IMPOSSIBLE POSSIBILITIES

By James G. Bruen,
Jr.

A Tales of the Short Bow Book

Choptank Publications

© James G. Bruen, Jr.

For my wife and
children

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

The Song

The
Incredible Ascent of Jim Jackson

The Ebullient
Escape of Amos Conlon

The
Improbable Battle Plan of Adam Wayne

The
Remarkable Resolution Rendered by Roberta Riven

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

PREFACE

These five interlocking stories are
inspired by G. K. Chesterton’s Tales of the Long Bow, eight interlocking
tales of men who do the proverbially impossible. Each of the five stories
stands alone, but together they also constitute a single narrative, Impossible
Possibilities. The stories were published originally in the American
Chesterton Society’s Gilbert Magazine.

THE
SONG

Some things are impossible, such as a pig flying,
although, if one searches the literature one might stumble upon tales of the
League of the Long Bow, whose members performed even impossible tasks. Other
things, while possible of performance by some persons, are, strictly speaking,
impossible for others. A man cannot give birth, no matter how hard he tries.
This short tale concerns the doing of one thing the particular individual could
not do.

Paul Butler had often heard the
adage “he who sings, prays twice.” It did not trouble him much. He had enough
trouble trying to pray once. When he lifted his thoughts to God, they often
took detours, rushing from one thing to the next, until, quite to his surprise,
he was contemplating dinner or a flower or something else instead of God.
Besides, Paul could not sing. He was tone deaf. Try as he might he could not
carry a tune. So he never sang.

Not that Paul had anything against
song. Until, that is, he gave his heart to Beth Reilly, who had lived in his
neighborhood since they both were children. The trouble?  Beth had pledged to her dying mother that
she’d marry a man who could carry a tune and woo her in song. Paul tried to
convince her they “would make a perfect couple” despite his inability to sing.
Beth said she did not doubt that for one second, but she was resolute
nevertheless. A promise is a promise. “No tune? No song? No marriage.”

Paul tried voice lessons, but his
instructor was more frustrated than he. He joined his church choir, but quickly
was asked to leave. Despair set in. Prayer was little help, for he expected no
miracle and his thoughts usually ran to Beth instead of God.

Paul’s friends became concerned
over his desolation. He rarely ate. His sleep patterns became erratic for weeks
on end. “I fear he may lose his mind,” said Jim Jackson, “or his will to live.”

Paul came out of it suddenly, but
he had little time for his friends unless they shared his newfound interest in
movies and television. Jim Jackson took this as a sign Paul was losing his
mind, but Paul rebuffed him: “Movies can be great art, revealing the mysteries
of life,” Paul asserted. “Haven’t you seen Gibson’s Passion?” Others, notably Fr. Daniel Goodheart, encouraged Paul,
hoping “it will help you forget her,” but they made no impression on him.

And so Paul immersed himself in
watching films, DVDs, television shows, and VHS tapes. He watched them all: Toy
Story; Who Killed Roger Rabbit?; The Simpsons; Sleeping Beauty;
Finding Nemo; Mickey Mouse; Mighty Mouse; Superman;
Shrek, and more. Eventually even Fr. Goodheart became concerned about
Paul’s seemingly insatiable need to entertain himself. “Paul’s gone too far;
all he does is watch kid’s shows,” he told Jim Jackson. “Perhaps he is losing
his mind.”

Fr. Goodheart scheduled an
intervention. Accompanied by Jim Jackson, he dropped in on Paul at his home
without forewarning late one evening. To their surprise, Paul was not in front
of a television. Instead, he stood in the middle of his darkened living room,
surrounded by about a dozen people, each holding an illuminated flashlight.
Waving an inflated three-foot high doll above his head, Paul exhorted the group
excitedly, “Follow me!” His acolytes yelled their approval, jabbed their flashlights
at the ceiling, and followed him out into the dark.

