Saint Leibowitz and the Wild Horse Woman

by Walter Michael Miller, Jr.

  As soon as they came to the Pope’s Highway, the Jackrabbit Nomad bade Blacktooth farewell, and announced his intention to leave the trail and travel cross-country to the southeast. This would take him into a kind of no-man’s-land where the border of the imperial province was in dispute.

  “Aren’t you worried about Texark agents?” Nimmy asked.

  “I’ll be meeting my customers tonight,” Önmu Kun said with a grin. “They will then go home, and I back to New Jerusalem.”

  They parted after exchanging the Jackrabbit peace sign. Nimmy decided that Kun was simply a gunrunner for his captive horde. But he had seen the weapons in the wagon and noticed that they were not of the most advanced design—a precaution against their possible seizure by imperial forces.

  On the trip to the abbey, the Yellow Guard’s Foreman, whose name was Jing-U-Wan, cautiously questioned Blacktooth about the Order of Leibowitz, and then explained his own.

  “The Order of Saint Peter’s Sword has two traditions. One is purely Christian. Our creed is not much different from yours. Our canonical prayers are not identical, but quite similar. We use less from the Psalms, and there is more silent meditation. In our work, people expected us to do what non-Christian monks had always done in that country. Outside the chapter house we work in the fields and we beg only when we travel. We maintain a weaponless warrior tradition, because the Tanters monks had always done so. It was a necessity. In our history, the unarmed victim of a robbery was considered negligent for going about without a gun, and he had to pay for any police action against the robber. Unarmed monks had to be skillful with feet and fist.”

  “But you carry arms now.”

  “The rule is dispensed when a monk’s job requires it. When the master died, we talked about going unarmed, but the master is at the edge of war.”

  It took Blacktooth a moment to realize that second master the man referred to was Cardinal Brownpony. “What makes you say he is at the edge of war?” he asked.

  The man paused. Being cautious. “In a sense, we are always at war.” It was a generality to get rid of the subject.

  Nimmy did not pursue it.

  He had dreamed about the open grave at the abbey, and it was the first place they visited after exchanging greetings with the gatekeeper, because the gatekeeper pointed them toward it without breaking his silence. To Nimmy’s surprise, the open grave had been moved. The old one was recently filled, and a new wooden cross bore the name of the grave’s occupant:

  HIC JACET JARADUS CARDINALIS KENDEMIN, ABBAS.

  The date of death was two weeks old.

  “Brother St. George,” a familiar voice called out to him.

  He turned to see Prior Olshuen approaching. He was looking with astonishment at the Yellow Guard, which bristled with swords. The prior was in mourning. The whole monastery was in mourning. Blacktooth went to the chapel to pray sterile prayers for his mistakes, but it felt like self-indulgence. After a while, he went with mounting dread to seek a conference with the prior.

  • • •

  It was a truly massive hemorrhage. While offering Mass on a Wednesday morning, Abbot Jarad, having consecrated the bread and the wine, turned to his community in choir and began to say the “Ecce agnus dei” when he turned white, emitted a strangled yowl, and fell down the sanctuary steps with a great crash and a ringing of brass chalice and paten on the stone floor. “Body and blood all over the pavement,” said Brother Wren. The Cardinal Abbot of Saint Leibowitz died without regaining consciousness.

  • • •

  CHAPTER 15

  And let the Abbot be sure that any lack of

  profit the master of the house may find in

  the sheep will be laid to the blame of the

  shepherd.

  —Saint Benedict’s Rule. Chapter 2

  BY THE TIME NEWS OF ABBOT JARAD’S DEATH reached Valana from the Texark telegraph terminal, the Holy See and most of the Curia had already departed in the direction of New Rome, while Cardinal Brownpony had taken the more northerly route to the sacred meeting place for the Weejus and Bear Spirit shamans. The message went first, of course, to the Sacred Congregation for Religious, whose presiding cardinal had gone with the Pope. His vicar promptly notified SEEC and the Secretariat of State. Cardinal Nauwhat at SEEC was one of the few cardinals who lingered in Valana, and he promptly sent messengers to chase after Brownpony and the Pope, but they had been gone for some days and would not be easy to find on trackless grasslands. Had Nauwhat sent the message with a Nomad skilled in distance signaling, it might have arrived before those to whom it was addressed, but Nauwhat had not inherited Brownpony’s Nomad connections with Brownpony’s office, and the messengers would have to wander for a time.

