A Canticle For Leibowitz Part 2

"Well-yes, just that."

"All right, in thought and deed, willfully meaning to eat meat during Lent. Please be as specific as you can after this. I thought you had examined your conscience properly. Is there anything else?'

"Quite a lot."

The priest winced. He had several hermitages to visit; it was a long hot ride, and his knees were hurting. Please get on with it as quickly as you can," he sighed.

"Impurity, once."

"Thought, word, or deed?"

"Well, there was this succubus, and she-"

"Succubus? Oh-nocturnal. You were asleep?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then why confess it?"

"Because afterwards."

"Afterwards what? When you woke up?"

"Yes. I kept thinking about her. Kept imagining it all over again."

"All right, concupiscent thought, deliberately entertained. You're sorry? Now, what next?"

All this was the usual sort of thing that one kept hearing time after endless time from postulant after postulant, novice after novice, and it seemed to Father Cheroki that the least Brother Francis could do would be to bark out his self-accusations one, two, three, one, two, three, in a neat orderly manner, without all this prodding and prompting. Francis seemed to find difficulty in formulating whatever he was about to say; the priest waited. in a neat orderly manner, without all this prodding and prompting. Francis seemed to find difficulty in formulating whatever he was about to say; the priest waited.

"I think my vocation has come to me, Father, but-" Francis moistened his cracked lips and stared at a bug on a rock.

"Oh, has it?" Cheroki's voice was toneless "Yes, I think-but would it be a sin, Father, if when I first got it, I thought rather scornfully of the handwriting? I mean?"

Cheroki blinked. Handwriting? Vocation? What kind of a question was-He studied the novice's serious expression for a few seconds, then frowned.

"Have you and Brother Alfred been pa.s.sing notes to each other?" he asked ominously.

"Oh, no, Father!"

"Then whose handwriting are you talking about?"

"The Blessed Leibowitz."

Cheroki paused to think. Did there, or did there not, exist in the abbey's collection of ancient doc.u.ments, any ma.n.u.script penned personally by the founder of the Order?-an original copy? After a moment's reflection, he decided in the affirmative; yes, there were a few sc.r.a.ps of it left, carefully kept under lock and key.

"Are you talking about something that happened back at the abbey? Before you came out here?"

"No, Father. It happened right over there-" He nodded toward the left. "Three mounds over, near the tall cactus."

"Involving your vocation, you say?"

"Y-yes, but-"

"Of course," course," Cheroki said sharply, "you could Cheroki said sharply, "you could NOT POSSIBLY NOT POSSIBLY be trying to say that-you have received-from the Blessed Leibowitz, dead now, lo, the last six hundred years-a handwritten invitation to profess your solemn vows? And you, uh, deplored his handwriting?-Forgive me, but that's the impression I was getting." be trying to say that-you have received-from the Blessed Leibowitz, dead now, lo, the last six hundred years-a handwritten invitation to profess your solemn vows? And you, uh, deplored his handwriting?-Forgive me, but that's the impression I was getting."

"Well, it's something like that, Father."

Cberoki sputtered. Becoming alarmed, Brother Francis produced a sc.r.a.p of paper from his sleeve and handed it to the priest. It was brittle with age and stained. The ink was faded.

"Pound pastrami," Father Cheroki p.r.o.nounced, slurring over some of the unfamiliar words, Father Cheroki p.r.o.nounced, slurring over some of the unfamiliar words, "can kraut, six bagels-bring home for Emma." "can kraut, six bagels-bring home for Emma." He stared fixedly at Brother Francis for several seconds "This was written by whom?" He stared fixedly at Brother Francis for several seconds "This was written by whom?"

Francis told him.

Cheroki thought it over. "It's not possible for you to make a good confession while you're in this this condition. And it wouldn't be proper for me to absolve you when you're not in your right mind." Seeing Francis wince, the priest touched him rea.s.suringly on the shoulder. "Don't worry, son, we'll talk it over after you're better. I'll hear your confession then. For the present-" He glanced nervously at the vessel containing the Eucharist. "I want you to gather up your things and return to the abbey at once." condition. And it wouldn't be proper for me to absolve you when you're not in your right mind." Seeing Francis wince, the priest touched him rea.s.suringly on the shoulder. "Don't worry, son, we'll talk it over after you're better. I'll hear your confession then. For the present-" He glanced nervously at the vessel containing the Eucharist. "I want you to gather up your things and return to the abbey at once."

"But, Father, I-"

"I command you," the priest said tonelessly, "to return to the abbey at once."

"Y-yes, Father."