“Paul’s daft,” noted Jackson, as
the group pushed by. “What’s he doing with that Porky Pig doll?” asked the
priest, as the two scurried to follow the crowd.

Down the narrow street rushed the
mob, puncturing the darkness by waving flashlights in the air, and puncturing
the silence by yelling encouragement to their leader who raced ahead, the
inflated doll on his shoulders. After two sharp turns, they halted abruptly.
“Come out! Come out!” they shouted in unison.

“It’s Beth Reilly’s house,” said
Jackson, as the group shouted even louder.

“There she is,” exclaimed Fr.
Goodheart, as a woman threw open a second floor window.

“What’s going on out there?” Beth
bellowed, straining to see the crowd below her window. “Get those flashlights
out of my eyes. I can’t see a thing.”

The shouting stopped. The
flashlight beams focused on the doll, now held high over Paul Butler’s head.
“If something is worth doing, it is worth doing poorly,” sang a stuttering,
cracking, unmelodious voice that came from Porky Pig. “And so I lift my heart
to you as best I can,” it screeched. “Will you be mine?”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” roared the crowd,
forming a circle around Paul as he dropped the doll. The excitement swept up
Jim Jackson and Fr. Goodheart, and they joined the circle and the chant. The
beams shifted to focus on Paul. All became quiet.

“What are you doing, Paul Butler?”
Beth demanded. “And why the Porky Pig doll?”

“I’ve carried a toon wooing you in song!” Paul
exclaimed animatedly, looking up to the figure silhouetted in the window. “Will
you marry me now?”

She did, and they made beautiful
music together ever after.

THE INCREDIBLE ASCENT OF JIM JACKSON

“Amos Conlon and I were on a
delightful leisurely afternoon stroll through the woods and meadows with Miss
Patricia O’Keefe. I’d just explained to her the service I’d done for her months
ago by discouraging Jim Jackson’s foolish idea of courting her. He’s the
simple, straightforward fellow that owns that small apple orchard on three
acres on the other side of town. He’d been spending large amounts of time with
her back then, but I knew she could do better. Anyway, I was about to suggest
that she and my nephew Amos should get better acquainted,” began Robert Murray
as he and Amos Conlon clambered into the constable’s car.

“What was Jackson’s reaction?”
interrupted Constable Considine, heading the car in the direction Murray
suggested at the top speed possible on the narrow dirt road. Unnoticed by the
men in the car, the autumn sun intensified the bright reds and yellows of the
leaves on the trees.

“I was quite persuasive. Jackson
agreed completely with me that courting her would be foolhardy,” replied
Murray. “He ran off shouting, ‘You’re right! That’s it! Why haven’t I seen that
before?’ That was seven months or so ago; I haven’t seen him since. Miss
O’Keefe said she hadn’t seen him in months, either. Anyway, I was explaining my
nephew’s business prospects to Miss O’Keefe, when I glanced behind us. A giant
brown jellyfish was floating in the air just behind us and closing fast upon
us. Dumfounded, I motioned quickly to my companions. Stunned, we froze at the
top of a small treeless hill, gaping at the monstrous apparition. It quickly
passed directly over us. Its tentacles brushed Amos and me aside. We stumbled
and fell. But the tentacles nudged Miss O’Keefe forward, forcing her to quicken
her pace to avoid falling.”

The passengers scanned the sky
constantly, but saw nothing unordinary.

“I was struggling to regain my
footing,” Murray continued, “when a smaller creature, gripping a leash dangling
from the monster, bounded from its underside, landed lightly next to Miss
O’Keefe, and, in a single motion, threw its arm around her waist and swung back
into the belly of the beast with her. We’ve got to save her.”

“My impression was that we were
being attacked by a flying saucer from a B movie,” interjected Conlon,
squeaking nasally. “Its flat underside had a metallic sheen, but its top was
light brown. I thought an alien had snatched her.”

Murray ignored his nephew. At a
fork in the road, Murray pointed left, and the car sped down that road,
jostling its passengers on every bump and rut.

