A Canticle For Leibowitz Part 6

"I know him!" Francis gasped, staring at the merry-but-sad wrinkled eyes, the hint of a wry smile at the corners of the mouth-somehow almost too familiar.

"You do? Who is it then?" wondered Fingo.

"It's-well, I'm not sure. I think think I know him. But-" I know him. But-"

Fingo laughed. "You're just recognizing your own sketches," he offered in explanation.

Francis was not so certain. Still, he could not quite place the face.

Hmm-hnnn! the wry smile seemed to say. the wry smile seemed to say.

The abbot found the smile irritating, however. While he allowed the work to be completed, he declared that be would never permit it to be used for the purpose originally planned-as an image to be placed in the church if the canonization of the Beatus were ever accomplished. Many years later, when the whole figure was completed, Arkos caused it to be set up in the corridor of the guesthouse, but later transferred it to his study after it had shocked a visitor from New Rome.

Slowly, painfully, Brother Francis was making the lambskin a blaze of beauty. Word of his project spread beyond the copyroom, and the monks often gathered around his table to watch the work and murmur admiration. "Inspiration," someone whispered. "There's evidence enough. It could have been the Beatus he met out there-"

"I don't see why you don't spend your time on something useful," grumbled Brother Jeris, whose sarcastic wit had been exhausted by several years of patient answers from Brother Francis. The skeptic had been using his own free-project time for making and decorating oilskin shades for the lamps in the church, thereby winning the attention of the abbot, who soon placed him in charge of the perennials. As the account ledgers soon began to testify, Brother Jeris' promotion was justified.

Brother Horner, the old master copyist, fell ill. Within weeks, it became apparent that the well-loved monk was on his deathbed. A Ma.s.s of Burial was chanted early in Advent. The remains of the saintly old master-copyist were committed to the earth of their origin. While the community expressed its grief in prayer, Arkos quietly appointed Brother Jeris as master of the copyroom.

On the day after his appointment, Brother Jeris informed Brother Francis that be considered it appropriate for him to put away the things of a child and start doing a man's work. Obediently, the monk wrapped his precious project in parchment, protected it with heavy boards, shelved it, and began making oilskin lampshades in his spare time. He murmured no protest, but contented himself with realizing that someday the soul of dear Brother Jeris would depart by the same road as the soul of Brother Horner, to begin that life for which this world was but a staging ground-might begin it at a rather early age, judging by the extent to which he fretted, fumed, and drove himself; and afterward, G.o.d willing, Francis might be allowed to complete his beloved doc.u.ment.

Providence, however, took an earlier hand in the matter, without summoning the soul of Brother Jeris to its Maker. During the summer which followed his appointment as master, a prothonotary apostolic and his retinue of clerks came by way of a donkey train to the abbey from New Rome; he introduced himself as Monsignor Malfreddo Aguerra, the postulator for the Beatus Leibowitz in the canonization procedure. With him were several Dominicans. He had come to observe the reopening of the shelter and the exploration of "Sealed Environment." Also, to investigate such evidence as the abbey could produce that might have a bearing on the case, including-to the abbot's dismay-reports of an alleged apparition of the Beatus which had, so travelers said, come to one Francis Gerard of Utah, AOL.

The Saint's advocate was warmly greeted by the monks, was quartered in the rooms reserved for visiting prelates, was lavishly served by six young novices instructed to be responsive to his every whim, although, as it turned out., Monsignor Aguerra was a man of few whims, to the disappointment of would-be caterers. The finest wines were opened; Aguerra sipped them politely but preferred milk. Brother Huntsman snared plump quail and chaparral c.o.c.ks for the guest's table; but after inquiring about the feeding habits of the chaparral c.o.c.ks ("Corn fed, Brother?"-"No, snake-fed, Messer"), Monsignor Aguerra seemed to prefer monks-gruel in the refectory. If only he had inquired about the anonymous bits of meat in the stews, he might have preferred the truly succulent chaparral c.o.c.ks. Malfreddo Aguerra insisted that life go on as usual at the abbey. But, nevertheless, the advocate was entertained each evening at recreation by fiddlers and a troupe of clowns until he began to believe that "life as usual" at the abbey must be extraordinarily lively, as lives of monastic communities go.