"Now, I'm not going to absolve you, but you might make good act of contrition and offer two decades of the rosary as penance anyhow. Would you like my blessing?"

The novice nodded, fighting tears. The priest blessed him arose, genuflected before the Sacrament, recovered the golden vessel, and reattached it to the chain around his neck. Having pocketed the candle, collapsed the table, and strapped it in place behind the saddle, he gave Francis a last solemn nod, then mounted and rode away on his mare to complete his circuit of the Lenten hermitages. Francis sat in the hot sand and wept.

It would have been simple if he could have taken the priest to the crypt to show him the ancient room, if he could have displayed the box and all its contents, and the mark the pilgrim had made on the rock. But the priest was carrying the Eucharist, and could not have been induced to climb down into a rock-filled bas.e.m.e.nt on his hands and knees, or to paw though the contents of the old box and enter into archaeological discussions; Francis had known better than to ask. Cheroki's visit was necessarily solemn, as long as the locket he was wearing contained a single Host; although, alter it was empty, he might be amenable to some informal listening. The novice could not blame Father Cheroki for leaping to the conclusion that he had gone out of his mind. He was a little groggy from the sun, and he had stammered quite a bit. More than one novice had turned up with addled wits after a vocational vigil.

There was nothing to do but obey the command to return.

He walked to the shelter and glanced into it once again, to rea.s.sure himself that it was really there; then he went to get the box. By the time he had it repacked and was ready to leave, the dust plume had appeared in the southeast, heralding the arrival of the supply carrier with water and corn from the abbey. Brother Francis decided to wait for his supplies before starting the long trek home.

Three donkeys and one monk ambled into view at the head of the dust streamer. The lead donkey plodded under the weight of Brother Fingo. In spite of the hood, Francis recognized the cook's helper from his hunched shoulders and from the long hairy shins that dangled on either side of the donkey so that Brother Fingo's sandals nearly dragged the ground. The animals that followed came loaded with small bags of corn and skins of water.

"Sooooee pig-pig-pig! pig-pig-pig! Sooee Sooee pig!" Fingo called, cupping his hands to his mouth and broadcasting the hog-call across the ruins as if he had not seen Francis waiting for him beside the trail. pig!" Fingo called, cupping his hands to his mouth and broadcasting the hog-call across the ruins as if he had not seen Francis waiting for him beside the trail. "Pig pig pig!-Oh, there "Pig pig pig!-Oh, there you are, Francisco! I mistook you for a bone pile. Well, we'll have to fatten you up for the wolves. There you are, help yourself to the Sunday slops. How goes the hermit trade? Think you'll make it a career? Just one waterskin, mind you, and one sack of corn. And watch Malicia's hind feet; she's in rut and feels frolicky-kicked Alfred back there, you are, Francisco! I mistook you for a bone pile. Well, we'll have to fatten you up for the wolves. There you are, help yourself to the Sunday slops. How goes the hermit trade? Think you'll make it a career? Just one waterskin, mind you, and one sack of corn. And watch Malicia's hind feet; she's in rut and feels frolicky-kicked Alfred back there, crunch! crunch! right in the kneecap. Careful with it!" Brother Fingo brushed back his hood and chortled while the novice and Malicia fenced for position. Fingo was undoubtedly the ugliest man alive, and when he laughed, the vast display of pink gums and huge teeth of a.s.sorted colors added little in his charm; he was a sport, but the sport could scarcely be called monstrous; it was a rather common hereditary pattern in the Minnesota country from whence he came; it produced baldness and a very uneven distribution of melanin, so that the gangling monk's hide was a patchwork of beef-liver and chocolate splashes on an albino background. However, his perpetual good humor so compensated for his appearance that one ceased to notice it after a few minutes; and after long acquaintance, Brother Fingo's markings seemed as normal as those of a painted pony. What might have seemed hideous if he were a sulking fellow, managed almost to become as decorative as clown's make-up when accompanied by exuberant good cheer. Fingo's a.s.signment to the kitchen was punitive and probably temporary. He was a woodcarver by trade, and normally worked in the carpenter's shop. But some incident of self-a.s.sertion, in connection with a figure of the Blessed Leibowitz which he had been permitted to carve, had caused the abbot to order him transferred to the kitchen until he showed some signs of practicing humility. Meanwhile, the figure of the Beatus waited in the carpentry shop, half-carved. right in the kneecap. Careful with it!" Brother Fingo brushed back his hood and chortled while the novice and Malicia fenced for position. Fingo was undoubtedly the ugliest man alive, and when he laughed, the vast display of pink gums and huge teeth of a.s.sorted colors added little in his charm; he was a sport, but the sport could scarcely be called monstrous; it was a rather common hereditary pattern in the Minnesota country from whence he came; it produced baldness and a very uneven distribution of melanin, so that the gangling monk's hide was a patchwork of beef-liver and chocolate splashes on an albino background. However, his perpetual good humor so compensated for his appearance that one ceased to notice it after a few minutes; and after long acquaintance, Brother Fingo's markings seemed as normal as those of a painted pony. What might have seemed hideous if he were a sulking fellow, managed almost to become as decorative as clown's make-up when accompanied by exuberant good cheer. Fingo's a.s.signment to the kitchen was punitive and probably temporary. He was a woodcarver by trade, and normally worked in the carpenter's shop. But some incident of self-a.s.sertion, in connection with a figure of the Blessed Leibowitz which he had been permitted to carve, had caused the abbot to order him transferred to the kitchen until he showed some signs of practicing humility. Meanwhile, the figure of the Beatus waited in the carpentry shop, half-carved.

