A Canticle for Leibowitz (13 page)

The white old man smiled gently. “We know that you brought us a gift, and that it was stolen from you along the way. Be not troubled for that. Your presence is gift enough to us. Long have we cherished the hope of greeting in person the discoverer of Emily Leibowitz’ remains. We know, too, of your labors at the abbey. For the Brothers of Saint Leibowitz, we have always felt a most fervent affection. Without your work, the world’s amnesia might well be total. As the Church,
Mysticum Christi Corpus,
is a Body, so has your Order served as an organ of memory in that Body. We owe much to your holy Patron and Founder. Future ages may owe him even more. May we hear more of your journey, dear son?”

Brother Francis produced the blueprint. “The highwayman was kind enough to leave this in my keeping, Holy Father. He-he mistook it for a copy of the illumination which I was bringing as a gift.”

“You did not correct his mistake?”

Brother Francis blushed. “I’m ashamed to admit, Holy Father-”

“This, then, is the original relic you found in the crypt?”

“Yes-”

The Pope’s smile became wry. “So, then-the bandit thought your work was the treasure itself? Ah
-
even a robber can have a keen eye for art, yes? Monsignor Aguerra told us of the beauty of your commemoration. What a pity that it was stolen.”

“It was nothing, Holy Father. I only regret that I wasted fifteen years.”

“Wasted?
How ‘wasted’? If the robber had not been misled by the beauty of your commemoration, he might have taken
this,
might he not?”

Brother Francis admitted the possibility.

The twenty-first Leo took the ancient blueprint in his withered hands and carefully unrolled it. He studied its design for a time in silence, than: “Tell us, do you understand the symbols used by Leibowitz? The meaning of the, uh, thing represented?”

“No, Holy Father, my ignorance is complete.”

The Pope leaned toward him to whisper: “So is ours.” He chuckled, pressed his lips to the relic as if kissing an altar stone, then rerolled it and handed it to an attendant. “We thank you from the bottom of our heart for those fifteen years, beloved son,” be added to Brother Francis. “These years were spent to preserve this original. Never think of them as wasted. Offer them to God. Someday the meaning of the original may be discovered, and may prove important.” The old man blinked-or was it a wink? Francis was almost convinced that the Pope had winked at him. “We’ll have you to thank for that.”

The wink, or the blink, seemed to bring the room into clearer focus for the monk. For the first time, he noticed a moth-hole in the Pope’s cassock. The cassock itself was almost threadbare. The carpet in the audience room was worn through in spots. Plaster had fallen from the ceiling in several places. But dignity had overshadowed poverty. Only for a moment after the wink did Brother Francis notice hints of poverty at all. The distraction was transient.

“By you, we wish to send our warmest regards to all members of your community and to your abbot,” Leo was saying.

“To them, as to you, we wish to extend our apostolic benediction. We shall give you a letter to them announcing the benediction.” He paused, then blinked, or winked, again.

“Quite incidentally, the letter will be safeguarded. We shall affix to it the
Noli molestare,
excommunicating anyone who waylays the bearer.”

Brother Francis murmured his thanks for such insurance against highwaymanship; he did not deem it fitting to add that the robber would be unable to read the warning or understand the penalty. “I shall do my best to deliver it, Holy Father.”

Again, Leo leaned close to whisper: “And to you, we shall give a special token of our affection. Before you leave, see Monsignor Aguerra. We would prefer to give it to you by our own hand, but this is not the proper moment. The monsignor will present it for us. Do with it what you will.”

“Thank you very much indeed, Holy Father.”

“And now good-bye, beloved son.”

The Pontiff moved on, speaking to each pilgrim in the line, and when it was over: the solemn benediction. The audience had ended.

Monsignor Aguerra touched Brother Francis’ arm as the pilgrim group passed out the portals. He embraced the monk warmly. The postulator of the Saint’s cause had aged so greatly that Francis recognized him only with difficulty at close range. But Francis, too, was gray at the temples, and had grown wrinkled about the eyes from squinting over the copy-table. The monsignor handed him a package and a letter as they descended the
scala caelestis.

Francis glanced at the letter’s address and nodded. His own name was written on the package, which bore a diplomatic seal. “For me, Messér?”

“Yes, a personal token from the Holy Father. Better not open it here. Now, can I do anything for you before you leave New Rome? I’d be glad to show you anything you’ve missed.”

Brother Francis thought briefly. There had already been an exhaustive tour. “I
would
like to see the basilica just once again, Messér,” he said at last.

“Why, of course. But is that all?”

Brother Francis paused again. They had fallen behind the other departing pilgrims. “I would like to confess,” he added softly.

“Nothing easier than that,” said Aguerra, adding with a chuckle: “You’re in the right town, you know. Here, you can get anything absolved that you’re worried about. Is it something deadly enough to require the attention of the Pope?”

Francis reddened and shook his head.

“How about the Grand Penitentiary, then? He’ll not only absolve you if you’re repentant, he’ll even hit you over the head with a rod in the bargain.”

“I meant-I was asking you, Messér,” the monk stammered.

“Me?
Why me? I’m nobody fancy. Here you are in a whole town full of red hats, and you want to confess to Malfreddo Aguerra.”

“Because-because you were our Patron’s advocate,” the monk explained.

“Oh, I see. Why of course I’ll hear your confession. But I can’t absolve you in the name of your Patron, you know. It’ll have to be the Holy Trinity as usual. Will that do?”

