Smoke roiled out of the firepce. Silverware cttered and clinked. Cups were filled with a pungent mead. The long, oaken table was spread with smoked meats, aged cheeses, ripened fruit, and a steaming stew. Chewing on the dried pork, Father Coriander looked on at the debauchery.

  “A toast to the man of the hour!” Father Gregory’s voice boomed. His voice had a rich deepness to it that made you want to get into a boat and float along the smooth silken waters of his words. Father Gregory lifted his cup, a simple silvered chalice with the engraving of a lion. “For on this night, he became one of us! Hear hear!”

  “Hear hear!”

  “Brothers, we welcomed Father Coriander into the priesthood with open arms, and in just five short years he is about to take full ownership of his own church!”

  Father Coriander shrunk in his chair. Joining the priesthood was such a tumultuous time in his life. He’d rather put it all behind him, and focus on his new congregation.

  “The good Father seems a bit bashful tonight. Maybe he needs his cup refilled?”

  Coriander put his hands up, shaking them to say, “Oh please no more”. But the smile on his face only encouraged the group. Father Timothy filled his cup with the mead he had been brewing for this specific occasion. The bel on the simple jug noted, “Fthr Coriander, July 27th, 2005” The date of his rites. Father Ernest leaned into Coriander’s shoulder and whispered, “You’re lucky. I got into my own church too fast and the mead had barely fermented. It was like drinking a sad, sweet tea. But we had the same revelry as you do know. Enjoy it while you can. You’ll be busy soon enough!”

  “Coriander!” Father Gregory said, trying to whisper but his booming voice echoed through the room regardless of his intent. The table turned to hear him speak.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “I hear you are being assigned to your home town’s church? Are you excited to see some friendly faces? Will you be able to handle it?”

  “Yes, Father. At least, I will try.”

  “That is all I can ask I suppose. God willing you will make your mark. Perhaps you could even recruit a deacon?”

  “I can only hope.”

  After everyone had eaten their fill and the mead was threatening to put some of them to sleep, Father Gregory spoke up once more.

  “Let us now say a prayer over Father Coriander. That God may watch over him as he faces this new challenge. And may the guidance we have provided to him help him. We pray…”

  That night, Coriander fell heavy onto his bed. Looked up at the depiction of the Blessed Mother and thought to himself, All this Jesus shit is getting to be too much. It’s way too te to quit now though.

  * * *

  On a brisk fall morning, with the brown leaves falling and cttering amongst the ground, Father Coriander gazed upon his new home. The church building was quite small, with a traditionally styled steeple bearing a rusting metal cross at its apex. The foundation was built on rge, sturdy ste sbs. The walls were painted an eggshell white. On the left side of the church’s main building, was a small attachment constructed in a simir fashion but the colour difference between the two made it apparent that it was made much ter than the main building. The roofing was oily bck singles, yered over and over each other to protect from weaker weather, but could do little against the might of a stronger storm.

  At least, that is what it did look like, many years before Father Coriander was even born. Now it had fallen under the burden of time. The paint began to peel away, revealing rotting wood. The roof had buckled, leaving the steeple leaning inwards. The rge wooden front doors were ajar. The building itself looked as though some great beast had beat down upon it. Yet there was no greater beast than the ravages of time, weather, and neglect.

  Breathing a deep sigh, Father Coriander stepped onto the long dirt path that led to the church. He looked inside the open maw and gazed upon the broken pews, the debris that covered the floors, and the altar, almost miraculously still standing. He stepped inside to see more. The ceiling supports were mostly still standing, but where the roof had broken in, light spilled through. A pool of stagnant water sat below. Each wooden pnk of flooring sunk slightly beneath his weight. Just like the good old days. I’m supposed to deal with this all myself.

