"Home on the Hill" by E. W. Farnsworth

Home on the Hill

by E. W. Farnsworth

The old priest could not recall how long he had called this house home.  He saw the brothers were digging in the garden, deep in rectangular pits.  He heard the sounds of their shovels, but they never spoke.  The order mandated silence, no matter the circumstances.

He edged his wheelchair along the corridor, lined with tables holding the pots with plants he had started from seed.  Nothing seemed to thrive in this place—except for himself and the priests in what he called the rota.

His job description was vague, but he cooked and served the meals.  He also helped the most infirm amongst the others to find their ways back to their beds where he would clean them and administer their meds, perhaps give this one a sip of water or read a letter to that old friend.

The order was dwindling now.  He recalled joining it in its heyday, with two thousand members and growing.  Now only twenty-odd remained, himself included.  He had watched so many die and administered their rites for the sick, which used to be called “extreme unction,” the last of the seven sacraments they would ever know.

Out on the hill beneath the crosses most now lay, and he had watched their interments from the widow’s walk.  He smiled faintly at the quaint and ironical name.  The order once had sisters and a mother superior, but the last of those had died or departed.  Their sundry exits were their business though sometimes he wondered.

Faintly, he remembered his last summons from the deceased provincial, the one from whom he had received his final instructions as if issuing not from any human authority but from the building and grounds, of which he was to be the overseer.

Off the corridor were now-empty rooms, spare and furnished with useless furniture.  The priest strained his brain to recall who had been where.  He knew where all the bodies were buried, and he longed to join the rest as they waited together until the Judgment Day.

He had the strongest impulse to rush outside and down the hill if only to see whether people still inhabited the village below and the horse-drawn carriages of the Amish farmers.  Yet such rash ventures were never in his brief.  The rooms needed tending, the declining fathers needed continual care, and the windows required Windex and other solvents.

The priest realized he must have broken the protocol of silence as, on either side, muscular brothers had materialized from nowhere.  He felt naturally led to the elevator and from there to the basement where the Directory awaited his attentions.  Having conveyed him to his workplace, the brothers vanished.  The sacred rolls required updating by entering the latest information about decedents.  

When he completed the updates, he found a goblet of wine standing by his left elbow.  The two brothers were back denoting it was time to proceed to the kitchen.  Cooking for twenty was easy for him though nearly all the others could never have cooked for half their number.  Besides, they seemed to trust him not to poison them.  

Three other brothers—those who tended the exterior gardens—had picked vegetables, which the priest washed and chopped while starting to boil the water.  Between steps in his processes, he gestured for the brothers to set the table with plates, silver and cloth napkins and fill wineglasses with wine that he had made from grapes they brought for the purpose.  Like clockwork, they brought the living to their evening repast.  Two with dementia would have to eat in their rooms as they had soiled themselves, but they would have their wine.

The wheel-chair-bound were installed at their usual places.  Absolutely silent, they started drinking their wine.  At the priest’s silent direction, the vegetables were served.  A small cup for each priest held his evening medicines and vitamins.  The ninety-eight-year-old priest enjoyed taking his medicines with his wine.  In some ways, his regimen made him seem healthier than his colleagues.  He was the one who always led their silent moments of prayer.

The priest who had accomplished the duties of chef now sliced the desserts, which were largely fresh fruits and small pastries.  The brothers served these portions and waited for the diners to finish eating and drinking before they wheeled each to his assigned bed.  The evening routine was well-known yet often surprises upset the schedule.  Tonight, the elderly priest made a break for the door.  

A buzzer sounded, and the errant priest was stopped before he could burst into the open air.  With one brother on each side, the priest who had attempted escape was led to the place where he would now administer the lighting of the candles.  The priest could not remember precisely what had transpired before he began to light the wicks.  

The candle count was one hundred and one, and the priest had a name for each.  The names were taken from notables among the former members of the order, and the priest was careful not to misremember as some were for sanctified men, perhaps future saints.

As was his custom, when he had completed lighting the candles, he rode the elevator to the widow’s walk and looked upon the dark Maryland countryside.  For a moment after he faced the cool, evening air, he had the impulse to end it all as Brother Stephen had done, but the rails prohibited him from wheeling off the roof.

The old priest at this time each night counted his blessings, and he felt thankful for having been assigned a final set of tasks.  The others had been given heavy responsibilities, but they had not been tasked to design the elevator, to cook the meals and to apply the ointment during the last rites.  Behind, he felt strong arms edging his wheelchair to the brink, but something stopped his forward motion.  He saw two brothers struggling to free their vestments from the pointy iron railing.  They both fell and lay silent.