“As it receded, it no longer looked
like a jellyfish but more like a pastry cooking over a sterno can with hundreds
of bristles hanging from it,” said Murray. “Only then did I realize it was a
hot air balloon. It wasn’t shaped like any balloon I’d seen before, though, and
it seemed to have a brush or a broom hanging from it.”

“We set out in pursuit immediately,”
Murray continued, “but running through the fields, hills, and woods, we lost
sight of the balloon repeatedly. Eventually we were exhausted and couldn’t
pursue it on foot any longer. That’s when we had the good fortune to flag you
down.”

At each intersection, Murray
indicated which road appeared most likely to head in the direction in which the
balloon had disappeared, and the car sped on.

At the crest of a hill, they spied
the strange balloon, descending in the distance into a small valley. “It’s landing
near Jim Jackson’s orchard,” exclaimed Murray as the constable stopped the car.
When the balloon landed, its top was well below them, a light brown circle
accentuated by the autumn sun. “Looks more like a pie than a jellyfish,”
observed the constable. Two figures climbed from its gondola. Constable
Considine gunned the automobile. After about ten minutes careening on winding
dirt roads, the trio came to Jim Jackson’s place.

Alighting from the car, Constable
Considine kept one hand on his holster. The triumvirate rushed towards Jim
Jackson and Patricia O’Keefe, who were seated on a blanket between the balloon
and the orchard. “Are you alright?” demanded Murray.

“Couldn’t be better,” answered
Jackson.

“Not you!” barked Murray. “Miss
O’Keefe, are you alright?”

“I’ve never been happier,” smiled
Patty O’Keefe, the late afternoon sun turning her shoulder length hair a deep
auburn.

Constable Considine removed his
hand from his holster.

“And we have you to thank, Mr.
Murray,” added Jim Jackson. “Your advice was invaluable.”

“Me?” responded Murray, bewildered.

“Yes; don’t you remember?” said
Jackson. “You told me it was a pie in the sky idea for me to think I could
sweep Patty off her feet. I knew immediately that I must follow your
instruction. I spent months designing a balloon in the shape of an apple pie
and mastering the art of flying it. My friend Paul Butler inspired me and
helped me, particularly in the planning. When I located reeds that were
sufficiently rigid to sweep the ground efficiently but flexible enough to
ensure no one was injured, I was ready.”

Jim Jackson pointed at the food on
the blanket. “Beer, apples, and ice cream,” he said. “My three favorite food
groups. Brewed the stout myself. The apples are from my orchard. I baked them
into this pie. We’ll eat it a la mode.
I made the ice cream, too. Did you
know I own a cow? Paul and Beth Butler should be here soon. Would you three
join us? We’re celebrating our engagement.”

THE EBULLIENT ESCAPE OF AMOS CONLON

“Money doesn’t grow on trees,”
growled Robert Murray sarcastically. “Your ‘business idea’ would fail in a
minute.” His nephew Amos Conlon winced. “I won’t finance it,” said Murray. “I’m
flabbergasted you thought I might.”

“Just make the presentation
tonight,” continued Murray unctuously. “Don’t worry about it too much, though.
I’ve already taken care of things. They’ll vote 4-1 in favor of eminent domain.
Later, when it comes up for the final vote, it’ll be unanimous.”

“How can you be sure?” squeaked
Amos.

“Don’t you understand how things
work?” scoffed his uncle. “I bought them. I own them.”

Amos Conlon staggered from his
uncle’s office. Soon he was driving aimlessly, his mind reeling from his
uncle’s brusque dismissal of his business plan and also from the revelation
that his uncle had bribed town officials. After driving purposelessly for more
than two hours, he unthinkingly pulled to the side of the road next to a small
farm stand.

Absentmindedly, Amos picked a
yellow apple off a table at the roadside stand. Suddenly he felt lightheaded. He
didn’t notice that he dropped the apple. His heart raced. The golds and the
greens and the reds of the apples faded beside the raven hair of a petite young
woman sorting apples into a basket. The late afternoon sun played upon her
hair, highlighting a dancing auburn tint. She inspected each apple closely, but
not as closely as he watched her. He tried to speak to her, but his throat was
too dry.

