Divine Fruit
by Zoe Falk
Seton Hill University
Zoe Falk is a UIW alumnus and current graduate student at Seton Hill University in Pennsylvania. While at UIW, she majored in English and minored in Creative Writing. Currently, she is working on a manuscript in her program. You can find more about her work on TikTok at that_book_babe.
Father Immer ended his service by addressing the congregation, emphasizing the importance of tradition. He was thrilled to be back in the small town of Cliffville.
Father Immer, like so many, was born in the town’s only clinic, had crawled on brittle dirt as a boy, and ate the fruit off neighbors’ trees. For him, it was like coming home from the mucky bowels of war– that being Houston, Texas. The people of Cliffville, much like him, regarded progress as a demon of greed. Unfortunately for them, as nearby cities grew, so did the presence of new-age crowds. The older residents despised the tourists, often gossiping over their clothes and colorful opinions about apple pie and values.
“And remember,” he stressed. “We are strong because we are God's chosen. We are a community of faith and peace. Go now and spread this word to those unfortunate enough to drift away.” The crowds clapped in the pews, praising Father Immer in hymns and chants. He sucked in the thick air, a whiff of sweat and lavender perfume hitting his tongue. A low growl rumbled throughout his body, making his legs quake in righteous ecstasy. He felt this way every Sunday after his sermons, reveling in the glory of speaking his Gospel.
Oh, how I missed these echoes, he thought with a grin. Houston birthed sinners, but here we are, God's burrow of glory.
Father Immer's joyful demeanor persisted as he shook the frail hands of exiting parishioners, wishing them well and taking their small “welcome home” gifts. Cliffville was known for its range of berries, and since most of the elderly were farmers, Father Immer was handed more jam than he could hold. With his arms full, he retreated to his apartment in the back of the church. When he reached the dumpsters, Father Immer tossed the jars in them.
Every day, they do this, he thought. They give bundles of jam but not a damn cent in the collection box. I've been here for two weeks, and I’m already sick of eating it every fucking day! At least in Houston, they paid for their sins in cash. These old folks need to hurry with their retirement checks. Yes, Father Immer loved his town and its ancient tie to piety, but the people living there grew lazy every year.
All they do is complain about these kids moving in, but they're no better. It's all types of sin that's tainting my fine Earth. My valuable soil. He spat into the dead flower beds and sauntered inside, slamming the door behind him.
~
That night, as Father Immer slept, he had a peculiar dream. In it, he saw his father’s vast fields. His childhood home lay in the distance. Father Immer took careful steps toward the old farmhouse, curious to see if he could hear his grandmother’s wind chimes.
“Immer! Boy, you'd better not be eating from the McCormick's fruit trees again!” His mother’s voice rang out.
The yellow front door opened, and Father Immer gasped when he caught sight of his mother’s portly figure in the doorway. He picked up his heels and ran to the woman, longing to jump into her arms.
~
Father Immer’s vision came back. He rubbed his bleary eyes and glanced around. He found himself sitting in a random field in the dead of night. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was dry and his throat brittle. He could not recognize whose property he was on, nor how he got there. Father Immer had never been prone to sleepwalking. As he stood up above the berry bushes, he noticed the flicker of a candle and the shape of a dinner table.
Father Immer buried his toes in the dirt, confirming to himself that he wasn’t in a dream. He approached the table. On it was a Thanksgiving feast. A sweet scent penetrated his senses. He smacked his lips, realizing he hadn’t eaten after giving the evening mass.
“You look famished,” a soft voice said.
Father Immer turned around to see a woman in blue, draping robes and a halo of berries. Her face was round, with caramel eyes, plump cheeks, and pinched lips. Her body swayed in the faint gusts of wind. The cascading fabrics matched the muted greens and blues of the land.
The Virgin, he thought. The good Virgin of the Earth! I knew she’d come for me one day. At once, his knees sank into the dark dirt, and his hands reached for her.
“My lady,” he gasped. “Has our Lord sent you to deliver this valley from the hypocrisy it produces? Have you come to bathe us in divinity?”
“My dearest hatchling,” the woman spoke, cupping his cheeks. “Your devotion to this land and the teachings of the wise is strong. What sins do you wish to impart?”
He gripped the hem of her robes, his wrinkled face pressing into her warm palms. “Ohhh,” he whined, “my home has become a sanctuary for blasphemy, my lady. The young refuse to receive communion, and the old have failed to teach them. I, a mere man of humility, have told them time and time again to keep our customs. They do not listen.”
“You know well,” he continued, “the sheer stupidity amongst them, dear saint. I know God. I know when his method is questioned! The newcomers have tainted our holy grounds with doubt and interrogation– the natural-born dwellers are no better! They sit, eat, and complain whilst never bringing them to church!” His eyes welled with stinging tears.
“I am the only one to see how painful this is. They never give coins to our parish but shove jars of sickly jam in my mouth! Oh, how they torment me!” His voice broke into a howl, his hands leaving the woman's robes and lifting in prayer. “I am but a follower of our Lord. Surely I have proven myself for sainthood?” He asked. It was all he had ever prayed for since he was a child. Kneeling in front of the crucified Christ, he would detail how he wanted his image etched into the stained glass lining the walls in Vatican City.
The woman smiled and took his hands in hers. “Rejoice,” she beamed. “For you have proven yourself human.”
Father Immer laughed triumphantly, kissing her fingers with a reverence saved for lovers. Finally, he could claim his victory, much like the disciple Peter. He peered up at the woman with fluttering lashes, his smile dropping instantaneously.
~
That morning, around six o'clock, Father Immer's body was discovered in the church's neighboring vineyards. He was found naked, his skin mangled amongst the green branches. News reports describe his eyes as being enlarged, the pupils blown. The man's jaw had been broken while his vocal cords were torn apart. Seed-filled, dried vomit covered his chin and chest. There were no signs of an assailant, though an autopsy labeled poison as the cause of death.