Forbidden Sanctuary (30 page)

Tenon stays.
And Clement stays too. Only for him there would be no sanctuary.

"Not a word, child, not a word," he whispered, and they descended to the ground.

Chapter 28

The preparations for the Departure had already been made, so there was little to do except carry out the agreeable task of telling the crew about the change of destination. It was the first time Zanla's words had caused them to cheer.

Afterward he donned his ceremonial robes and went to the Room of the Ancients where, he knew, he would find Ergentil.

She stood alone in the center of the room, deep in prayer. He waited silently until she noticed him. "We are ready," he murmured.

"Are you glad to be going home?" she asked.

"I will be glad to rest. Perhaps I can rest at home."

"Perhaps."

Together they walked back down to the lower level, where the crew sat waiting, solemn and reverent now that the moment was at hand.

Zanla went over to the
retheo
and placed the settings in their familiar positions.
Home,
they seemed to say:
that is where we belong.

"We may begin the Departure," Zanla said.

Ergentil came and faced him next to the
retheo.
They looked at each other for a long moment, and then their minds became one.

* * *

The interrogation in the motel room was perfunctory, and got nowhere. Bernardi kept asking for his lawyer, and pleasantly refused to answer any questions. Finally someone rushed into the room and whispered something to the FBI agents. They left immediately, telling Bernardi to stay where he was.

Bernardi obeyed for a few minutes, then decided he was being silly, and wandered down to the lobby. It was empty. He went outside.

The crowd all faced the blue ship. "What's up?" he asked a tall man in an overcoat.

The man gave him a what-planet-did-you-come-from look and muttered, "They're leaving."

"For good?"

"That's what the Pope says."

Leaving
, Bernardi thought. Without Tenon. He smiled and stared at the ship, which loomed silent and unmoving before him.

"Father!" a familiar voice cried.

He turned and saw Angela Summers making her way toward him. "The two felons meet again," he said, holding out his hand.

Angela pressed it warmly. "They told me you had been caught but—"

"But that's all they caught, except for a friend of mine who runs a pizza parlor and looks suspiciously like an alien. You've been busy too, I gather. How did Clement manage to get them to leave?"

Angela blushed and looked down. "I've spent all my time since we left the ship trying to avoid answering that question, Father. His Holiness will only say that the Holy Spirit was with him."

"Not a bad companion. Is Clement around for his moment of triumph? I've never seen a Pope in person."

"No, he left right away. He... the Pope is not a happy man, you know."

Bernardi nodded. "He's not paid to be happy, I suppose. He'll get his reward in Heaven."

"He's still on Earth, though, and that's the problem."

They fell silent and watched the ship again. A helicopter—his helicopter?—circled the area and then took up a position off to his left. A gust of wind sprang up out of nowhere. Why hadn't he thought to put on his parka?

"Do you think we'll ever find out the truth?" Angela asked. "About Chitlan, and the rest?"

"I think we'll see the Numoi again, one way or another. But the truth about Chitlan—no matter how much we know, it'll always be a question of faith. Some will believe, some won't."

"Do you believe?"

Bernardi smiled. "I believe it's getting quite cold."

And suddenly Angela placed a hand on his arm and pointed to the ship. It took him a moment to notice. The shimmering was not from the sun, the darkness was not from shadows. The pyramid was disappearing gradually, like a dream dispersing in daylight. The center became dark, and the blackness spread to the glittering exterior, and then the color changed back to blue—but it was the blue of the sky behind it. The ship was gone.

Or perhaps not, Bernardi thought. Perhaps it would never leave entirely; some ghostly residue would remain, if not on the spot, then in the eyes of those who had seen it.

People continued to stare for a long time after there was nothing left to see. "Gone," someone behind him whispered, a trace of sadness in her voice.

"Except for the one they left behind," someone else murmured.

Angela looked at Bernardi. Her hand was still on his arm. "What about the one they left behind, Father?"

Bernardi chuckled. "You have your secret, and I have mine. I'll tell you this, though. I wouldn't be surprised if he ends up happier than either of us manages to be. What are you going to do with yourself now, Angela?"

She shrugged. "I have a translating job to do for his Holiness. Then...." She shrugged again. "What about you?"

He shrugged, and after a moment they both laughed.

"Well, maybe Tenon knows what he's going to do," Angela said. "I wish him luck."

Bernardi nodded his agreement. Together they walked back to the motel and out of the cold.

