“You look white, my son. Is something wrong?” asked the distinguished priest.
“This . . . this ... it wasn’t like this at all!” gasped Francis. “He didn’t say more than a few words to me. I only saw him once. He just asked me the way to the abbey and tapped the rock where I found the relics.”
“No heavenly choir?”
“Oh, no!”
“And it’s not true about the nimbus and the carpet of roses that grew up along the road where he walked?”
“As God is my judge, nothing like that happened at all!”
“Ah, well,” sighed the advocate. “Travelers’ stories are always exaggerated.”
He seemed saddened, and Francis hastened to apologize, but the advocate dismissed it as of no great importance to the case. “There are other miracles, carefully documented,” he explained, “and anyway—there is one bit of good news about the documents you discovered. We’ve unearthed the name of the wife who died before our founder came to the order.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. It was Emily.”
Despite his disappointment with Brother Francis’ account of the pilgrim, Monsignor di Simone spent five days at the site of the find. He was accompanied by an eager crew of novices from the abbey, all armed with picks and shovels. After extensive digging, the advocate returned with a small assortment of additional artifacts, and one bloated tin can that contained a desiccated mess which might once have been sauerkraut.
Before his departure, he visited the copy room and asked to see Brother Francis’ copy of the famous blueprint. The monk protested that it was really nothing, and produced it with such eagerness his hands trembled.
“Zounds!” said the monsignor, or an oath to such effect. “Finish it, man, finish it!”
The monk looked smilingly at Brother Jeris. Brother Jeris swiftly turned away; the back of his neck gathered color. The following morning, Francis resumed his labors over the illuminated blueprint, with gold leaf, quills, brushes, and dyes.
And then came another donkey train from New Vatican, with a full complement of clerks and armed guards for defense against highwaymen, this time headed by a monsignor with small horns and pointed fangs (or so several novices would later have testified), who announced that he was the Advocatus Diaboli, opposing Leibowitz’ canonization, and he was here to investigate—and perhaps fix responsibility, he hinted—for a number of incredible and hysterical rumors filtering out of the abbey and reaching even high officials at New Vatican. He made it clear that he would tolerate no romantic nonsense.
The abbot greeted him politely and offered him an iron cot in a cell with a south exposure, after apologizing for the fact that the guest suite had been recently exposed to smallpox. The monsignor was attended by his own staff, and ate mush and herbs with the monks in refectory.
“I understand you are susceptible to fainting spells,” he told Brother Francis when the dread time came. “How many members of your family have suffered from epilepsy or madness?”
“None, Excellency.”
“I’m not an ‘Excellency,’ “ snapped the priest. “Now we’re going to get the truth out of you.” His tone implied that he considered it to be a simple straightforward surgical operation which should have been performed years ago.
“Are you aware that documents can be aged artificially?” he demanded.
Francis was not so aware.
“Did you know that Leibowitz’ wife was named Emily, and that Emma is not a diminutive for Emily?”
Francis had not known it, but recalled from childhood that his own parents had been rather careless about what they called each other. “And if Blessed Leibowitz chose to call her Emma, then I’m sure . . .”
The monsignor exploded, and tore into Francis with semantic tooth and nail, and left the bewildered monk wondering whether he had ever really seen a pilgrim at all.
Before the advocate’s departure, he too asked to see the illuminated copy of the print, and this time the monk’s hands trembled with fear as he produced it, for he might again be forced to quit the project. The monsignor only stood gazing at it however, swallowed slightly, and forced himself to nod. “Your imagery is vivid,” he admitted, “but then, of course, we all knew that, didn’t we?”
The monsignor’s horns immediately grew shorter by an inch, and he departed the same evening for New Vatican.
The years flowed smoothly by, seaming the faces of the once young and adding gray to the temples. The perpetual labors of the monastery continued, supplying a slow trickle of copied and recopied manuscripts to the outside world. Brother Jeris developed ambitions of building a printing press, but when the abbot demanded his reasons, he could only reply, “So we can mass-produce.”
“Oh? And in a world that’s smug in its illiteracy, what do you intend to do with the stuff? Sell it as kindling paper to the peasants?”
Brother Jeris shrugged unhappily, and the copy room continued with pot and quill.
Then one spring, shortly before Lent, a messenger arrived with glad tidings for the order. The case for Leibowitz was complete. The College of Cardinals would soon convene, and the founder of the Albertian Order would be enrolled in the Calendar of Saints. During the time of rejoicing that followed the announcement, the abbot—now withered and in his dotage-summoned Brother Francis into his presence, and wheezed:
“His Holiness commands your presence during the canonization of Isaac Edward Leibowitz. Prepare to leave.
“Now don’t faint on me again,” he added querulously.