Fingo's grin began to fade as he studied Francis' countenance while the novice unloaded his grain and water from the frisky she-a.s.s. "You look like a sick sheep, boy," he said to the penitent. "What's the trouble? Is Father Cheroki in one of his slow rages again?"

Brother Francis shook his head. "Not that I could tell."

"Then what's wrong? Are you really sick?"

"He ordered me back to the abbey."

"Wha-a-at?" Fingo swung a hairy shin over the jacka.s.s and dropped a few inches to the ground. He towered over Brother Francis, clapped a meaty hand on his shoulder, and peered down into his face. "What is it; the jaundice?"

"No. He thinks I'm-" Francis tapped his temple and shrugged.

Fingo laughed. "Well, that's true, but we all all knew that. Why is he sending you back?" knew that. Why is he sending you back?"

Francis glanced down at the box near his feet. "I found some things that belonged to the Blessed Leibowitz. I started to tell him, but he didn't believe me. He wouldn't let me explain. He-"

"You found what?" what?" Fingo smiled his disbelief, then dropped to his knees and opened the box while the novice watched nervously. The monk stirred the whiskered cylinders in the trays with one finger and whistled softly. "Hill-pagan charms, aren't they? This is old, Francisco, this is really old." He glanced at the note in the lid. "What's this gibberish?" he asked, squinting up at the unhappy novice. Fingo smiled his disbelief, then dropped to his knees and opened the box while the novice watched nervously. The monk stirred the whiskered cylinders in the trays with one finger and whistled softly. "Hill-pagan charms, aren't they? This is old, Francisco, this is really old." He glanced at the note in the lid. "What's this gibberish?" he asked, squinting up at the unhappy novice.

"Pre-Deluge English."

"I never studied it, except what we sing in choir."

"It was written by the Beatus himself."

"This?" Brother Fingo stared from the note to Brother Francis and back to the note. He shook his head suddenly, clamped the lid back on the box, and stood up. His grin had become artificial. "Maybe Father's right. You better hike back and have Brother Pharmacist brew you up one of his toad-stool specials. That's the fever, Brother." Brother Fingo stared from the note to Brother Francis and back to the note. He shook his head suddenly, clamped the lid back on the box, and stood up. His grin had become artificial. "Maybe Father's right. You better hike back and have Brother Pharmacist brew you up one of his toad-stool specials. That's the fever, Brother."

Francis shrugged, "Perhaps."

"Where did you find this stuff?"

The novice pointed. "Over that way a few mounds. I moved some rocks. There was a cave-in, and I found a bas.e.m.e.nt. Go see for yourself."

Fingo shook his head. "I've got a long ride ahead."

Francis picked up the box and started toward the abbey while Fingo returned to his donkey, but after a few paces the novice stopped and called back.

"Brother Spots-could you take two minutes?"

"Maybe," answered Fingo; "What for?"

"Just walk over there and look in the hole."

"Why?"

"So you can tell Father Cheroki if it's really there."

Fingo paused with one leg half across his donkey's back.

"Ha!" He withdrew the leg. "All right. If it's not there, I'll tell you." you."

Francis watched for a moment while the gangling Fingo strode out of sight among the mounds; then he turned to shuffle down the long dusty trail toward the abbey, intermittently munching corn and sipping from the waterskin. Occasionally he glanced back. Fingo was gone much longer than two minutes. Brother Francis had ceased to watch for his reappearance by the time he heard a distant bellow from the ruins far behind him. He turned. He could make out the distant figure of the woodcarver standing atop one of the mounds. Fingo was waving his arms and vigorously nodding his head in affirmation. Francis waved back, then hiked wearily on his way.

