By the time the next tsunami hit, at dawn, Father Flanagan's main concern was for the nuns.  Their children's mission, on another island miles away, was at risk.  But he couldn't help them now, not at this moment, not as the transforming sky took all his breath away.  His eyes had never seen such color and effulgence!  Yet he didn't even bother thanking God.  He just loaded up his boat to make the crossing and, in doing so, mouthed two short prayers and sent them heavenward.  The first was for the safety of the sisters and his voyage.  The second was a plea for all humanity.

 
Twenty-seven miles across the strait, the dozen Sisters of Abundant Mercy began their day as well.  Their mission house, providentially situated high and dry above the bay, was spared.  Occasional tsunamis were to be expected; the native islanders had taught them so.  But this time there were other troubling signs.  They had heard strange, deep rumbling noises and watched the sky change color over several days.  Some considered it an omen, as did the villagers before they fled to higher ground.
 
The sisters went about their work routinely.  They prepared a simple breakfast for the children and made a pot of coffee for themselves, their only luxury.  Father Flanagan would want some too when he arrived.  With luck, he'd bring another bag of beans for them, along with crates of powdered milk and bags of rice and flour, salt and sugar, and tins of soggy vegetables.  His monthly visits were a pleasant respite from their toil, a rare occasion to hear mass, and their only contact with the outside world.
 
After the noonday meal, the sisters scanned the horizon for his boat.  Sister Margaret, who was the youngest, saw it first and rang the bell.  Happy children came, those strong enough to walk, and climbed onto the mission house's porch to watch.  They crossed themselves and fingered rosary beads.  The children all loved Father Flanagan.  He'd soon dole out candies to them, as he always did.
 
But he was oddly silent when he moored his boat.  Sister Margaret observed this right away.  "God bless you, Father," she said.  "You look so very tired.  Perhaps you had a difficult crossing.  Please come inside and join us for fresh coffee we have made.”
 
"I sort of gathered that you didn't know," said Father Flanagan, not even mentioning the coffee.  "If you would only have a short-wave radio…"
 
"But our devotion here is to God's work.  We don't much need the outside world—except for you, of course."  
 
"Well, anyway, I brought a radio and extra batteries.  You can hear about it on the BBC.”
 
"About what?" asked Sister Margaret with a look of earnest curiosity.
 
And Father Flanagan said, "About the war.”
 
"What war?”
 
"Two days ago it started.  Full nuclear.  First India and Pakistan, then China, then America, and then the Russians, pulling out all stops.  Major cities of the world are now destroyed.  New York and Moscow have been vaporized, apparently.  Not London, for whatever reason, though.  The BBC's still on.”
 
"God help us!" Sister Margaret cried out loud.  Then, falling to her knees, she asked.  "Will this be how it ends?”
 
Father Flanagan just shook his head.  "I think it best we go inside to hear the latest, and keep this from the children for a while."  Sister Margaret, her habit flying in the breeze, sprinted to the mission house to alert Mother Superior and gather all the other nuns.  Father Flanagan followed with the radio tucked beneath his arm and, on his way, tossed candies to the kids.
 
The short wave didn't pick up anything at first.  But reception did improve towards evening.  The BBC could not be found, but there was some Spanish-language news.  Sister Claudia, who was Chilean, translated for the others.  The broadcast said there were survivors, but their lives were under constant threat of radiation poisoning, thirst and famine, plagues, and murder at the hands of lawless mobs.  Even cannibalism had been rumored.  But the actuality was even worse.  The warring countries had turned to biologicals to kill each other's people.  Quite possibly the earth's whole population was already doomed.  "We don't quite know yet," the announcer added.  "So, as a precaution, this broadcast has been prerecorded and will repeat until our generator runs out of fuel."  Sister Claudia stopped translating at this point; she could no longer speak or even pray.  All the other nuns were terrified by what they'd heard.  Perhaps their island here, because of its remoteness, was now the safest place on earth.
 
Father Flanagan calmly put his collar on and offered mass.  Afterwards, the nuns and children helped him bring things in from his boat.  In doing so, they brushed against the venomous tentacles of jellyfish, leaving painful welts and open sores.  They recovered slowly after several days.  But the outside world would not recover.  Millions upon millions more had died, the radio said.  Mumbai.  Cairo.  Frankfurt.  Seoul.  Los Angeles.  All silent.  A station in Tasmania said scant survivors might persist in parts of Africa and South America.  Then, after a few more days, all broadcasts stopped.  No word of anything.  No more deep rumbling from the ocean.  No aircraft lights or contrails in the iridescent sky.  No ships on the horizon.  No human life but on their little island, it appeared.
 
Then, one by one, the native islanders died off.  But Father Flanagan and the nuns did not succumb.  Were they all immune somehow, or was God protecting them?  Young Sister Mary Frances, who was by nature outspoken, asked the others to reconsider their vocations if the world should end.  What if there were no more people left for them to serve?   For the Sisters of Abundant Mercy, what would be God's charge then?
 
