Father Pepe swept the volcanic ash off the sidewalk leading to his church. The narrow shoulders on his slight frame moved back and forth in rhythm as he worked his way down the walkway.  A young man approaching middle age, Father Pepe appeared delicate but wiry.

The volcano had never erupted in an explosion of lava. Instead, it constantly belched out the ash that covered the town of Santa Clara and the fields of coffee plants nearby, like God emptied his ashtray over the land. Everyone in the village cleaned away volcanic ash from windowsills, cars, and walkways daily.

The coffee fields were the lynchpins of Santa Clara’s economy, and despite efforts to prevent it, the ash choked the plants. If the volcano did not cease its grey discharge soon, the coffee shrubs would all be dead, and so would Santa Clara.

Parishioners appeared in Father Pepe’s church at all hours, and he struggled to keep up with the demand for spiritual comfort. They lit candles, prayed, and implored their harried priest to explain what he could not; why God had condemned their village in such a cruel manner.

The three coffee planters who owned the fields knew the ash would destroy their crop, the town they controlled, and their personal wealth. So, they paid the pope for special prayers and supplications on their behalf. Then they called upon scientists and politicians for help, all to no avail.

One evening the three of them assembled at the hacienda of Don Carlos de Malas Frutas. As they consumed several bottles of wine, their conversation shifted from lamenting about the ash to devising a desperate plan.

“I read recently,” said Don Marco de Vacas Locas as he poured more wine into his empty glass, “That in some of the south sea islands, a virgin is thrown into the volcano to appease it. Perhaps we should try that.”

“If we do that, we will be breaking one of God’s commandments,” said Don Carlos. “Besides, do we know if such a thing will work on our volcano?”

“God has been of no use to us in this crisis,” said Don Juan de Caballos Feos.

“Those south sea island people don’t have their pineapples covered in ash!” Don Marco bellowed passionately. “At this point, we have nothing to lose.”

Since the three men controlled the Santa Clara police, the illegality of murder never came up for consideration.

When they went through the names of women in the village, they discovered their collective inner lothario had disqualified them all.

“Does it have to be a woman?” asked Don Juan. 

“What I read said nothing about the virgin being a female.” Don Marco answered.

The three men happily acknowledged that they did not qualify. But everyone knew Father Pepe had never been with a woman. So, the next afternoon, the three planters went to the church and tried to convince Father Pepe to jump into the volcano and sacrifice his life for the village. When he refused, the three Dons kidnapped the clergyman and took him to the top of the volcano.

“You are not only committing murder but blasphemy as well,” Father Pepe shouted at the three men pushing him towards the rim. Then, as he tumbled into the abyss, the hapless priest screamed.

“Vengeance is mine saith the Lord.”

The following morning the residents of Santa Clara looked at the ash-free sky in amazement. No ash sat on surfaces, and the coffee bushes were green, not grey.

The planters celebrated with a big fiesta at the home of Don Marco. All the town attended, and the wine flowed freely. An exultant, Don Marco, his exhilaration enhanced by wine, told his brother Fabio the reason for the end of the volcanic ash.

Fabio looked at his brother with horror.

“Pepe was no virgin, Don Marco,” he said in a whisper. “He was gay, and he had been with me.”

Suddenly an effluvium, like rotten eggs, filled the room. The earth shook violently, and wine bottles pitched over, spilling their contents, the blood of the savior, into connecting rivers on the floor. Frightened children screamed and ran to their terrified parents. Then, like a thousand atomic bombs, the volcano exploded, and when all had cooled, the town became Santa Clara de Pompeii.

– Steve Bailey