A Canticle For Leibowitz Part 19

It was during the brief visit of a party of shepherds that the Poet vanished from the abbey. Thon Taddeo was the first to notice the Poet's absence from the guesthouse and to inquire about the versifying vagrant.

Dom Paulo's face wrinkled in surprise. "Are you certain he's moved out?" he asked. "He often spends a few days in the village, or goes over to the mesa for an argument with Benjamin."

"His belongings are missing," said the thon "Everything's gone from his room."

The abbot made a wry mouth. "When the Poet leaves, that's a bad sign. By the way, of he's really missing, then I would advise you to take an immediate inventory of your own belongings."

The thon looked thoughtful "So that's where my boots-"

"No doubt."

"I set them out to be polished. They weren't returned. That was the same day be tried to batter down my door."

"Batter down-who the Poet?" Poet?"

Thon Taddeo chuckled. "I'm afraid I've been having a little sport with him. I have his gla.s.s eye. You remember the night he left it on the refectory table?"

"Yes."

"I picked it up."

The thon opened his pouch, groped in it for a moment, then laid the Poet's eyeball on the abbot's desk. "He knew I had it, but I kept denying it. But we've had sport with him ever since, even to creating rumors that it was really the long-lost eyeball of the Bayring idol and ought to be returned to the museum. He became quite frantic after a time. Of course I had meant to return it before we go home. Do you suppose he'll return after we leave?"

"I doubt it," said the abbot, shuddering slightly as he glanced at the orb. "But I'll keep it for him, if you like. Although it's just as probable that he'd turn up in Texarkana looking for it there. He claims it's a potent talisman."

"How so?"

Dom Paulo smiled. "He says he can see much better when he's wearing it."

"What nonsense!" The thon paused; ever ready, apparently, to give any sort of outlandish premise at least a moment's consideration, he added: "Isn't it nonsense-unless filling the empty socket somehow affects the muscles of both both sockets. Is that what he claims?" sockets. Is that what he claims?"

"He just swears he can't see as well without it. He claims he has to have it for the perception of 'true meanings'-although it gives him blinding headaches when he wears it. But one never knows whether the Poet is speaking fact, fancy, or allegory. If fancy is clever enough, I doubt that the Poet would admit a difference between fancy and fact."

The thon smiled quizzically. "Outside my door the other day, he yelled that I needed it more than he did. That seems to suggest that he thinks of it as being, in itself, a potent fetish-good for anyone. I wonder why."

"He said you needed it? Oh ho!"

"What amuses you?"

"I'm sorry. He probably meant it as an insult. I'd better not try to explain the Poet's insult; it might make me seem a party to them."

"Not at all. I'm curious."

The abbot glanced at the image of Saint Leibowitz in the corner of the room. "The Poet used the eyeball as a running joke," he explained. "When he wanted to make a decision, or to think something over, or to debate a point, he'd put the gla.s.s eye in the socket. He'd take it out again when he saw something that displeased him, when he was pretending to overlook something, or when he wanted to play stupid. When he wore it, his manner changed. The brothers began calling it 'the Poet's conscience,' and he went along with the joke. He gave little lectures end demonstrations on the advantages of a removable conscience. He'd pretend some frantic compulsion possessed him-something trivial, usually-like a compulsion aimed at a bottle of wine.

"Wearing his eye, he'd stroke the wine bottle, lick his lips, pant and moan, then jerk his hand away. Finally it would possess him again. He'd grab the bottle, pour about a thimbleful in a cup and gloat over it for a second. But then conscience would fight back, and he'd throw the cup across the room. Soon he'd be leering at the wine bottle again, and start to moan and s...o...b..r, but fighting the compulsion anyhow-" the abbot chuckled in spite of himself "-hideous to watch. Finally, when he became exhausted, he'd pluck out his gla.s.s eye. Once the eye was out, he'd suddenly relax. The compulsion stopped being compulsive. Cool and arrogant than, he'd pick up the bottle, look around and laugh. "I'm going to do it anyhow,' he'd say. Then, while everyone was expecting him to drink it, he'd put on a beatific smile and pour the whole bottle over his own head. The advantage of a removable conscience, you see."

"So he thinks I need it more than he does."

Dom Paulo shrugged. "He's only the Poet-sirrah!"

The scholar puffed a breath of amus.e.m.e.nt. He prodded at the vitreous spheroid and rolled it across the table with his thumb. Suddenly he laughed. "I rather like that. I think I know who does need it more than the Poet. Perhaps I'll keep it after all." He picked it up, tossed it, caught it, and glanced doubtfully at the abbot.

Paulo merely shrugged again.

Thon Taddeo dropped the eye back in his pouch. "He can have it if he ever comes to claim it. But by the way, I meant to tell you: my work is nearly finished here. We'll be leaving in a very few days."

"Aren't you worried about the fighting on the Plains?"