Fearing he might make a spectacle
of himself, Amos brought an apple to the counter for purchase. His eyes, though,
kept returning to the young woman. He was filled with warmth and excitement,
but his illusion burst and his mood ruptured when he watched her walk away, a
basket full of apples at her side, for, he realized, she had not paid for the
apples. As she disappeared down the dirt rode, he felt sick.

“May I help you?” asked the woman
behind the counter.

“I’d like to buy this apple - these
apples,” he stammered. “I mean, I’d like to buy those apples she just took.”

“You can’t buy those apples, Amos,”
she laughed. “She took them.”

Only when she used his name did
Amos recognize Patty Jackson. His entrancement had been so deep that he hadn’t
noticed anyone at the roadside stand but the raven haired young woman. “I know
that,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to buy them for myself. I want to pay for
the ones she took.”

“Oh, Amos,” laughed Patty, “there’s
no need to. She didn’t steal them! She probably should have taken more. She’s
Beth Butler’s cousin, Liz; she’s visiting Beth. They baked bread this morning,
and Beth had her bring some over to me.” Patty pointed towards several light
brown loaves cooling at the end of the counter.

“Usually, we swap beer for bread,”
she continued, “but Jim hasn’t bottled the last batch he brewed, so we paid in
apples instead. That reminds me, I must send some apples to the Waynes, too,
for the peppers, eggplants, and honey they gave us.”

Amos Conlon’s mind was racing.
Jumping in his car and chomping on the apple, which he neglected to pay for, he
sped down the road in the opposite direction from that taken by the raven
beauty.

The meeting of the town’s Board of
Selectmen was already in session when Amos arrived. The five corrupt
politicians sat on a dais. Robert Murray and his lawyer, Penelope Greene, were
at a table before them. A dozen or so people whose land Murray intended to
condemn occupied the rear of the small room. Jim Jackson, who flew a pie in the
sky to sweep Patty off her feet, Paul Butler, who carried a toon wooing Beth,
and Adam Wayne were among that unhappy group. Constable Considine, seated in a
corner and propped against a wall, was fast asleep. Penelope Greene was reading
in a monotone from a prepared text.

“Where have you been?” grunted
Murray as Amos sat at the table. When Greene’s drone finished, Murray jabbed
Amos with his elbow. “It’s your turn,” Murray whispered. “Put your economics
degree to work,” he added sarcastically. “Explain why condemnation will be to
the town’s benefit.”

Amos rose, speaking animatedly
without notes. “Apples are the answer. Money grows on trees, and in fields, and
in gardens, too. I’ve seen it myself.”

Robert Murray sat bolt upright. So
did Adam Wayne, Jim Jackson, and Paul Butler. “You idiot!” exclaimed Murray.
“Could he be one of us?” Jackson asked Butler. “What’s going on?” demanded a
selectman, banging his gavel.

“Not only does money grow on trees,
but the trees themselves are money,” shouted Amos Conlon. Constable Considine
fell from his perch onto the floor. The selectman gaveled the meeting to order,
but Amos never heard him. “I own several acres of woods,” yelled Amos. “I’ll
barter. I’ll chop the trees and trade the wood for beer and bread and apples
and honey and vegetables! No one’s going to condemn my property!”

Pandemonium broke out. Murray
grabbed his nephew, wrestling him to the ground. Wayne, Jackson, and Butler
sprang to his rescue, breaking his uncle’s grasp and spiriting him from the
building. Murray, Constable Considine, and three selectmen followed quickly,
but when they emerged into the night, the four had disappeared already.
Somewhere in the distance, Amos Conlon, undisturbed by the melee he had
precipitated, cried, “Apples are the answer! Money grows on trees!”

