Atonement: The Sequel

By Kevin Schmitt

Chapter One

The odd looking monk pulled on the left rein until the monastery was behind him, then pointed the team of horses toward the south tree line. The huge stone structure that was his home would not shrink and drop below the man’s broad shoulders until the wagon was clear off the green, well groomed acreage that surrounded it. The imposing edifice was The Abby of Our Lady of Gethemani; three stories high and resembling a fort in the sense that it was made up of four adjourning wings and an open central courtyard. Covered entirely in white plaster it was an enormous Catholic foot hold in what was essentially a Protestant semi-hinterland. The man driving the wagon only thought about that when some zealot chose to pour it in his ear. The man in the monk’s robe wasn’t a true Catholic and as far as he was concerned, the United States of America could fill up with Catholics, Protestants or Polynesian shark worshipers.

 The wagon driver had experience with all three faiths and a whole lot more. He had traveled the world and seen the elephant. In fact, he had watched men use the elephant to build temples both Christian and pagan. He did not doubt the existence of God, but he was certain enough that mankind could not fathom the particulars of The Almighty any more than they could bring peace in his name.

 Peace.

 It had become a warm cloak effectively hiding a torso covered with scars. The year was 1879. The war had been over for nearly fourteen years now and in all that time he hadn’t been called upon to do anything more dramatic than refereeing fights between young boys. But as he approached the small town of Bardstown, an old and familiar feeling began to creep over him. He raised the hood of his robe up despite the fact that it was a warm day. Bardstown wasn’t a dangerous place, even during prime drinking hours, but the monk stayed alert all the way to the post office.

 When he got there he found himself alone with the postmaster, who doubled as the town marshal. An over the hill lover of apple pies with drooping jowls and eyes that were going bad. His name was Henry Dale, and in the back room somewhere he kept a double barrel shotgun with a cracked stock and some of the first shotgun shells ever produced in the United States. (Something to brag about at the time of purchase, but not anymore.)

 When he spotted the monk he quickly came out from behind his counter and closed the front door so their conversation would stay private.

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