Saint Francis (56 page)

"I wove it with my own hands from the wool of the lamb you gave me."

Francis sat up. He looked at his feet and hands, fingered his sunken bloodstained chest--and sighed.

"Forgive me, Brother Donkey," he said; "forgive me, my old ramshackle body, for having tormented you so much."

He smiled bitterly.

"And you, my revered Mother Earth: you must forgive me also. You gave me a splendid, radiant body, and now look what mud and filth I am returning to you!"

But as he was speaking, his eyes suddenly protruded from their sockets. Extending his arm, he pointed toward the door.

"Look, there he is!"

"Who?" "The Beggar! The Beggar, Brother Leo. He's at the door; he just lifted his pierced hand and greeted me. Now he's lowering the hood from his head--Oh, no! No!"

"Father Francis, Father Francis, stop trembling!"

"It's me, me, me! I see my face, the cross on the forehead, the scars from the white-hot iron on my temples. . . . He entered, he's coming nearer . . ."

Francis hid his eyes behind the sleeve of his robe.

"He's coming . . . coming . . ." he murmured, trembling. "Look, he's smiling happily and holding out his arms to me!"

He placed the other sleeve over his eyes now, but he still continued to see.

"He's here, here," he shrieked. "He just lay down next to me on my mat. There he is! Help, Brother Leo, help!"

Reaching out, he embraced me. Then he extended his hands and searched to the right, to the left; also behind my head.

"No one," he murmured. "No one!"

But a moment later, thoughtfully:

"The two of us have united, have become one. The journey is finished."

The end was indeed drawing near. The friars kept arriving from all directions to bid Francis goodbye. Elias raced from village to village assembling the inhabitants in order to announce that the Saint was dying and that everyone should be prepared to speed with lighted candles to the funeral. He had also made sure that the bishop would instruct the sexton of San Ruffino's to have the death knell tolled day and night. At San Damiano's the sisters knelt before the crucifix imploring God not to take Francis from them yet; and Captain Wolf descended his mountain, journeyed to the Portiuncula, and approached Francis on tiptoe, bringing him a gift of a basket of grapes and figs. Francis opened his eyes, and recognized him.

"Brother Lamb! Welcome! The wild hawks of Alvernia must have delivered the message that I was dying. Goodbye, my brother."

"It is not you who are dying, Father Francis," replied the savage brother; "it is not you, but us. Forgive me for everything I have done."

"God will forgive you, Brother Lamb, not I. If you are saved, everything will be saved with you, even the lambs you ate when you were a wolf."

Brother Wolf took the basket he had brought and placed it in the moribund's hands.

"Here are a few figs and grapes I brought so that you could say goodbye to them, Father Francis. You can eat them with a clear conscience: they weren't stolen!"

Francis laid his palm over the ripe fruit, rejoicing at the cool freshness. Then he plucked a grape from the cluster and placed it in his mouth. Next, he took a fig and sucked in the honey that was dripping from it. "Goodbye, figs and grapes, my brothers. Goodbye for the last time. I shall never see you again!"

September drew to a close. One day early in October the sky darkened and the first autumn drizzles commenced to fall. A thin, tender mist unfurled above olive trees and pines: an inexpressible sweetness flooded the world, and the soil reclined fertile and content in the humid air. Francis opened his eyes. The hut was filled with brothers who had come from all directions, arriving early in the morning. Many had squatted down on the ground; others remained standing. They were all gazing at him, mutely, no one daring to break the hallowed silence. From time to time they wiped their eyes and stepped outside in order to breathe. Francis extended his arm, greeting them.

"You are departing, Father Francis," said Bernard, kneeling and kissing his hand; "you are departing; soon you shall ascend to heaven. Open your mouth for the last time and speak to us."

Francis shook his head.

"My children, my brothers, my fathers: whatever I had to say to you I have already said. Whatever blood I possessed in my heart, I have already given to you. Now I have no more words to speak or blood to give. If I had, God would keep me longer upon this earth."

"Don't you have anything, anything at all to say to us?" cried Giles from the corner where he was standing and weeping.

