying representatives of the Governorate arrived at far reaches of The Settlement, making its way on the now-dusty track, bringing with them a priest of the Faith, and timber and glass panels to build a church.
Yet when they arrived at each village, the inhabitants ignored them. Instead, they tended to their plots of land, or hid indoors. The priest wondered why such a pious people seemed unconcerned that a great step undertaken by the Governorate was met with indifference.
It was on Sunday when they arrived at the village where the farmer resided. It was on the time where they had once gathered at the hill. Instead the field was planted, with stalks of wheat sprouting up almost to the summit.
They stopped at the farmer’s hut. He had made improvements, adding window frames salvaged from a broken cart, and he was outside with a spade, digging a trench for his wife to plant a garden.
“Hail there! What gives?” asked the lead representative. “We have come to build a church, but no one seems to give any care. We have brought a priest here, of your own people, to administer to your needs and to give aid and counsel.”
The farmer counted six carts carrying building materials. His gaze fell on the lead cart, carrying the priest. The priest smiled and waved.The farmer tossed a spade of dirt aside.
He said, “We need the wood and the glass. If the priest has good hands, we keep him. If not, go find him a place elsewhere. We also need mules. We want to go to the mountains to gather wood to build proper homes.”
The priest shouted, shaken, “But what of your salvation?”
Without hesitation, the farmer replied. “We save ourselves. Now, what are you willing to barter for the mules?”