Epilogue

It was summer. He was on his knees in the hot sun, weeding. He was not uncomfortable, despite his robe; he was used to heat like this.

In the distance he saw the red machine moving through the fields.
Tractor,
he said to himself. Someday, perhaps, he would know enough to be able to help with the
tractor.
There was a great deal to be learned.

He was not stupid, though, and not at all lazy. He would do what was required of him, and more. All he asked was a chance. A chance to—

A shadow moved across his patch of ground. He squinted up at the white-cowled figure looming above him. The figure made some signs with his hands. He nodded his understanding, and the figure went away.

He rose and brushed the dirt off the knees of his robe. Then he walked back to the large stone building at the top of the hill.

* * *

Dom Michael watched him enter the small office, and as always tried to keep the curiosity out of his gaze. It had not been easy on that morning when Bernardi had left the poor fellow on his doorstep. But as the months went by and Frater Joseph entered more and more fully into the life of the abbey... well, there was less and less to be curious about. Old identities were shed like ragged, useless garments when one entered a place like this; his garment may have been stranger than the rest, but it was evidently no harder to get rid of.

"Frater Joseph, please sit down."

He sat. Dom Michael tried to frame his sentences clearly and simply. It was hard to know when he was failing to communicate.

"How are your studies coming, Joseph?"

The words came back slowly but accurately. "Very well, Father Abbot."

"I'm glad to hear it. The prior informs me you are making great progress. Everyone is pleased with the way you have fit in here. Now, the reason I called you in from your work is that I have some important news concerning your status." He paused, and made a special effort to be clear. "As you know, you are now what is called an
oblate:
that is, you are a layperson who shares in our work at the abbey but without taking any vows, and therefore without any formal religious obligations. You have asked for permission to enter the novitiate in order to prepare for becoming a full-fledged member of our community. Due to the, uh, unusual circumstances of your case we did not feel we could grant your request without consulting our superiors, so I wrote to our Abbot-General, who in turn took the matter up with the Holy See. The decision came back to us today—surprisingly quickly, as such things go. Your request has been granted. You are now a novice in the Order of the Cistercians of the Strict Observance. Did you follow all of that, Joseph?"

He nodded. "I think so. The answer is yes."

Dom Michael smiled. "The answer is yes," he repeated gently. "You will become a Trappist. The approval came by letter from the Vatican. There is also a personal message for you." He slid a small envelope across the desk. "You may read it when you like."

"Thank you. Thank you, Father Abbot."

Smiling, Frater Joseph rose and bowed. Dom Michael inclined his head in return, and watched him leave.

Our lives are very peaceful,
he had told Al Bernardi that cold, foggy morning.
Nothing happens here.
Only in the eyes of the world, of course. The spiritual life has its own excitements, its own intense joys—greater than any the world has to offer. This was one of them.

It would not surprise him if Frater Joseph became quite a good monk.

* * *

"I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church..."

He would work all the harder. He would pull weeds as they had never been pulled before. He would master the language—the language he would rarely speak. He would memorize the prayers, learn the intricacies of the dogma, become a credit to the Order.

His heart brimmed with gratitude, to all the people who had helped him, but most of all to the God who had led him to this place. Perhaps, he thought, awestruck, it had all been for him: forces stretching across the Universe, patterns working their way out over generations, to enable him to come here and give glory to God. Perhaps Zanla's
retheo
setting had not been random or accidental, but because of
his
presence.
Now
was the time for the two races to meet, so that he could become Frater Joseph, and pull these weeds.

That could hardly be, though. Perhaps it was sinful even to consider it. He would ask his spiritual director. In the meantime, all he could do was to strive to be worthy of such a place in the scheme of things.

"I acknowledge one Baptism for the forgiveness of sins..."

He thought of the letter, which had dispelled his last remaining qualms about his new life. If Sabbata was not distressed, then what harm had he done? He could dispense with his previous life with a trace of nostalgia, but without regret....

"I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen."

...because in a sense he had already found the life of the world to come. He had only a vague understanding of Heaven as yet, but he could not believe it would be much different from the world he inhabited now.

* * *

When he had finished weeding his patch of the garden he stood up and wiped his brow. A monk passing by in a pickup truck waved to him, and he waved back. He took the envelope out of the pocket of his robe and struggled again to read the final sentences of the brief letter inside.

...God bless you, Frater Joseph. You have my prayers—and my envy.

Clement

Envy.
When he got back to the abbey, he would have to look up the word
envy.

The End