"Poverty, Peace, Love--nothing else, my brothers. . . . Poverty, Peace, Love."

He tried to sit up, but could not.

"Undress me, my brothers. Lay me naked upon the ground so that I may touch the earth and it may touch me."

Weeping, we undressed him, laid him upon the ground, and knelt around him. All of us sensed the presence of the Archangel above his body.

Sister Clara had come; unseen by any of us, she had been listening at the doorway. Suddenly we heard a sob. We turned and saw her huddled on the threshold, weeping, her face tightly wrapped in her wimple. All at once, everyone began to wail and lament.

"Why are you weeping, my brothers?" asked Francis, surprised.

No one replied.

"Do you really believe this life to be so sweet? Where is your faith in the life everlasting, my brothers? Is it so very slight? Brother Death, you who are standing just beyond the door: forgive mankind. Men do not know your lofty message, and that is why they fear you."

He glanced around him.

"Where are you, Pacifico? Sound your lute, and let all of us sing the Hymn of Praise: BE THOU PRAISED, my Lord, with all Thy creatures,

Especially Sior Brother Sun . . .

I joined the others, but as I sang, my mind began to wander. The hut vanished, as did the Portiuncula, Assisi-- everything--and I found myself on an unknown stretch of land that was brilliantly green, and boundless. Francis lay in the middle, on the ground, his face turned toward heaven. He was breathing his last. A peaceful, tender drizzle was falling, and the mountain peaks in the distance were covered with mist. A delicious aroma rose from the freshly turned soil. Somewhere far away the ocean was sighing. Francis was alone, no one near him; but then suddenly the air seemed to congeal, and the twelve original brothers appeared in a circle around him, huddled over, their heads thrust within their cowls. No sound could be heard--none but their groans and wailing. I was among them, and as I raised my eyes and looked behind the twelve, I saw hundreds of thousands of tonsured friars, their hoods lowered; and they where chanting the Office of the Dead. Then I sat up on my knees and, looking further into the distance, beheld oxen, horses, dogs, flocks of sheep--all coming toward us, lamenting noisily. They placed themselves behind the friars and stood there with bowed heads. Then the wild animals--wolves, bears, foxes, jackals--emerged from the forest and lined up behind their tame brothers, and they too began to wail and lament. Suddenly thousands of winged creatures could be heard above me. I raised my eyes and watched the swarms of birds, birds of every kind, as they descended with screeching cries and perched around Francis; and a partridge began to pluck out its feathers and was the first among them to sound the dirge.

"My beloved Francis, my beloved Francis," I murmured, "all the birds and animals have come and are weeping; they have all come to your funeral, all your brothers . . . ."

Suddenly the heavens filled with flashes of blue, green, gold, and purple. I lifted my head. The air was thick with wings. Thousands and thousands of angels came and placed themselves round the dying man, then folded their wings and waited with smiling faces, ready to carry off his soul. . . .

All at once the sound of heart-rending cries broke my reverie. Three women had fallen over Francis in an effort to keep him from departing. Sister Pica was holding his head in her arms, Sister Clara embracing and kissing his feet, while Brother Jacopa clutched his hand against her breast. The sun had set; outside, the rain continued to fall, softening, Assuring the earth. At that moment, we all saw two black wings above Francis.

His face was resplendent, his eyes wide open and fixed upon the air. Suddenly he stirred. Calling up all his strength, he turned and glanced slowly at each of us, one by one. His lips moved; he seemed to have some final word to say to us. I went close to him. "Poverty, Peace, Love . . ."

His voice was muted and extremely frail, as though coming from far far away--from the other shore. I held my breath, trying to hear more. There was nothing.

Then, suddenly, we all fell upon his body, kissing it and wailing the dirge.

At the exact sacred instant I inscribed these final words, huddled over in my cell and overcome with tears at the memory of my beloved father, a tiny sparrow came to the window and began to tap on the pane. Its wings were drenched; it was cold. I got up to let it in.

And it was you, Father Francis; it was you, dressed as a tiny sparrow.