  The 6th of September 3244 was a Tuesday. The moon was five days beyond first quarter, and arose well before sundown. The Wild-dog’s lookouts who watched from the boundaries of the settlement at the “Navel of the World,” the breeding pit of the Høngin Fujæ Vurn, saw at last a tiny plume of dust on the horizon. A lone rider waved his arms in a Nomad signal meaning “Church,” and repeated it until he knew he had been seen, and was therefore recognized as the expected guest from Valana. But alone?

  Father Ombroz was astonished, for he had expected the cardinal to be accompanied by his young secretary and at least one familiar bodyguard. He immediately sent for Oxsho, his young acolyte and most recent student, a warrior who was remotely related to Chür Høngan, and who had served at the priest’s Masses for three years now.

  “I can’t go to meet him, because of the funeral,” he told the young man. “I want you to stop him before he gets much closer, and warn him of the news. Treat him as you would treat a great uncle, with utmost respect. But you must tell him things he will not want to hear. Hurry, before he gets too close to camp. Try to stay on low ground, or behind a rise. Enemies will be watching. Remember to mention what is said of his mother, whether it is true or not.”

  “Certainly, Father,” said Oxsho, and immediately rode out of the encampment. The youth was as surprised as his master to see that the new Vicar Apostolic had come alone, with a bedroll and a musket, wearing only a red skullcap—easily concealable—to distinguish himself from any other citizen trespassing on Nomad land. The young acolyte had too many things to say to give the cardinal an opening through an exchange of pleasantries. Still staring straight at Brownpony’s apostolic ring after kissing it, he began listing the items in the Wilddog news. He seemed ill at ease, and did not directly meet the cardinal’s curious gaze.

  “Bearcub’s father died last night. The sharf is dead. The Mare here is a widow again. The funeral is tonight. It was a ritual death.” His glance flickered up to Brownpony’s face to make sure he understood the word “ritual” in this context. A slight wince from the cardinal revealed his comprehension. “But there was much argument among the Bear Spirit and the Weejus. The slaughtering festival would be on Friday, when the moon is full.”

  “Would be? What does that mean?”

  “They postponed it. It lasts several days, and it was about to begin. A postponement of so holy a celebration is without precedent, but it was inappropriate for the Great Uncle to be, uh, to die, while cattle are being slaughtered. And, uh, you know, the feast.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “The funeral will be tonight. Much has happened, m’Lord. A representative from the Church in Texark is here: Monsignor Sanual. An observer from Benefez, but also a spokesman. He ordered Father Ombroz on behalf of the Archbishop to return to his order in New Rome ...”

  Brownpony laughed. “I can imagine how the good father responded. Well, as his new Vicar Apostolic, I shall order him to stay. I am very sorry to know that Granduncle Brokenfoot is dead. Your teacher gave him the last sacrament, of course?”

  Ombroz’s acolyte stared at him for a moment, as if not comprehending, and resumed his list. “The Lord Chür Høngan thinks he has located your mother. He said to tell you she is on her way to this place. He cannot be sure.
For that and various other reasons, the desire of Kindly Light, the Grasshopper sharf, to see you spend the night in the devil-woman’s breeding pit is probably going to be frustrated. His arrogance does not sit well with the Weejus.”

  “I may very well spend a night there anyway, whether Hultor Bråm wants it or not.”

  The young Nomad seemed alarmed. “It is a terrible place, m’Lord. Many have died there.”

  “Men do die, everywhere.”

  “She slays anyone she rejects.”

  “Are you not a Christian?”

  “Yes, but she is not!”

  “Perhaps I can convert her.”

  Oxsho showed great consternation. “The Høngin Fujæ Vurn—”

  Brownpony cut him off. “Of course I would not try. But how else would I prove my right to rule over your Churches? Monsignor Sanual may join me, if he pleases.”

  The young Nomad giggled. “I think he would wet his cassock.”