~ * ~
The trip to New Vatican would take at least three months, perhaps longer, the time depending on how far Brother Francis could get before the inevitable robber band relieved him of his ass, since he would be going unarmed and alone. He carried with him only a begging bowl and the illuminated copy of the Leibowitz print, praying that ignorant robbers would have no use for the latter. As a precaution, however, he wore a black patch over his right eye, for the peasants, being a superstitious lot, could often be put to flight by even a hint of the evil eye. Thus armed and equipped, he set out to obey the summons of his high priest.
Two months and some odd days later he met his robber on a mountain trail that was heavily wooded and far from any settlement. His robber was a short man, but heavy as a bull, with a glazed knob of a pate and a jaw like a block of granite. He stood in the trail with his legs spread wide and his massive arms folded across his chest, watching the approach of the little figure on the ass. The robber seemed alone, and armed only with a knife which he did not bother to remove from his belt thong. His appearance was a disappointment, since Francis had been secretly hoping for another encounter with the pilgrim of long ago.
“Get off,” said the robber.
The ass stopped in the path. Brother Francis tossed back his cowl to reveal the eye patch, and raised a trembling finger to touch it. He began to lift the patch slowly as if to reveal something hideous that might be hidden beneath it. The robber threw back his head and laughed a laugh that might have sprung from the throat of Satan himself. Francis muttered an exorcism, but the robber seemed untouched.
“You black-sacked jeebers wore that one out years ago,” he said. “Get off.”
Francis smiled, shrugged, and dismounted without protest.
“A good day to you sir,” he said pleasantly. “You may take the ass. Walking will improve my health, I think.” He smiled again and started away.
“Hold it,” said the robber. “Strip to the buff. And let’s see what’s in that package.”
Brother Francis touched his begging bowl and made a helpless gesture, but this brought only another scornful laugh from the robber.
“I’ve seen that alms-pot trick before, too,” he said. “The last man with a begging bowl had half a heklo of gold in his boot. Now strip.”
Brother Francis displayed his sandals, but began to strip. The robber searched his clothing, found nothing, and tossed it back to him.
“Now let’s see
inside the package.”
“It is only a document, sir,” the monk protested. “Of value to no one but its owner.”
“Open it.”
Silently Brother Francis obeyed. The gold leaf and the colorful design flashed brilliantly in the sunlight that filtered through the foliage. The robber’s craggy jaw dropped an inch. He whistled softly.
“What a pretty! Now wouldn’t me woman like it to hang on the shanty wall!”
He continued to stare while the monk went slowly sick inside. If Thou has sent him to test me, O Lord, he pleaded inwardly, then help me to die like a man, for he’ll get it over the dead body of Thy servant, if take it he must.
“Wrap it up for me,” the robber commanded, clamping his jaw in sudden decision.
The monk whimpered softly. “Please, sir, you would not take the work of a man’s lifetime. I spent fifteen years illuminating this manuscript, and ...”
“Well! Did it yourself, did you?” The robber threw back his head and howled again.
Francis reddened. “I fail to see the humor, sir . . .”
The robber pointed at it between guffaws. “You! Fifteen years to make a paper bauble. So that’s what you do. Tell me why. Give me one good reason. For fifteen years. Ha!”
Francis stared at him in stunned silence and could think of no reply that would appease his contempt.
Gingerly, the monk handed it over. The robber took it in both hands and made as if to rip it down the center.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph!” the monk screamed, and went to his knees in the trail. “For the love of God, sir!”
Softening slightly, the robber tossed it on the ground with a snicker. “Wrestle you for it.”
“Anything, sir, anything!”
They squared off. The monk crossed himself and recalled that wrestling had once been a divinely sanctioned sport— and with grim faith, he marched into battle.
Three seconds later, he lay groaning on the flat of his back under a short mountain of muscle. A sharp rock seemed to be severing his spine.
“Heh-heh,” said the robber, and arose to claim his document.
Hands folded as if in prayer, Brother Francis scurried after him on his knees, begging at the top of his lungs.
The robber turned to snicker. “I believe you’d kiss a boot to get it back.”
Francis caught up with him and fervently kissed his boot.
This proved too much for even such a firm fellow as the robber. He flung the manuscript down again with a curse and climbed aboard the monk’s donkey. The monk snatched up the precious document and trotted along beside the robber, thanking him profusely and blessing him repeatedly while the robber rode away on the ass. Francis sent a glowing cross of benediction after the departing figure and praised God for the existence of such selfless robbers.
And yet when the man had vanished among the trees, he felt an aftermath of sadness. Fifteen years to make a paper bauble . . . The taunting voice still rang in his ears. Why? Tell one good reason for fifteen years.