THE IMPROBABLE BATTLE PLAN OF ADAM WAYNE

Normalcy returned quickly after
Amos Conlon’s escape from the Board of Selectmen. The selectmen reassembled
and, without further testimony or discussion, gave preliminary approval to
Robert Murray’s request to seize property by eminent domain, voting 4-1. They
set the final vote for two weeks thereafter.

Within days, Conlon, Adam Wayne,
Jim Jackson, and Paul Butler retained a lawyer, Roberta Riven. She had moved
her practice into her home to be near her children; they met there with her.
Conlon explained that his uncle, Murray, knowing a highway was slated to pass
nearby, intended to have the town seize their properties cheaply for resale
cheaply to him. Then he’d market them at a premium to developers or develop
them himself. Roberta said she could ensure they received just compensation.
“Compensation?” snorted Wayne. “We don’t want compensation. We want our land.
We want it to live on, to raise families on, to farm, and to enjoy, not to sell
or to develop.”

“When the government wants your
property, there’s not much you can do,” she noted. “You can’t fight city hall.”

“But my uncle’s bribed the
selectmen,” protested Conlon.

“Can you prove that?” responded the
lawyer. “It’s just your word, and, after your ‘Money grows on trees’
performance, most people think you’re loony. If the selectmen vote again within
two weeks to condemn the property, eminent domain will proceed.”

As the four men left the lawyer’s
home, Adam Wayne turned to the others. “I’ll plan the attack,” he said quietly.

The evening of the final vote began
unremarkably. Large lazy clouds turned yellows and browns as the sun set; they
drifted slowly from the south. Among them, though, one grew larger and larger
as it neared town, but no one there noticed its approach. Pie-shaped and golden
brown on top, but metallic silver on the bottom, it glided silently towards the
town hall. Jackson leapt from its gondola, and, landing lightly on the
building’s roof, tethered the balloon. A rope ladder dropped from the gondola;
soon Wayne, Conlon, and Butler were on the roof, too, carrying boxes. All but
Wayne disappeared through a skylight into the empty building.

One-half hour later, when Murray
and his attorney, Penelope Greene, approached the building, they were surprised
to find it locked. They chatted outside, awaiting the arrival of a municipal
employee with the key. The first selectman to arrive placed a cell phone call
to a custodian, and, by the time he came, all the selectmen had joined them,
along with Constable Considine, in front of the town hall. Bearing signs
protesting the condemnation, a small cluster of citizens stood across the
narrow street; a television crew began to set up in their midst. The custodian
turned a key in the lock, but couldn’t budge the door.

Suddenly, missiles and bombs
exploded in the street. A small red ball struck Murray’s shoulder, splattering
into his face. A large orange globe shattered on top of his lawyer’s head,
leaving an unsightly residue that could not be mistaken for a hat. Above them
stood Adam Wayne, raining rotten apples and over-ripe pumpkins upon them, a red
and yellow pennant planted firmly on the roof next to him and the moored
balloon.

They hugged the side of the
building to evade Wayne’s projectiles. A third floor window opened; from a vat
poured molten honey, coating the huddled condemnors. Another window opened, and
yards of bark mulch and wood chips fell, sticking everywhere. They scurried to
evade the deluge. In the confusion, Constable Considine fired wildly at Wayne.
Almost immediately, the balloon collapsed. Simultaneously, Wayne slashed its
tether. The balloon dropped, smothering his opponents. As they scrambled from
under the deflated balloon, a cry arose across the street. The protestors
attacked, pummeling them with their signs until, still lathered in honey and
mulch, Murray and his cronies retreated to the far side of the road. The door
to the town hall sprung open; the protestors scrambled in.

The camps glared at each other from
opposite sides of the road. The insurgents sang heartily but off-key within the
occupied building; occasionally they threw open a window and hurled apples at
the town officials.