Thon Taddeo frowned at the wall. "We're to camp at a b.u.t.te, about a week's ride to the east from here. A group of, uh-Our escort will meet us there."

"I do hope," said the abbot, relishing the polite bit of savagery, "that your escort-group hasn't reversed its political allegiance since you made the arrangements. It's getting harder to tell foes from allies these days."

The thon reddened. "Especially if they come from Texarkana, you mean?"

"I didn't say that."

"Let's be frank with each other, Father. I can't fight the prince who makes my work possible-no matter what I think of his policies or his politics. I appear to support him, superficially, or at least to overlook him-for the sake of the collegium. If he extends his lands, the collegium may incidentally profit. If the collegium prospers, mankind will profit from our work."

"The ones who survive, perhaps."

"True-but that's always true in any event."

"No, no-Twelve centuries ago, not even the survivors profited. Must we start down that road again?"

Thon Taddeo shrugged. "What can I do about it?" he asked crossly. "Hannegan is prince, not I."

"But you promise to begin restoring Man's control over Nature. But who will govern the use of the power to control natural forces? Who will use it? To what end? How will you hold him in check? Such decisions can still be made. But if you and your group don't make them now, others will soon make them for you. Mankind will profit, you say. By whose sufferance? The sufferance of a prince who signs his letters X? Or do you really believe that your collegium can stay aloof from his ambitions when he begins to find out that you're valuable to him?"

Dom Paulo had not expected to convince him. But it was with a heavy heart that the abbot noticed the plodding patience with which the thon heard him through; it was the patience of a man listening to an argument which he had long ago refuted to his own satisfaction.

"What you really suggest," said the scholar, "is that we wait a little while. That we dissolve the collegium, or move it to the desert, and somehow-with no gold and silver of our own-revive an experimental and theoretical science in some slow hard way, and tell n.o.body. That we save it all up for the day when Man is good and pure and holy and wise."

"That is not what I meant-"

"That is not what you meant to say, but it is what your saying saying means. Keep science cloistered, don't try to apply it, don't try to do anything about it until men are holy. Well, it won't work. You've been doing it here in this abbey for generations." means. Keep science cloistered, don't try to apply it, don't try to do anything about it until men are holy. Well, it won't work. You've been doing it here in this abbey for generations."

"We haven't withheld anything."

"You haven't withheld it; but you sat on it so quietly, n.o.body knew it was here, and you did nothing with it."

Brief anger flared in the old priest's eyes. "It's time you met our founder, I think," he growled, pointing to the wood-carving in the corner. "He was a scientist like yourself before the world went mad and he ran for sanctuary. He founded this Order to save what could be saved of the records of the last civilization. "Saved" from what, and for what? Look where he's standing-see the kindling? the books? That's how little the world wanted your science then, and for centuries afterward. So he died for our sake. When they drenched him with fuel oil, legend says he asked them for a cup of it. They thought he mistook it for water, so they laughed and gave him a cup. He blessed it and-some say the oil changed to wine when he blessed it-and then: "Hic est enim calix Sanguinis "Hic est enim calix Sanguinis Mei Mei," and he drank it before they hung him and set him on fire. Shall I read you a list of our martyrs? Shall I name all the battles we have fought to keep these records intact? All the monks blinded in the copyroom? for your sake? Yet you say we did nothing with it, withheld it by silence."

"Not intentionally," the scholar said, "but in effect you did-and for the very motives you imply should be mine. If you try to save wisdom until the world is wise, Father, the world will never have it."

"I can see the misunderstanding is basic!" the abbot said gruffly. "To serve G.o.d first, or to serve Hannegan first-that's your choice."

"I have little choice, then," answered the thon. "Would you have me work for the Church?" The scorn in his voice was unmistakable.

22.

It was Thursday within the Octave of All Saints. In preparation for departure, the thon and his party sorted their notes and records in the bas.e.m.e.nt. He had attracted a small monastic audience, and a spirit of friendliness prevailed as the time to leave drew near. Overhead, the arc lamp still sputtered and glared, filling the ancient library with blue-white harshness while the team of novices pumped wearily at the hand-powered dynamo. The inexperience of the novice who sat atop the ladder to keep the arc gap adjusted caused the light to flicker erratically; he had replaced the previous skilled operator who was at present confined to the infirmary with wet dressings over his eyes.

Thon Taddeo had been answering questions about his work with less reticence than usual, no longer worried, apparently, about such controversial subjects as the refrangible property of light, or the ambitious of Thon Esser Shon.

"Now unless this hypothesis is meaningless," he was saying, "it must be possible to confirm it in some way by observation. I set up the hypothesis with the help of some new-or rather, some very old-mathematical forms suggested by our study of your Memorabilia. The hypothesis seems to offer a simpler explanation of optical phenomena, but frankly, I could think of no way to test it at first. That's where your Brother Kornh.o.e.r proved a help." He nodded toward the inventor with a smile and displayed a sketch of a proposed testing device.

'"What is it?" someone asked after a brief interval of mystification.

