Category: My stories

Once upon a time, there was a billionaire who loved wine.
He bought every kind, forever seeking the perfect wine.
He also owned priceless books about wine.
One contain legends of a monastery that produced the best wine ever made.
So, in a hill behind his castle, he recreated the monastery, the winery, the grapes, and the monks.
(With enough money, you can clone anything.)
They made this perfect wine for him.
They were kept faithful with a simple book of rules, and aside from some accidents, they were content to make his wine.
He toasted to their health.
“Cheers.”

The brotherhood spent their days following their book of answers, growing grapes and producing wine.
They’d roll the casks into a nearby cave to age.
Brother Timothy thought back as far as he could remember.
Where did the barrels come from? He couldn’t remember any deliveries from the village.
Or where the village was.
Was there a village at all?
He looked around the valley. Just a river, trees, vineyards, and the brotherhood.
And the caves.
Maybe they re-used the wine casks?
Had they ever removed the casks or bottled the wine?
Where did it go?
The book said nothing.

The well has run dry.
Father William consults the book.
“When the well runs dry, dig another well.”
We get out our augers and shovels, and we begin to dig.
Just as we empty our last rain barrel, the brothers in the well shout.
“We have struck water!”
I sit by the river and scratch my head.
Why do we not use the river? The water is clean and fresh.
Father William points to the book. “It says not to use the river.”
For this, he commanded that my unholy tongue be torn out.
I watch the river flow past.

There is always one unoccupied cot in the brotherhood dormitory.
Father Timothy tells us of Brother Judas.
“He was once one of us,” he says. “But, one night, he left and never came back.”
Why would a brother leave when there is wine to press, prayers to pray, and the book for all the answers?
That night, I do not sleep.
I look at Brother Judas’ cot. His robe and sandals are under it.
They have never been used.
There are no extra bowls or tools for Judas.
No desk. No scrolls. No chair.
Did he ever exist at all?

The Brotherhood does everything by the book.
Whenever there is a question, they consult it for answers.
They always find the answer in the book.
What to plant.
How to pray.
When to sleep.
The book has always had all the answers to their questions.
Brother Timothy made a copy of it.
The book did not change over time, like some doppelganger.
“What if we only know questions to ask it?” asked Timothy. “Can we think up a question it can’t answer?”
The book had an answer for that: “Flip the book. Front cover is yes, back cover is no.”

The Brotherhood awakens, goes through their routine of prayers and morning meal, and then they head to the winery.
Grapes are pressed, casks filled and rolled carefully into the cave.
A barrel gets loose. Father Michael is crushed to death.
The brothers carry his body to the yard, dig a hole, and lower his naked body within.
Dirt is piled over him, and they return to work.
The next morning, they awaken, and Father Michael leads them in prayers.
Was he revived by the yard?
Replaced somehow?
Nobody knows. Nobody asks.
“Amen,” he says, and they head to the winery.

The Brotherhood has existed for longer than anyone can remember.
Record-keeping is limited to crops and other essential weather observations.
The brothers themselves are encouraged to not remember their pasts or how they got there.
Just follow the commands within the book, do your chores, and try not to kill each other.
None can remember any new brothers coming to the brotherhood, nor when they arrived themselves.
One lifts up their cowl… then another…
Brother William and Brother Timothy are the same.
“Lower your hoods,” hisses Brother Fredric. “The book commands it.”
(God forbid they realize they have no bellybuttons.)