Eventually, a woman approached the
building. She carried a white flag pinned loosely to a stick. Conlon recognized
Roberta Riven immediately. She was admitted into the building. Conlon, Wayne,
Jackson, and Butler gathered round their lawyer. “You’ve won,” she announced.
“They’ll concede. Murray and the selectmen want to end this revolt without any
television coverage.”

“When a real revolution happens,” said Wayne, “you won’t learn
about it from television.”

“But television likes oddities,” responded Roberta. “They shot
some great footage. Murray and the selectmen look like idiots: honey covered
fools bombed by pumpkins from a balloon. They don’t want to be held up to
public ridicule. Murray got to the station’s owner who’ll kill the video if
your protest peters out. So the selectmen canceled the condemnation vote. If
you’ll gather up the balloon and leave, they’ll pretend this never happened.
The station will run a piece praising the selectmen for responding favorably to
the wishes of local landowners.”

“We can go home and live in peace?”
asked Jackson. “They’ll leave us alone?”

“Yes,” she replied.

Days later, the four warriors met
at the Butler’s for a celebratory meal. Of course, the entire Wayne, Jackson,
and Butler families attended. Also present, at the invitation of Beth Butler
and to the pleasant surprise of Amos Conlon, was Beth’s raven haired cousin
Liz. Amidst a raucous meal of beer, meat, potatoes, bread, ice cream, and apple
and pumpkin pies, one brief conversation was noteworthy.

“We not only fought city hall,”
declared Wayne, “we captured it.”

“And our victory is complete!”
added Conlon. “My uncle’s getting the highway rerouted.”

“We won our battle, but the war
will rage,” interjected Wayne. “Murray will try to seize someone else’s land.
When greed and government collude, no one is safe.”

THE REMARKABLE RESOLUTION RENDERED BY ROBERTA RIVEN

Video clips soon appeared on
YouTube. Roberta Riven laughed heartily. Penelope Greene even managed a smile.
Most viewers chuckled, but the selectmen were greatly embarrassed.

The Wayne, Jackson, Conlon, and
Butler families were disinterested in the cell-phone videos that onlookers had
made of their capture of city hall. They had bombed the selectmen with
pumpkins, honey, and mulch to protect their homes from condemnation; they got
no glee from the public ridicule of the town officials. While the clips soared
to the top of YouTube’s Most Viewed and Top Rated categories, they went about
their daily routines. But Robert Murray seethed. The more viewings the clips
got, the more he resented the deal he’d engineered to forgo condemnation in
return for forestalling televised nightly news coverage of the bombardment.

Murray approached the selectmen.
The property owners who had protested the condemnations soon received their
annual tax assessments. The assessments of their homes and small farms were
revised upwards to reflect what the municipality said was the highest economic
use the property could be put to - the use that would generate the most revenue
for the property’s owner and the highest taxes for the town. Their lawyer,
Roberta Riven, advised them to pay the taxes, saying, “the town acted nastily,
but legally.” The families’ pleas to town officials for abatements only elicited
sanctimonious assertions that the town had to follow the law. The families
dutifully made the onerous payments for several years, until, one by one, they
exhausted their financial wherewithal.

Murray, the newspaper reported,
intended to purchase the properties from the owners or, if they refused, at the
inevitable tax sales. Then he’d “develop the entire tract as high rise
apartment buildings ringed by an assortment of big box stores and fast food
restaurants with a shared parking lot between the apartments and the commercial
sites.” It quoted Murray: “Progress is inevitable; you can’t turn the clock
back.” No one said so publicly, but it was common knowledge he’d rigged the
process to discourage others from buying the properties directly from the beleaguered
owners or at the tax sales.

Then, one balmy day, Jim Jackson’s
balloon again drifted over the town. Townspeople eagerly pointed it out to
their children who, even when shown the YouTube clips of the attack on the town
hall, had disbelieved the stories of the flying pie that turned into a
battleship. Jackson and Roberta Riven waved from the balloon, but most
townspeople ignored them, intrigued by the third figure in the gondola, a
black-hooded stranger who pointed occasionally towards the horizon. Even Murray
craned to observe the stranger.

