Father Michael Arrives

Posted on Thu Sep 3rd, 2026 @ 5:21pm by Pine Hollow Leader Amythyst & Father Michael Cain Father

1,242 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Pine Hollow
Location: St Agnes's Boarding School
Timeline: September 2010

The school had made it through another day. It wasn't thriving, just surviving. All the gates were locked, and the entrances were blocked with desks and filing cabinets. Outside, the football field was littered with abandoned backpacks and a few shambling bodies, kept at bay by the high fence around the campus. Inside, the daily routine continued because it was all they had.

Breakfast. Lessons for the students who were still there. Garden work. Watch duty. Evening prayers led by Sister Catherine. Headmistress Margaret Ellison was determined to stick to the schedule. "If we stop being a school," she'd tell them, "We've already lost."

Her words had become a kind of motto. It was just after noon when Daniel, one of the teachers on the south watchtower, rang the hand bell twice. Not walkers. People. Margaret went upstairs herself. Far below, walking slowly up the old road, were seven figures. Six adults and one teenage girl. They didn't look like soldiers, and they didn't move like raiders. They just looked tired.

One of the older women stumbled, and a younger man caught her. At the front was a man in dark trousers, dusty boots, and a stained clerical shirt. A white Roman collar stood out against the dirt. He carried no gun, just a worn leather bag over one shoulder and a walking stick. Margaret watched him for a few moments before speaking. "They're starving."

The maintenance supervisor grunted. "Or pretending to be."

Either way, Margaret said quietly, "they'll die if we leave them out there."

The gates remained shut. As the group got closer, the man took off his hat. "My name is Michael Donovan", he called out, his voice rough. "I am... or was... Father Michael, from St. Brigid's Parish." He looked back at the others. "We've been walking since Portland." No one replied.

Margaret crossed her arms. "How many?"

"There were thirty-three." A pause. "Only fourteen of us are left." The words hung in the air. "We're not asking you to give up your home. He looked right at Margaret. We're asking for water. Nothing more." Margaret studied him. There was no anger in his eyes, no desperation, just exhaustion. He looked like every survivor she'd seen in the last two weeks. Broken. A student whispered beside her. "He's a priest..."

Margaret looked over at Sister Catherine. The older nun had tears in her eyes. "I know him." Everyone turned.

"You do?"

She nodded slowly. Not well... but we've met. At church events. Charity drives. She looked down at the man. Unless the end of the world has changed him... he's a good man.

Margaret took a deep breath. Then she made the decision that would change St. Agnes forever. Open the outer gate. The maintenance crew hesitated. Just the outer gate, she repeated. They get searched first.

A few minutes later, the newcomers sat in the shade of the administration building, each with a tin mug of clean water. No one spoke as they drank. The teenage girl cried softly. One of the older women just closed her eyes, as if she couldn't believe the water was real. Michael stayed standing.

When Margaret walked up, he nodded. Thank you."

"You understand we have to be careful."

I'd be disappointed if you weren't. He gave the slightest hint of a smile.

"You said there were twenty-three."

There were.

What happened?

Michael looked out across the school grounds. Students working in the gardens. Teachers fixing windows. Children carrying water. He said nothing for a long moment. Then, softly, The world ended.

Margaret nodded. Yes. It did. She held out her hand. I'm Margaret Ellison.

He took it. I know who you are.

She frowned. You do?

You've taught children in this area for twenty-three years. His smile was warm. My parish used to help fund your scholarship program.

Margaret laughed, the first time in weeks. Then welcome to St. Agnes, Father.

Michael looked around the campus. At the students. The teachers. The chapel. The gardens. A school still trying to be a school. He smiled gently. Thank you.

No one watching could have guessed that this quiet, polite priest would later divide the community, inspire fierce loyalty, and spend years searching for a hidden valley he'd never find. For now... he was just another survivor looking for a place to belong.

September 2010 – Three Days Later

The first thing Margaret noticed was that Father Michael didn't stand still.
She had expected him to rest for days after the journey he described. Instead, before sunrise on his first morning, she found him outside the maintenance shed helping Mr. Harper chop wood. He wasn't very good at it.
His hands blistered quickly. By lunchtime, one was torn open. He didn't complain.
When Harper offered to take over, Michael just smiled. I've still got one good hand.

Harper snorted. You won't have any by tomorrow.

Then I'd better finish today's pile.
________________________________________
Over the next few days, he seemed to be everywhere. He carried buckets from the well. Helped the cooks peel potatoes. Read stories to the younger students while teachers repaired the fence. He spent hours sitting with Mrs. Davies, whose husband had died on the third day of the outbreak. Sometimes he talked. Often he just listened.
Margaret started hearing the same thing from everyone.

Father Michael helped me today.
________________________________________

On Thursday evening, Sister Catherine found him alone in the chapel. Not praying.
Cleaning. The old stone floor was swept. The pews straightened. Broken hymn books were neatly stacked. She watched him for a few moments before speaking.
You don't have to do this.

Michael looked up and smiled. I know.

You've already earned your place here.

I wasn't trying to. He went back to his work.
This building mattered to people long before I got here. Sister Catherine watched him silently. Then she picked up another broom. They didn't speak again.

Margaret noticed something else. He never gave his opinion unless asked.

He never interrupted. Never corrected. Never criticized. He was almost frustratingly agreeable. When Mr. Harper suggested strengthening the west fence, Michael simply said, You're the expert. When Mrs. Allen rearranged the kitchen, he thanked her for feeding everyone. When the older students argued about watch duty, he listened until they were done before asking, What solution do you think is fairest?
It wasn't leadership. Not yet. It was... a presence.

Three days after he arrived, the evening meal was interrupted by frightened shouts from the north fence. Walkers! Chairs scraped back.

Students froze.

Teachers grabbed makeshift weapons. Margaret was already moving. Michael was right behind her.

By the time they reached the fence, four walkers had gotten tangled in the outer wire.
Mr. Harper and two teachers quickly took care of them. It was over in less than a minute.
No one was bitten. The fence held. Yet several of the younger students were crying. One was hyperventilating. Without a word, Michael knelt beside the boy. Look at me.

The boy did.

Count with me.

One breath.

Then another.
Slowly, the panic faded.

Only after the child had calmed down did Michael stand. Margaret had watched the whole thing. She realized something. She had teachers. She had builders. She had cooks.

She had nurses. What she didn't have... ...was someone who knew how to mend frightened hearts. For the first time since he had arrived, she wondered if perhaps God had brought Father Michael to St. Agnes for a reason.

 

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