  “Tell me, what makes Holy Madness think my mother is alive?”

  “I know only what Father Ombroz said—that the Sisters who raised you spoke only the Jackrabbit dialect, and wrongly translated her family name.”

  “So I am perhaps not a brown pony?”

  “There is a Wilddog family name that means a ‘sorrel colt.’ But in Jackrabbit—” He shrugged.

  “What do you know about her?”

  “Only gossip, m’Lord. She has royal blood, but her small family is neither wealthy nor distinguished. She is old enough to be your mother, but she has never married. She lives with another woman as husband, and is said to hate men. Perhaps I should not tell you this. But it is not an uncommon thing among us.”

  Ombroz met them at the edge of camp, his shaved pate shining in the sun. It was dotted with scars where skin tumors had been removed. Looking at him, the cardinal realized that his name in Wild-dog sounded a lot like “shaved bear,” although the priest claimed he used the razor to mark himself as different from the typical shaman. When the cardinal told him that Amen Specklebird had canceled his suspension from the Order of Saint Ignatz, and was considering his appointment as Father General of the Order, Ombroz laughed sadly.

  “That will carry as much weight in New Rome as your recent promotion, m’Lord.”

  “Well, yes, but the Pope must assert all of his rights and prerogatives as if no one doubted the legitimacy of his election. He must act the Pope in every way.”

  “I understand that, but of course the Order will ignore my reinstatement. What about you, Eminence?”

  “Well, at the very least, I shall invest you as a pastor of a Church in my Vicariate.”

  Ombroz laughed again. “My Church is in my saddlebags. Your couriers bring my wafers and my wine along with my mail.”

  “Even in saddlebags, a wandering Church needs a name.”

  “It has a name. Our Lady of the Desert.”

  Brownpony smiled. “The same name as the Pope’s old Order? Ordo Dominae Desertarum. Very well, and you would no doubt be happier if you changed orders?”

  “If His Holiness consents. The Order of Saint Ignatz has been disloyal to the popes of the exile, and they haven’t made a move to recognize Pope Amen. I am on their list of their God’s enemies. So if His Holiness permits it?”

  “Why not? He’ll agree, I’m sure.” The cardinal looked toward the crowded area. “Now, what’s going on? Where is Holy Madness?”

  “He is in mourning. As you know, Your Eminence has arrived just in time for his father’s funeral.”

  “His death was expected, was it not?”

  “Yes, even planned.”

  “Human sacrifice again?”

  “It was a ritual killing, yes, but I prefer to think of it as euthanasia in his case. Still forbidden to Catholics, of course.”

  “Did Chür Høngan assent to this?”

  “No, he was excluded by the Bear Spirit shamans, because of his religion.”

  “A religion his father shared.”

  “Brokenfoot was out of his mind. He did not understand.”

  “They are not going to—”

  “Honor him? I’m afraid so. Tonight.”

  “I wish I had come a day later.”

  “I am amazed that you came alone! Where is Brother Blacktooth? Where is Wooshin and the Yellow Guard?”

  “In New Jerusalem.”

  “With the guns?”

  “With the guns. You must know that the Pope is crossing the Plains to the south of us, probably camped for the night by now.”

  “I know. I hope they let him pass. Eminence, there is a legate from Texark here. From Benefez. I would say you have arrived just in time.”

  “Your young man told me. Who is Monsignor Sanual, and what does he want?”

  “He is simply here to meet with the Bear Spirit, the Weejus, and the sharfs. Benefez has never condescended to this before. I wonder if he’ll be fool enough to proselytize. I dare say the Grasshopper sharf would have killed him as a spy, if he had tried to attend a meeting in the Grasshopper realm. But he is a guest of Chür Høngan’s bereaved family. I counseled Bearcub to play host to the fellow, because otherwise the Jackrabbit delegates would have been forced to accommodate him.”

  “And thus either make him seem their protector or their ally. Very good, my friend. This will work out better than you could have known.”

  “No, I knew that all the Jackrabbit Churches in the Province have been made subject to you. If you can win them over.”

  “I cannot take the Churches or their pastors by force, but perhaps I can take their congregations away from them—with the help of enough priests loyal to the Pope. Of course, the priests have to speak Jackrabbit.”