During the next several days, there
were reports of the stranger, dressed in flowing black robes and always hooded,
climbing hills and trees on the outskirts of town, walking back roads, and
sitting alone atop a hill after dark. There were also reports that he had
strolled silently through town where, encountering Murray, the stranger,
unspeaking, merely stared through him.

Then, just as suddenly as he had
appeared, the stranger was gone.

Within days, Murray mailed each
property owner a lowball offer of purchase. He sent his attorney, Penny Greene,
to finalize the deals, instructing her not to exceed his initial offers by more
than 10%. “They have no alternative,” he crowed.

Over the next several weeks, Greene
visited the targeted property owners. They all seemed dispirited. So she
drafted the sale contracts, but when she presented them for signatures, she saw
renewed resilience. No one signed; all said they wanted to think about it some
more. In several homes, Greene noticed Roberta Riven’s business card taped on
the side of the refrigerator. Murray was displeased; he instructed Greene to
push to close the deals.

But the property owners refused to
meet again with Greene. She soon learned they were meeting one evening in a
private room at a local pub. She waited until the meeting was underway, then
entered the room gingerly. In the middle of the room, a dozen or so people
surrounded the hooded stranger. Greene immediately recognized Adam Wayne, Jim
Jackson, Amos Conlon, Paul Butler, and Roberta Riven, who was at the stranger’s
side, speaking quickly and gesticulating wildly. “It will require donation of
one-tenth of your property,” Riven said. “Everyone must participate or the plan
will fail.” All were attentive to Roberta, no one noticed Penny. “The chancel
will be constructed first.”

Roberta pointed towards a survey
map mounted on an easel. “The map shows your properties,” she said. “The
central portion, the part that must be surrendered, is outlined in red. None of
your homes are on that portion.” Green edged closer, straining to see the
display.

“Abbot Borno has inspected the land
thoroughly,” Riven continued, gesturing toward the hooded stranger, “and the
monks believe this tract is ideal for their new abbey. Their emphasis will be
on worship and liturgy. You won’t have any control over the property or the
monks; they’ll be answerable only to the pope and God.”

“Like Cluny?” observed Conlon. “A
tenth century monastery?”

“Exactly!” replied Roberta. “That’s
the model. We’re turning back the clock. Whatever man has done once, he can do
again.”

“Will the monks brew ale?” asked
Butler.

“You can’t do this!” sputtered
Greene, interjecting. “If you give that property to a monastery, Murray won’t
buy the rest of the land. That parcel is the key to his plan; without it, he
wouldn’t be able to develop the remainder the way he wants to.”

Everyone turned and
stared at the intruder. “And, because the remainder will be rendered unsuitable
for big box stores and high rise condos,” grinned Roberta, “the town will have
to revise its tax assessments downwards on the homes and farms owned by these
good people, thus allowing them to continue to live there.”

“Ah,” said Wayne, “the monastery
protects us from the state.”

“And,” added Roberta, “the town
can’t tax the monastery because it’s a charity.”

One by one, the property owners
executed the deeds of donation Roberta had prepared.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

James G. (Gerry)
Bruen, Jr. is a recovering attorney. He began writing as a link to reality - a
means to maintain sanity in the midst of the insanity that often infects the
American legal system.

Gerry has
published in a number of newspapers and magazines, many of which have gone out
of business, though he sees no causal relationship. Gerry's The Academic
Exercise, a murder mystery, won the 1991 Stuart Stiller Writing Competition Award.
His non-fiction work now appears primarily in Culture Wars magazine, and his
fiction in the American Chesterton Society's Gilbert Magazine. You may contact
him at cwbullets@yahoo.com.

Gerry is also
author of The Academic Exercise - four cozy short mystery stories, including the winner of the 1991 Stuart Stiller Writing Competition Award. Father Paul Petersen solves a murder that occurred during a class at Catholic University of America's law school and several lesser crimes.