He was unaccustomed to the blunt ways of the outside world, to its harsh habits and curt attitudes. He found his heart deeply troubled by the mocking words, and his head hung low in the cowl as he plodded along. At one time he considered tossing the document in the brush and leaving it for the rains—but Father Juan had approved his taking it as a gift, and he could not come with empty hands. Chastened, he traveled on.
~ * ~
The hour had come. The ceremony surged about him as a magnificent spectacle of sound and stately movement and vivid color in the majestic basilica. And when the perfectly infallible Spirit had finally been invoked, a monsignor—it was di Simone, Francis noted, the advocate for the saint—arose and called upon Peter to speak, through the person of Leo XXII, commanding the assemblage to hearken.
Whereupon, the Pope quietly proclaimed that Issac Edward Leibowitz was a saint, and it was finished. The ancient and obscure technician was of the heavenly hagiarchy, and Brother Francis breathed a dutiful prayer to his new patron as the choir burst into the Te Deum.
The Pontiff strode quickly into the audience room where the little monk was waiting, taking Brother Francis by surprise and rendering him briefly speechless. He knelt quickly to kiss the Fisherman’s ring and receive his blessing. As he arose, he found himself clutching the beautiful document behind him as if ashamed of it. The Pope’s eyes caught the motion, and he smiled.
“You have brought us a gift, our son?” he asked.
The monk gulped, nodded stupidly, and brought it out. Christ’s Vicar stared at it for a long time without apparent expression. Brother Francis’ heart went sinking deeper as the seconds drifted by.
“It is a nothing,” he blurted, “a miserable gift. I am ashamed to have wasted so much time at…” He choked off.
The Pope seemed not to hear him. “Do you understand the meaning of Saint Isaac’s symbology?” he asked, peering curiously at the abstract design of the circuit.
Dumbly the monk shook his head.
“Whatever it means . . .” the Pope began, but broke off. He smiled and spoke of other things. Francis had been so honored not because of any official judgment concerning his pilgrim. He had been honored for his role in bringing to light such important documents and relics of the saint, for such they had been judged, regardless of the manner in which they had been found.
Francis stammered his thanks. The Pontiff gazed again at the colorful blaze of his illuminated diagram. “Whatever it means,” he breathed once more, “this bit of learning, though dead, will live again.” He smiled up at the monk and winked. “And we shall guard it till that day.”
For the first time, the little monk noticed that the Pope had a hole in his robe. His clothing, in fact, was threadbare. The carpet in the audience room was worn through in spots, and plaster was falling from the ceiling.
But there were books on the shelves along the walls. Books of painted beauty, speaking of incomprehensible things, copied by men whose business was not to understand but to serve. And the books were waiting.
“Goodby, beloved son.”
And the small keeper of the flame of knowledge trudged back toward his abbey on foot. His heart was singing as he approached the robber’s outpost. And if the robber happened to be taking the day off, the monk meant to sit down and wait for his return. This time he had an answer.
<
~ * ~
L. SPRAGUE DE CAMP
LAMENT BY A MAKER
If you want to know about me, I will tell you what I am:
I’m a science fiction genius—all the other kinds are sham.
For I started in the era of the other-world romance,
When a hero with a broadsword faced a horde of giant ants,
Or he saved a naked princess from a fiendish Martian priest
Who fed virgins in his temple to an octopoidal beast.
But although I skewered villains till my pages ran with gore,
Yet everybody said my stuff was such a frightful bore!
And I can’t think why!
Then the age of super-gadetry. I modified my themes,
Using robots, proton-blasters, trips in time, and tractor-beams.
So my hero juggled worlds and spoke in clipped and cosmic slang,
Such as: “CQX, old reptile; how is every little fang?”
And when cornered in his space-ship by the Things from Procyon,
He destroyed them with his just-invented hyper-neurotron.
But although I switched dimensions till I stripped my spatial gears,
Yet the letter-writers said my stories bored them all to tears!
And I can’t think why!
Comes the human-interest story of the psychiatric kind,
Where the hero is a maladjusted jerk of feeble mind.
Now he beats his wife and children till an altruistic Sian,
Using hypno-psionetics, makes him love his fellow-man.
So I write of twerps who weep for Mom, who slobb
er, twitch and glower,
And who pull the wings off Martians by their telekinetic power.
But although I make my character the cosmos’ biggest fool,
Still the readers all insist they do not want to read this drool!
And I can’t think why!
~ * ~
THE DOCTRINE OF ORIGINAL DESIGN
If robots are delinquent in link effect and cause,
Blame it on Science—their defiance is pretense.
Now reread Monsieur Rousseau,
And how the AC-DC’s flow,
Repairing faulty circuits of original design,
Think about their sleazy, spliced-up heads.
The missing links, mistreated, plead for modem monster laws;
Policemen trained politely, nice rules rightly could administer
The Best From Fantasy and Science Fiction Fifth Series Page 23