On the third day of Aguerra's visit, the abbot summoned Brother Francis. The relations.h.i.+p between the monk and his ruler, while not close, had been formally friendly, since the time the abbot permitted the novice to profess his vows, and Brother Francis was not even trembling when he knocked at the study door and asked: "You sent for me, Reverend Father?"

"Yes, I did," Arkos said, than asked evenly: "Tell me, have you ever thought about death?"

"Frequently, m'Lord Abbot."

"You pray to Saint Joseph that your death will not be an unhappy one?"

"Umm-often, Reverend Father."

"Then I suppose you'd not care to be suddenly stricken? To have someone use your guts to string a fiddle? To be fed to the hogs? To have your bones be buried in unconsecrated ground? Eh?"

"Nnn-noo, Magister meus."

"I thought not, so be very careful about what you say to Monsignor Aguerra."

"I-?"

"You." Arkos rubbed his chin and seemed lost in unhappy speculation. "I can see it too clearly. The Leibowitz cause is shelved. Poor Brother is struck down by a falling brick. There he lies, moaning for absolution. In the very midst of us, mind you. And there we stand, looking down in pity-clergy among us-watching him croak his last, without even a last blessing on the lad. h.e.l.lbound. Unblessed. Unshrived. Under our very noses. A pity, eh?"

"M'Lord?" Francis squawked. Francis squawked.

"Oh, don't blame me. I'll be too busy trying to keep your brothers from carrying out their impulse to kick you to death."

"When?"

"Why not at all, we hope. Because you are going to be careful, aren't you?-about what you say to the monsignor. Otherwise I may let let them kick you to death." them kick you to death."

"Yes, but-"

"The postulator wants to see you at once. Please stifle your imagination, and be certain about what you say. Please try not to think."

"Well, I think I can."

"Out, son, out."

Francis felt fright when he first tapped at Aguerra's door, but he saw quickly that the fright was unfounded. The prothonotary was a suave and diplomatic elder who seemed keenly interested in the small monk's life.

After several minutes of preliminary amenities, he approached the slippery subject: "Now, about your encounter with the person who may have been the Blessed Founder of-"

"Oh, but I never said he was our Blessed Leibo..."

"Of course you didn't, my son. Of course you didn't. Now I have here an account of the incident-gathered purely from hearsay sources, of course-and I'd like for you to read it, and then either confirm it or correct it." He paused to draw a scroll from his case; he handed it to Brother Francis.

"This version is based on traveler's stories," he added. "Only you you can describe what happened-first hand-so I want you to edit it can describe what happened-first hand-so I want you to edit it most most scrupulously." scrupulously."

"Certainly, Messer. But what happened was really very simple-"

"Read, read! Then we'll talk about it, eh?"

The fatness of the scroll made it apparent that the hearsay account was not "really very simple." Brother Francis read with mounting apprehension. The apprehension soon grow to the proportions of horror.

"You look white, son," said the postulator. "Is something troubling you?"

"Messer, this- this-it wasn't like this at all!" at all!"

"No? But indirectly at least, you must have been the author of it. How could it have been otherwise? Weren't you the only witness?"

Brother Francis closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He had told the simple truth to fellow novices. Fellow novices had whispered among themselves. Novices had told the story to travelers. Travelers had repeated it to travelers. Until finally-this! Small wonder that Abbot Arkos had enjoined discussion. If only he had never mentioned the pilgrim at all! Small wonder that Abbot Arkos had enjoined discussion. If only he had never mentioned the pilgrim at all!

"He only spoke a few words to me. I saw him just that once. He chased me with a stick, asked me the way to the abbey, and made marks on the rock where I found the crypt. Then I never saw him again."