"To pray," said Father Flanagan solemnly.
 
But Sister Mary Frances gaped and laughed at him—a cackling, mocking laugh—and said that God might have a better plan.  "What if..." she began to muse aloud, and repeated several times theatrically, "What if?  Has this thought not occurred to you?"  But Father Flanagan failed to see what she'd envisioned.
 
What they'd have to do, this priest and these twelve nuns, who might well be the only people left, would be to reproduce and thereby repopulate the earth.  That's what Sister Mary Frances had in mind.  Father Flanagan sneered at her; called her impetuous.  He said that carnal knowledge was a sin no matter what, and reminded them that they had vowed celibacy.  Sister Claudia countered that she and Sister Margaret, the only novices among them, had not yet taken final vows.  Sister Mary Frances then spoke up to say, "But even both of you could never bear sufficient children to preserve the race.  Biologically, it isn't possible.  Still, Father Flanagan is a healthy male and most of us are still of reproductive age.  Let's use our imaginations here, and wisely.  God has given us a mighty challenge here.  We can solve it if we work together.
 
"Minutes passed where no one said a word addressing this directly, but every eye was turned to Mother Superior in search of guidance.  Prayers in Latin and in English poured from every mouth at breakneck speed.  Finally, Sister Magdalene gathered up the nerve to ask, "How would you instruct us, Reverend Mother?
 
”Mother Superior did not answer, not at first, so Father Flanagan took the floor and stated flatly, "We are already instructed on that topic.  It is original sin.”
 
But Mother Superior said, "I do not accept that,  necessarily.  What if God has brought this on to test our faith?  'Original' sin may well be secondary now.  I think young Sister Mary Frances has a point.  Now I would like to hear your views.”
 
The nuns were not accustomed to being asked for their opinions, but some spoke readily.  Sister Helen recalled from studying biology that more participants meant a healthier gene pool.  Sister Ursula thought they could release themselves from vows if that was their concern; that God would forgive them if they chose unwisely.  Sister Petra added, "Yes, and since there's no more Rome to guide us on these matters, whatever choice each sister makes can only be enlightened from within.”
 
While this exchange took place Father Flanagan gazed fretfully at the floor, not even praying.  Mother Superior, ignoring him, asked Sister Petra what her enlightened choice might be.
 
"I would pray, then probably go with Sister Mary Frances's plan," she said.  "Now please forgive me, Reverend Mother, but how would you decide?”
 
This elicited a little chuckle and a tender smile.  Mother Superior placed a gentle hand on Sister Petra's arm and kissed her cheek.  "My age does not allow that option, dear," she said.  "I have already all the joys of motherhood.  But if I were young again, and since you asked, my choice would be to sacrifice myself, if such a need arose, for the sake of God's domain.”
 
Father Flanagan heard every word of this but still was unconvinced.  He seemed more preoccupied than torn, a man of little doubt—for now.  But he remained an obstacle.  So Sisters Margaret and Mary Frances, fearing he might be plotting an escape, stole some matches from the kitchen and set his boat on fire.

***

Twenty, thirty years have passed since then.  Father Flanagan now lies buried in the island's sandy ground; Mother Superior as well.  The nuns have given birth to many  boys and girls, some grown and having children of their own.

 

Only the oldest have direct memory of their forebear, Father Flanagan, but all revere him as their spiritual father.  To help celebrate his existence, Sister Helen composed a song of adoration that everyone sings around his grave each time the moon is full.

 

There are some fifty people on the tiny island now, more than it can comfortably support.  Sister Margaret, now very old and very wise, has taken charge.  She summons everyone to the sprawling mission house, now fallen into disrepair, for an important meeting.  She says this is a pivotal time; that action must be taken; that humankind's survival is again at stake.

 

The nuns will stay on the island but all their offspring have to leave.  She commands them to build canoes with sails and venture forth.  Sail ever north, she says, beyond the known horizon, where other islands will be found, some large and verdant and hospitable—and beyond those islands, other lands so vast that even mighty oceans can't surround them.  These are known as continents, she explains.  She remembers seeing them on things called maps.  The offspring can't imagine this but heed her wish.

 

More time passes, another twenty, thirty years; still but a heartbeat in the timescale of the universe.  By now the offspring have happened on, and settled in, new lands.  They have further multiplied and scattered into tribes.  Only the grizzled elders still recall the island and the nuns.  Not a one of them remembers Father Flanagan.  But he still lives on in ritual stories told and pantomimed around their cooking fires.  He is now the godhead seed of their creation myth, the provider of their everything.

 

When the full moon comes, the men will hoist up spears and burning sticks to chant his name while wearing masks and dancing to the beat of drums.

 
 

© Giles Selig 2020