  “There are many in the Province already, m’Lord, and they are just the ones who will be loyal to the Holy Father, even though they were taught by the Archbishop of Texark. The Nomadic-speaking priests are mostly converted Nomads. They embraced the Mayor’s uncle’s religion, but not the Mayor or his uncle.”

  “I’m glad to hear you affirm what I thought was true.”

  “I also know about Kindly Light’s threat to have you atone to the Wild Mare Woman by spending the night in the Navel of the World, as they call it. Hultor Bråm will never be nominated, and he can’t make you do it. However, the Bearcub and I have hatched a plan. May I tell you now, or later?”

  “Later, please. We are being observed, are we not?”

  “Yes, and it’s a mistake not to be seen laughing together more than speaking seriously like this. Let me take you to the leading grandmothers and their spouses. Or do you need rest first?”

  “Rest, please. And a bath, if that is possible.”

  The cardinal slept for a few hours. When he awoke, it was dark except for the flicker of many fires. The Nomads were already celebrating the royal funeral, and there was chanting and dancing. He could smell the cooked sacrament even from inside his tent. When he came out into the firelight he was immediately joined by Oxsho, who pointed and said, “There’s your Father Ombroz.”

  “Mine?” Brownpony eyed him curiously. “Holy Madness told me you were baptized. Is he not your pastor?”

  Sheepish, the warrior shrugged. “Sometimes, but he shaves.”

  “It sets him apart. It saves wearing his collar backward.”

  “Bear Spirit men do not shave, but sometimes he acts as a Bear Spirit man, as right now. I like him, as we all do, but I do not understand him very well. You want to talk to him now?”

  “I should, but I hesitate to interrupt his, uh, meal. He seems to be, if you know the word, zonked.”

  “He has been smoking Nebraska keneb with the others.” Brownpony approached him. The unfrocked old priest of the Ignatz Order, whom Amen wanted to be its Father General, sat there on a heap of dried cow hides and gnawed with his good front teeth at the well-roasted remains of a human hand. He dropped the hand back in the bowl as Brownpony approached, but looked up at the cardinal brightly and without shame. Oxsho hung behind. Brownpony could see th
at he was not drunk but in an extraordinary state of mind from the Nomad sacramental mixture of potions he had consumed. After participating in tribal rites, he seemed a changed man to the cardinal, but Ombroz smiled at him lovingly. Brownpony met his smile with a gaze that seemed to come from a thousand miles away. I do not know this man, this old friend.

  Ombroz was first to break the silence. “The old sharf willed me his right hand—an honor!—and an insult to refuse.”

  The Vicar Apostolic remained silent, watching him.

  “Sometimes,” Ombroz said, picking up the gristly hand of Granduncle Brokenfoot, “I take a piece of bread and consecrate it as the true body of Christ. And sometimes I take the true body of Christ and consecrate it as a piece of bread. Do you understand?”

  “Ahh!” It was a surprised grunt from Oxsho. Brownpony looked at him curiously. Oxsho was smiling slightly, as if he did suddenly understand.

  The cardinal, still from a thousand miles away, said, “You really do wish to join the Pope’s old Order, Father?”

  Ombroz e’Laiden, not so far gone as to miss the hint of sarcasm, answered, “Tell His Holiness that illness forces me to remain as I am, m’Lord. I cannot return to my Order, but I am too old to change.”

  “Very well. I’ll tell him.” Brownpony turned and walked away. Oxsho hesitated, and patted the old priest’s shoulder before following. Ombroz grinned at the young man, and resumed his sacramental meal. Oxsho followed Brownpony.

  “So much for the Order of Saint Ignatz,” said the cardinal.

  “Does it disappoint you that he is one of us now?” asked the warrior.

  “No, I’m sorry for Ombroz e’Laiden, the man.”

  “Because he has become a Nomad himself?”

  “No, but outside the Church there is no salvation,” murmured the cardinal, quoting an ancient claim. The answer seemed to puzzle Oxsho; he had heard of the cardinal from Ombroz, who admired and called him liberal. It was an uncharacteristic remark for such a man to make. But he was a priest now, and a bishop too.