"No halo?"

"No, Messer."

"No heavenly choir?"

"No!"

"What about the carpet of roses that grew up where he walked?"

"No, no! Nothing like that, Messer," the monk gasped.

"He didn't write his name on the rock?"

"As G.o.d is my judge, Messer, he only made those two marks. I didn't know what they meant."

"Ah, well," sighed the postulator. "Travelers' stories are always exaggerated. But I wonder how it all got started. Now suppose you tell me how it really happened."

Brother Francis told him quite briefly. Aguerra seemed saddened. After a thoughtful silence, he took the fat scroll, gave it a parting pat, and dropped it into the waste-bin.

"There goes miracle number seven," he grunted.

Francis hastened to apologize.

The advocate brushed it aside. "Don't give it a second thought. We really have enough evidence. There are several spontaneous cures-several cases of instantaneous recovery from illness caused by the intercession of the Beatus. They're simple, matter of fact, and well doc.u.mented. They're what cases for canonization are built on. Of course they lack the poetry of this story, but I'm almost glad it's unfounded-glad for your sake. The devil's advocate would have crucified you, you know."

"I never said anything like-"

"I understand, I understand! It all started because of the shelter. We reopened it today, by the way."

Francis brightened. "Did-did you find anything more of Saint Leibowitz'?"

"Blessed Leibowitz, please!" monsignor corrected. "No, not yet. We opened the inner chamber. Had a devil of a time getting it unsealed. Fifteen skeletons inside and many fascinating artifacts. Apparently the woman-it was a woman, by the way-whose remains you found was admitted to the outer chamber, but the inner chamber was already full. Possibly it would have provided some degree of protection if a falling wall hadn't caused the cave-in. The poor souls inside were trapped by the stones that blocked the entrance. Heaven knows why the door wasn't designed to swing inward." Leibowitz, please!" monsignor corrected. "No, not yet. We opened the inner chamber. Had a devil of a time getting it unsealed. Fifteen skeletons inside and many fascinating artifacts. Apparently the woman-it was a woman, by the way-whose remains you found was admitted to the outer chamber, but the inner chamber was already full. Possibly it would have provided some degree of protection if a falling wall hadn't caused the cave-in. The poor souls inside were trapped by the stones that blocked the entrance. Heaven knows why the door wasn't designed to swing inward."

"The woman in the antechamber, was she Emily Leibowitz?"

Aguerra smiled. "Can we prove it? I don't know yet. I believe she was, yes-I believe-but perhaps I'm letting hope run away with reason. We'll see what we can uncover yet; we'll see. The other side has a witness present. I can't jump to conclusions."

Despite his disappointment at Francis' account of the meeting with the pilgrim, Aguerra remained friendly enough. He spent ten days at the archaeological site before returning to New Rome, and he left two of his a.s.sistants behind to supervise further excavation. On the day of his departure, he visited Brother Francis in the scriptorium.

"They tell me you were working on a doc.u.ment to commemorate the relics you found," said the postulator. "Judging by the descriptions I've heard, I think I should very much like to see it."

The monk protested that it was really nothing, but he went immediately to fetch it, with such eagerness that his hands were trembling as he unpacked the lambskin. Joyfully he observed that Brother Jeris was looking on, while wearing a nervous frown.

The monsignor stared for many seconds. "Beautiful!" "Beautiful!" he exploded at last. "What glorious color! It's superb, superb. Finish it-Brother, finish it!" he exploded at last. "What glorious color! It's superb, superb. Finish it-Brother, finish it!"

Brother Francis looked up at Brother Jeris and smiled questioningly.

The master of the copyroom turned quickly away. The back of his neck grew red. On the following day, Francis unpacked his quills, dyes, gold leaf, and resumed his labor on the illuminated diagram.

9.