Two weeks of near-starvation had exacted their tribute. After two or three miles he began to stagger. When still nearly a mile from the abbey, he fainted beside the road. It was late afternoon before Cheroki, riding back from his rounds, noticed him lying there, hastily dismounted, and bathed the youth's face until he gradually brought him around. Cheroki had encountered the supply donkeys on his way back and had paused to hear Fingo's account, confirming Brother Francis' find. Although he was not prepared to believe that Francis had discovered anything of real importance, the priest regretted his earlier impatience with the boy. Having noticed the box lying nearby with its contents half-spilled in the road, and having glanced briefly at the note in the lid, while Francis sat groggy and confused at the edge of the trail, Cheroki found himself willing to regard the boy's earlier babblings as the result of romantic imagination rather than of madness or delirium. He had neither visited the crypt nor closely examined the contents of the box, but it was obvious, at least, that the boy had been misinterpreting real events rather than confessing hallucinations.

"You can finish your confession as soon as we get back," he told the novice softly, helping him to climb up behind the saddle on the mare. "I think I can absolve you if you don't insist on personal messages from the saints. Eh?"

Brother Francis was too weak at the moment to insist on anything.

4.

"You did the right thing," the abbot grunted at last. He had been slowly pacing the floor of his study for perhaps five minutes, his wide peasant face wearing a thick-furrowed muscular glower, while Father Cheroki sat nervously on the edge of his chair. Neither priest had spoken since Cheroki had entered the room in answer to his ruler's summons; Cheroki jumped slightly when Abbot Arkos finally grunted out the words.

"You did the right thing," the abbot said again, stopping in the center of the room and squinting at his prior, who finally began to relax It was nearly midnight and Arkos had been preparing to retire for an hour or two of sleep before Matins and Lauds. Still damp and disheveled from a recent plunge in the bathing barrel, he reminded Cheroki of a were-bear only incompletely changed into a man. He was wearing a coyote-skin robe, and the only hint of his office was the pectoral cross that nestled in the black fur on his chest and flashed with candlelight whenever he turned toward the desk. His wet hair hung over his forehead, and with his short jutting beard and his coyote skins, he looked, at the moment, less like a priest than a military chieftain, full of restrained battle-anger from a recent a.s.sault. Father Cheroki, who came of baronial stock from Denver, tended to react formally to men's official capacities, tended to speak courteously to the badge of office while not allowing himself to see the man who wore it, in this respect following the Court customs of many ages. Thus Father Cheroki had always maintained a formally cordial relationship with the ring and the pectoral cross, with the office, of his abbot, but permitted himself to see as little as possible of Arkos the man. This was rather difficult under present circ.u.mstances, the Reverend Father Abbot being fresh out of his bath, and padding around his study in his bare feet. He had apparently just trimmed a corn and cut too deep; one great toe was b.l.o.o.d.y. Cheroki tried to avoid noticing it, but felt very ill at ease.

"You do know what I'm talking about?" Arkos growled impatiently.

Cheroki hesitated. "Would you mind, Father Abbot, being specific-in case it's connected with something I might have heard about only in confession?"

"Hah? Oh! Well, I'm bedeviled! You did hear his confession. I clean forgot. Well, get him to tell you again, so you can talk-though Heaven knows, it's all over the abbey anyhow. No, don't go see him now. I'll tell you, and don't answer on whatever's sealed. You've seen that stuff?" Abbot Arkos waved toward his desk where the contents of Brother Francis' box had been emptied for examination.

Cheroki nodded slowly. "He dropped it beside the road when he fell. I helped gather it up, but I didn't look at it carefully."

"Well, you know what he claims it is?"

Father Cheroki glanced aside. He seemed not to hear the question.

"All right, all right," the abbot growled, "never mind what he claims claims it is. Just go look it over carefully yourself and decide what you think it is." it is. Just go look it over carefully yourself and decide what you think it is."

Cheroki went to bend over the desk and scrutinize the papers carefully, one at a time, while the abbot paced and kept talking, seemingly to the priest but half to himself.