Francis had little to confess, but his heart had long been troubled-at the prompting of Dom Arkos-by the fear that his discovery of the shelter might have hindered the case for the Saint. Leibowitz’ postulator heard him counseled him, and absolved him in the basilica, then led him around that ancient church. During the ceremony of canonization and the Mass that followed, Brother Francis had noticed only the majestic splendor of the building. Now the aged monsignor pointed to crumbling masonry, places in need of repair, and the shameful condition of some of the older frescoes. Again he caught a glimpse of a poverty which dignity veiled. The Church was not wealthy in this age.

At last, Francis was free to open the package. The package contained a purse. In the purse were two heklos of gold. He glanced at Malfreddo Aguerra. The monsignor smiled.

“You
did
say that the robber
won
the commemoration from you in a wrestling match, didn’t you?” Aguerra asked.

“Yes, Messér.”

“Well then, even if you were forced into it, you made the choice to wrestle him for it yourself, didn’t you? You accepted his challenge?”

The monk nodded.

“Then I don’t think you’d be condoning the wrong if you bought it back.” He clapped the monk’s shoulder and blessed him. Then it was time to go.

The small keeper of the flame of knowledge trudged back toward his abbey on foot. There were days and weeks on the trail, but his heart was singing as he approached the robber’s outpost.
Do with it what you will,
Pope Leo had said of the gold. Not only that, the monk had now, in addition to the purse, an answer to the robber’s scornful question. He thought of the books in the audience room, waiting there for a reawakening.

The robber, however, was not waiting at his outpost as Francis had hoped. There were recent footprints in the trail at that place, but the prints led cross-trail and there was no sign of the robber. The sun filtered through the trees to cover the ground with leafy shadows. The forest was not dense, but it offered shade. He sat down beside the trail to wait.

An owl hooted at midday from the relative darkness in the depths of some distant arroyo. Buzzards circled in a patch of blue beyond the treetops. It seemed peaceful in the forest that day. As he listened sleepily to the sparrows fluttering in nearby brush, he found himself not greatly concerned about whether the robber came today or tomorrow. So long was his journey, that he would not be unhappy to enjoy a day of rest while wailing. He sat watching the buzzards. Occasionally he glanced down the trail that led toward his distant home in the desert. The robber had chosen an excellent location for his lair. From this place, one could observe more than a mile of trail in either direction while remaining unobserved in the thatch of forest.

Something moved on the trail in the distance.

Brother Francis shielded his eyes and studied the distant movement. There was a sunny area down the road where a brush fire had cleared several acres of land around the trail that led southwest. The trail shimmered under a mirror of heat in the sunswept region. He could not see clearly because of the shiny reflections, but there was motion in the midst of the heat. There was a wriggling black iota. At times it seemed to wear a head. At times it was completely obscured in the heat glaze, but nevertheless he could determine that it was gradually approaching. Once, when the edge of a cloud brushed at the sun, the heat shimmer subsided for a few seconds; his tired and myopic eyes determined then that the wriggling iota was really a man, but at too great a distance for recognition. He shivered. Something about the iota was too familiar.

But no, it couldn’t possibly be the same.

The monk crossed himself and began telling his rosary beads while his eyes remained intent on the distant thing in the heat shimmer.

While he had been waiting there for the robber, a debate had been in progress, higher on the side of the hill. The debate had been conducted in whispered monosyllables, and had lasted for nearly an hour. Now the debate was ended. Two-Hoods had conceded to One-Hood. Together, the Pope’s children stole quietly from behind their brush table and crept down the side of the hill.

They advanced to within ten yards of Francis before a pebble rattled. The monk was murmuring the third Ave of the Fourth Glorious Mystery of the rosary when he happened to look around.

The arrow hit him squarely between the eyes.

“Eat! Eat! Eat!”
the Pope’s child cried.

On the trail to the southwest the old wanderer sat down on a log and closed his eyes to rest them against the sun. He fanned himself with a tattered basket hat and munched his spice-leaf quid. He had been wandering for a long time. The search seemed endless, but there was always the promise of finding what he sought across the next rise or beyond the bend in the trail. When he had finished fanning himself, he clapped the hat back on his head and scratched at his brushy beard while blinking around at the landscape. There was a patch of unburned forest on the hillside just ahead. It offered welcome shade, but still the wanderer sat there in the sunlight and watched the curious buzzards. They had congregated, and they were swooping rather low over the wooded patch. One bird made bold to descend among the trees, but it quickly flapped into view again, flew under power until it found a rising column of air, then went into gliding ascent. The dark host of scavengers seemed to be expending more than a usual amount of energy at flapping their wings. Usually they soared, conserving strength. Now they thrashed the air above the hillside as if impatient to land.

As long as the buzzards remained interested but reluctant, the wanderer remained the same. There were cougars in these hills. Beyond the peak were things even worse than cougars, and sometimes they prowled afar.

The wanderer waited. Finally the buzzards descended among the trees. The wanderer waited five minutes more. At last he arose and limped ahead toward the forested patch, dividing his weight between his game leg and his staff.

After a while he entered the forested area. The buzzards were busy at the remains of a man. The wanderer chased the birds away with his cudgel and inspected the human remnants. Significant portions were missing. There was an arrow through the skull, protruding at the back of the neck. The old man looked nervously around at the brush. There was no one in sight, but there were plenty of footprints in the vicinity of the trail. It was not safe to stay.

Safe or not, the job had to be done. The old wanderer found a place where the earth was soft enough for digging with hands and stick. While he dug, the angry buzzards circled low over the treetops. Sometimes darting earthward but then flapping their way skyward again. For an hour, then two, they fluttered anxiously over the wooded hillside.

One bird finally landed. It strutted indignantly about a mound of fresh earth with a rock marker at one end. Disappointed, it took wing again. The flock of dark scavengers abandoned the site and soared high on the rising currents of air while they hungrily watched the land.