  He walked around the outside to the addition, where he was supposed to stay the night, and every night henceforth for that matter. The roofing of it was sunken slightly, but still whole. The door was heavy and the hinges squealed when opened. The addition was rather small upon closer inspection. A truly humble home. There was a small cot in the far left corner, pushed tight against the brick fa?ade. The exterior was wrapped in standard siding, with sts for the rain. But the inside was covered in various fa?ades. Brick for the walls near the cot. Then to the right, near the kitchenette and toilet, the walls swapped to a floral bohemian style wallpaper. At pces the wallpaper was torn and peeling away. The kitchenette was small, a sink and a small metal counter to the right with a hot pte on it. The only outlet in the additon was next to the kitchenette, between it and the cot. Some cupboards beneath the counter suggested cookware. The toilet was simple, standing proud among the rest of the room, though the shine had long since dulled from grime and wear.

  Looking back at the cot, the Father couldn’t help but remember his high school years. Trying to keep quiet while sharing a twin sized bed with his girlfriend. The ‘encounters’ they shared were all but biblical. The Father keeled over as his eyes began to glisten. Not that. Don’t think of that. Through his tears, he began to inspect the insides of his new home. Checking for drafts, holes in the roof, and general equipment for living. He found that the home was very limited. Attached to the faucet was a pump and the water smelled strongly of iron. There was just a single metal pot for cooking and a stash of instant noodles in the cupboards. Father Gregory’s ‘wisdom’ echoed in his ears,

  “A good priest will live off of the generosity of his community. Thus is he indebted to his flock as they are indebted to him.”

  Ah yes. My congregation can have a little swim in the church and get cholera. Then they’ll really owe me one. He began to prepare his small hovel with the bedding coated in dust. The small broom in the corner pushed the dust and debris out the door. And finally he was free to y down. The cot was canvas with three main sets of legs. So ying down meant pain in his back, ankles, and neck. He removed his starched white colr.

  Father Gregory had promised that they would send volunteers to help repair the chuch, but that he should try to enlist as many from the local community as he could. But the journey had worn him down. So now was time for a rest.

  * * *

  He awoke to howling winds and the wooden frames of the church screaming in agony. Sitting up from the cot, still bleary eyed, he noticed that the door was open. A long shadow covered up most of the light, but the gentle blue tint of the moonlight crept around the corners. As he pced his bare feet on the rough wooden floor, the boards creaked, and the shadow rushed away. Quickly putting his socks and boots on he started towards the door. There he saw the gorgeous hill that the church towered over. Straight ahead was the road back to the town. And to the right was an expansive graveyard, the stones shimmered in the light of the crescent moon. There, among the stones, was a figure cloaked in shadow. It was looking down at one of the stones, with its back to Father Coriander.

  His boots crunched against the dying grass and dirt. Making his way down the hill towards the graveyard. He was buffeted by the strong winds. The creaking of the church was even louder from the outside. The figure stood in stillness, seemingly refusing to be illuminated. Coriander grew closer. He could see the outline. The figure was womanly. Her belly was rge and sagging, but she was quite thin otherwise. She was wearing some kind of darkly coloured dress. It had long sleeves that ran just past her wrists. Near the hem line the dress transitioned to a tulle-like material. But it seemed to flow unlike any material he had every seen. She held her hands up to her face. He noticed now that she was slightly hunched over, moving as though she was sobbing yet she made no sound. As he crept closer her head snapped completely around. Her face was still wrapped in the shadowy tulle, but her eyes were fming coals. Her voice sounded strained and raspy as she said,

  “Have you no shame, Father? Have you no heart?” she turned the rest of her body, the head remaining eerily still. Her dress flowed around her, as though it was unaffected by the strong winds blowing across the hill. She lifted a hand to point a long bony finger at his face, “I’d just as soon take you down with me. Shame I have no choice in the matter.” She stepped forwards and pced her full hand on Coriander’s face. It felt cold, waxy even. And as she did, he felt the air being sucked out of his lungs. It felt as though being punched in the gut, but slowly, more painfully. His vision darkened and his knees buckled.