"It's impossible! You did the right thing to send him back before he uncovered more. But of course that's not the worst part. The worst part is the old man he babbles about. It's getting too thick. I don't know anything that could damage the case worse than a whole flood of improbable 'miracles.' A few real incidents, certainly! It has to be established that the intercession of the Beatus has brought about the miraculous-before canonization can occur. But there can be too much! Look at the Blessed Chang-beatified two centuries ago, but never canonized-so far. And why? why? His Order got too eager, that's why. Every time somebody got over a cough, it was a miraculous cure by the Beatus. Visions in the bas.e.m.e.nt, evocations in the belfry; It sounded more like a collection of ghost stories than a list of miraculous incidents. Maybe two or three incidents were really valid, but when there's that much chaff-well?" His Order got too eager, that's why. Every time somebody got over a cough, it was a miraculous cure by the Beatus. Visions in the bas.e.m.e.nt, evocations in the belfry; It sounded more like a collection of ghost stories than a list of miraculous incidents. Maybe two or three incidents were really valid, but when there's that much chaff-well?"

Father Cheroki looked up. His knuckles had whitened on the edge of the desk and his face seemed strained. He seemed not to have been listening. "I beg your pardon, Father Abbot?"

"Well, the same thing could happen here, that's what," said the abbot, and resumed his slow padding to and fro.

"Last year there was Brother Noyon and his miraculous hangman's noose. Ha! And the year before that, Brother Smirnov gets mysteriously cured of the gout-how?-by touching a probable relic of our Blessed Leibowitz, the young louts say. And now this Francis, he meets a pilgrim-wearing what?- what?-wearing for a kilt the very very burlap cloth they hooded Blessed Leibowitz with before they hanged him. And with what for a belt? A rope. What rope? Ahh, the very same-" He paused, looking at Cheroki. "I can tell by your blank look that you haven't heard this yet? No? All right, so you can't say. No, no, Francis didn't say that. All he said was-" Abbot Arkos tried to inject a slightly falsetto quality into his normally gruff voice. "All Brother Francis said was-'I met a little old man, and I thought he was a pilgrim heading for the abbey because he was going that way, and he was wearing an old burlap sack tied around with a piece of rope. And he made a mark on the rock, and the mark looked like burlap cloth they hooded Blessed Leibowitz with before they hanged him. And with what for a belt? A rope. What rope? Ahh, the very same-" He paused, looking at Cheroki. "I can tell by your blank look that you haven't heard this yet? No? All right, so you can't say. No, no, Francis didn't say that. All he said was-" Abbot Arkos tried to inject a slightly falsetto quality into his normally gruff voice. "All Brother Francis said was-'I met a little old man, and I thought he was a pilgrim heading for the abbey because he was going that way, and he was wearing an old burlap sack tied around with a piece of rope. And he made a mark on the rock, and the mark looked like this.' " this.' "

Arkos produced a sc.r.a.p of parchment from the pocket of his fur robe and held it up toward Cheroki's face in the candle-glow. Still trying, with only slight success, to imitate Brother Francis: " " 'And I couldn't figure out what it meant. Do 'And I couldn't figure out what it meant. Do you you know?' " know?' "

Cheroki stared at the symbols [image]

and shook his head.

"I wasn't asking you," you," Arkos gruffed in his normal voice. "That's what Francis said. I didn't know either." Arkos gruffed in his normal voice. "That's what Francis said. I didn't know either."

"You do now?"

"I do now. Somebody looked it up. That is a lamedh, lamedh, and that is a and that is a sadhe. sadhe. Hebrew letters." Hebrew letters."

"Sadhe lamedh?"

"No. Right to left. Lamedh sadhe. Lamedh sadhe. An ell, and a tee-ess sound. If it had vowel marks, it might be 'loots," 'lots," 'lets," 'lets," 'latz," 'litz'-anything like that. If it had some letters between those two, it might sound like An ell, and a tee-ess sound. If it had vowel marks, it might be 'loots," 'lots," 'lets," 'lets," 'latz," 'litz'-anything like that. If it had some letters between those two, it might sound like Lllll-guess- Lllll-guess-who."

"Leibo-Ho, no!" no!"

"Ho, yes! Brother Francis Francis didn't think of it. Somebody else thought of it. Brother didn't think of it. Somebody else thought of it. Brother Francis Francis didn't think of the burlap hood and the hangman's rope; one of his chums did. So what happens? By tonight, the whole novitiate is buzzing with the sweet little story that Francis met the Beatus himself out there, and the Beatus escorted our boy over to where that stuff was and told him he'd find his vocation." didn't think of the burlap hood and the hangman's rope; one of his chums did. So what happens? By tonight, the whole novitiate is buzzing with the sweet little story that Francis met the Beatus himself out there, and the Beatus escorted our boy over to where that stuff was and told him he'd find his vocation."