A few months after the departure of Monsignor Aguerra, there came a second donkey train-with a full complement of clerks and armed guards for defense against highwaymen, mutant maniacs, and rumored dragons-to the abbey from New Rome. This time the expedition was headed by a monsignor with small horns and pointy fangs, who announced that he was charged with the duty of opposing the canonization of the Blessed Leibowitz, and that he had come to investigate-and perhaps fix responsibility for, he hinted-certain incredible and hysterical rumors which had filtered out of the abbey and lamentably reached even the gates of New Rome. He made it evident that he would tolerate no romantic nonsense, as a certain earlier visitor perhaps had done.

The abbot greeted him politely and offered him an iron cot in a cell with a south exposure, after apologizing for the fact that the guest suite had been recently exposed to smallpox. The monsignor was attended by his own staff, and ate mush and herbs with the monks in the refectory-quail and chaparral c.o.c.ks being unaccountably scarce that season, so the huntsmen reported.

This time, the abbot did not feel it necessary to warn Francis against any too liberal exercise of his imagination. Let him exercise it, if he dared. There was small danger of the advocatus diaboli advocatus diaboli giving immediate credence even to the truth, without first giving it a thorough thras.h.i.+ng and thrusting his fingers into its wounds. giving immediate credence even to the truth, without first giving it a thorough thras.h.i.+ng and thrusting his fingers into its wounds.

"I understand you are p.r.o.ne to fainting spells," said Monsignor Flaught when he had Brother Francis alone and had fixed him with what Francis decided was a malign glare.

"Tell me, is there any epilepsy in your family? Madness? Mutant neural patterns?"

"None, Excellency."

"I'm not an 'Excellency,'" snapped the priest. "Now, we're going to get the truth truth out of you." out of you." A little simple straight-forward surgery should be adequate, A little simple straight-forward surgery should be adequate, his tone seemed to imply, his tone seemed to imply, with only a minor amputation being required. with only a minor amputation being required.

"Are you aware that doc.u.ments can be artificially aged?" he demanded.

Brother Francis was not so aware.

"Do you realize that the name, Emily, did not appear among the papers you found?"

"Oh, but it-" He paused, suddenly uncertain.

"The name which appeared was Em, was it not?-which might might be a diminutive for Emily." be a diminutive for Emily."

"I-I believe that is correct, Messer."

"But it might also be a diminutive for Emma, Emma, might it not? And the name Emma DID appear in the box!" might it not? And the name Emma DID appear in the box!"

Francis was silent.

"Well?"

"What was the question, Messer?"

"Never mind! I just thought I'd tell you that the evidence suggests that 'Em' was for Emma, and "Emma" was not a diminutive of Emily. What do you say to that?"

"I had no previous opinion, on the subject, Messer, but-'

"But what?"

"Aren't husband and wife often careless about what they call each other?"

"ABE YOU BEING FLIPPANT WITH ME?"

"No, messer."

"Now, tell the truth! How did you happen to discover that shelter, and what is this fantastic twaddle about an apparition?"

Brother Francis attempted to explain. The advocatus diaboli advocatus diaboli interrupted with periodic snorts and sarcastic queries, and when he was finished, the advocate raked at his story with semantic tooth and nail until Francis himself wondered if he had really seen the old man or had imagined the incident. interrupted with periodic snorts and sarcastic queries, and when he was finished, the advocate raked at his story with semantic tooth and nail until Francis himself wondered if he had really seen the old man or had imagined the incident.

The cross-examining technique was ruthless, but Francis found the experience less frightening than an interview with the abbot. The devil's advocate could do no worse than tear him limb from limb this one time, and the knowledge that the operation would soon be over helped the amputee to bear the pain. When facing the abbot, however, Francis was always aware that a blunder could be punished again and again, Arkos being his ruler for a lifetime and the perpetual Inquisitor of his soul.

And Monsignor Flaught seemed to find the monk's story too distressingly simple-minded to warrant full-scale attack, after observing Brother Francis' reaction to the initial onslaught.