"Well-this is a pile of gla.s.s plates. A beam of sunlight striking the pile at this angle will be partially reflected, and partially transmitted The reflected part will be polarized. Now we adjust the pile to reflect the beam through this thing, which is Brother Kornh.o.e.r's idea, and let the light fall on this second pile of gla.s.s plates. The second pile is set at just the right angle to reflect almost all of the polarized beam, and transmit nearly none of it. Looking through the gla.s.s, we'd scarcely see the light. All this has been tried. But now if my hypothesis is correct, closing this switch on Brother Kornh.o.e.r's field coil here should cause a sudden brightening of the transmitted light. If it doesn't-" he shrugged "-then we threw out the hypothesis."

"You might throw out the coil instead," Brother Kornh.o.e.r suggested modestly. "I'm not sure it'll produce a strong enough field."

"I am. You have an instinct for these things. I find it much easier to develop an abstract theory than to construct a practical way to test it. But you have a remarkable gift for seeing everything in terms of screws, wires, and lenses, while I'm still thinking abstract symbols."

"But the abstractions would never occur to me in the first place, Thon Taddeo."

"We would make a good team, Brother. I wish you would join us at the collegium, at least for a while. Do you think your abbot would grant you leave?"

"I would not presume to guess," the inventor murmured, suddenly uncomfortable.

Thon Taddeo turned to the others. "I've heard mention of 'brothers on leave.' Isn't it true that some members of your community are employed elsewhere temporarily?"

"Only a very few, Thon Taddeo," said a young priest.

"Formerly, the Order supplied clerks, scribes, and secretaries to the secular clergy, and to both royal and ecclesiastical courts. But that was during the times of most severe hardship and poverty here at the abbey. Brothers working on leave have kept the rest of us from starving at times. But that's no longer necessary, and it's seldom done. Of course, we have a few brothers studying in New Rome now, but-"

"That's it!" it!" said the thon with sudden enthusiasm. "A scholarship at the collegium for you, Brother. I was talking to your abbot, and-" said the thon with sudden enthusiasm. "A scholarship at the collegium for you, Brother. I was talking to your abbot, and-"

"Yes?" asked the young priest; "Well, while we disagree on a few things, I can understand his point of view. I was thinking that an exchange of scholarships might improve relations. There would be a stipend, of course, and I'm sure your abbot could put that to good use."

Brother Kornh.o.e.r inclined his head but said nothing.

"Come now!" The scholar laughed. "You don't seem pleased by the invitation, Brother."

"I am flattered, of course. But such matters are not for me to decide."

"Well, I understand that, of course. But I wouldn't dream of asking your abbot if the idea displeased you."

Brother Kornh.o.e.r hesitated. "My vocation is to Religion," be said at last, "that is-to a life of prayer. We think of our work as a kind of prayer too. But that-" he gestured toward his dynamo "-for me seems more like play. However, if Dom Paulo were to send me-"

"You'd reluctantly go," the scholar finished sourly. "I'm sure I could get the collegium to send your abbot at least a hundred gold hannegans a year while you were with us, too. I-" He paused to look around at their expressions. "Pardon me, did I say something wrong?"

Halfway down the stairs, the abbot paused to survey the group in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Several blank faces were turned toward him. After a few seconds Thon Taddeo noticed the abbot's presence and nodded pleasantly.

"We were just speaking of you, Father," he said. "If you heard, perhaps I should explain-"

Dom Paulo shook his head. "That's not necessary."

"But I would would like to discuss-" like to discuss-"

"Can it wait? I'm in a hurry this minute."

"Certainly," said the scholar.

"I'll be back shortly." He climbed the stairs again. Father Gault was waiting for him in the courtyard.

"Have they heard about it yet, Domne?" the prior asked grimly.

"I didn't ask, but I'm sure they haven't," Dom Paulo answered. "They're just making silly conversation down there. Something about taking Brother K back to Texarkana with them."

"Then they haven't heard, that's certain."

"Yes. Now where is he?"

"In the guesthouse, Domne. The medic's with him He's delirious."

"How many of the brothers know he's here?"

"About four. We were singing None when he came in the gate."

"Tell those four not to mention it to anyone. Then join our guests in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Just be pleasant, and don't let them know."

"But shouldn't they he told before they leave, Domne?"

"Of course. But let them get ready first. You know it won't stop them from going back. So to minimize embarra.s.sment, let's wait until the last minute to tell them. Now, do you have it with you?"

"No, I left it with his papers in the guesthouse."

"I'll go see him. Now, warn the brothers, and join our guests."

"Yes, Dome."

The abbot hiked toward the guesthouse. As be entered, Brother Pharmacist was just leaving the fugitive's room.

"Will he live, Brother?"

"I cannot know, Domne. Mistreatment, starvation, exposure, fever-if G.o.d wills it-" He shrugged...

"May I speak to him?'

"I'm sure it won't matter. But he doesn't make sense."