A Canticle For Leibowitz

by Walter M. Miller, Jr.

  "Oh," he grunted. "You! I thought you'd be dead by now. What are you doing out here?"

  "I brought back your prodigal, Benjamin," said Dom Paulo. He tugged at a leash and the blue-headed goat trotted up from behind the pony. It bleated and strained at the rope upon seeing the hermit. "And . . . I thought I'd pay you a visit."

  "The animal is the Poet's," the hermit grunted. "He won it fairly in a game of chance — although he cheated miserably. Take it back to him, and let me counsel you against meddling in worldly swindles that don't concern you. Good day." He turned toward the arroyo.

  "Wait, Benjamin. Take your goat, or I'll give it to a peasant. I won't have it wandering around the abbey and bleating into the church."

  "It's not a goat," the hermit said crossly. "It's the beast which your prophet saw, and it was made for a woman to ride. I suggest you curse it and drive it into the desert. You notice, however, that it divideth the hoof and cheweth the cud." He started away again.

  The abbot's smile faded. "Benjamin, are you really going back up that hill without even a 'hello' for an old friend?"

  "Hello," the Old Jew called back, and marched indignantly on. After a few steps he stopped to glance over his shoulder. "You needn't look so hurt," he said. "It's been five years since you've troubled to come this way, 'old friend.' Hah!"

  "So that's it!" muttered the abbot. He dismounted and hurried after the Old Jew. "Benjamin, Benjamin, I would have come — I have not been free."

  The hermit stopped. "Well, Paulo, since you're here . . ."

  Suddenly they laughed and embraced.

  "It's good, you old grump," said the hermit.

  "I a grump?"

  "Well, I'm getting cranky too, I guess. The last century has been a trying one for me."

  "I hear you've been throwing rocks at the novices who come hereabouts for their Lenten fast in the desert. Can this be true?" He eyed the hermit with mock reproof.

  "Only pebbles."

  "Miserable old pretzel!"

  "Now, now, Paulo. One of them once mistook me for a distant relative of mine — name of Leibowitz. He thought I had been sent to deliver him a message — or some of your other scalawags thought so. I don't want it to happen again, so I throw pebbles at them sometimes. Hah! I'll not be mistaken for that kinsman again, for he stopped being any kin of mine."

  The priest looked puzzled. "Mistook you for whom? Saint Leibowitz? Now, Benjamin! You're going too far."

  Benjamin repeated it in a mocking singsong: "Mistook me for a distant relative of mine — name of Leibowitz, so I throw pebbles at them."

  Dom Paulo looked thoroughly perplexed. "Saint Leibowitz has been dead a dozen centuries. How could—" He broke off and peered warily at the old hermit. "Now, Benjamin, let's don't start that tale wagging again. You haven't lived twelve cent—"

  "Nonsense!" interrupted the Old Jew. "I didn't say it happened twelve centuries ago. It was only six centuries ago. Long after your Saint was dead; that's why it was so preposterous. Of course, your novices were more devout in those days, and more credulous. I think Francis was that one's name. Poor fellow. I buried him later. Told them in New Rome where to dig for him. That's how you got his carcass back."

  The abbot gaped at the old man as they walked through the mesquite toward the water hole, leading the horse and the goat. Francis? he wondered. Francis. That could be the Venerable Francis Gerard of Utah, perhaps? — to whom a pilgrim had once revealed the location of the old shelter in the village, so that story went — but that was before the village was there. And about six centuries ago, yes, and — now this old gaffer was claiming to have been that pilgrim? He sometimes wondered where Benjamin had picked up enough knowledge of the abbey's history to invent such tales. From the Poet, perhaps.

  "That was during my earlier career, of course," the Old Jew went on, "and perhaps such a mistake was understandable."

  "Earlier career?"

  "Wanderer."

  "How do you expect me to believe such nonsense?"

  "Hmm-hnnn! The Poet believes me."

  "Undoubtedly! The Poet certainly would never believe that the Venerable Francis met a saint. That would be superstition. The Poet would rather believe he met you — six centuries ago. A purely natural explanation, eh?"

  Benjamin chuckled wryly. Paulo watched him lower a leaky bark cup into the well, empty it into his water skin, and lower it again for more. The water was cloudy and alive with creeping uncertainties as was the Old Jew's stream of memory. Or was his memory uncertain? Playing games with us all? wondered the priest. Except for his delusion of being older than Methuselah, old Benjamin Eleazar seemed sane enough, in his own wry way.

  "Drink?" the hermit offered, extending the cup.

  The abbot suppressed a shudder, but accepted the cup so as not to offend; be drained the murky liquid at a gulp.

  "Not very particular, are you?" said Benjamin, watching him critically. "Wouldn't touch it myself." He patted the water skin. "For the animals."

  The abbot gagged slightly.

  "You've changed," said Benjamin, still watching him.

  "You've grown pale as cheese and wasted."

  "I've been ill."

  "You look ill. Come up in my shack, if the climb won't tire you out."

  "I'll be all right. I had a little trouble the other day, and our physician told me to rest. Fah! If an important guest weren't coming soon, I'd pay no attention. But he's coming, so I'm resting. It's quite tiresome."

  Benjamin glanced back at him with a grin as they climbed the arroyo. He waggled his grizzly head. "Riding ten miles across the desert is resting?"

  "For me it's rest. And, I've been wanting to see you, Benjamin."

  "What will the villagers say?" the Old Jew asked mockingly.

  "They'll think we've become reconciled, and that will spoil both our reputations."

  "Our reputations never have amounted to much in the market place, have they?"

  "True," he admitted but added cryptically: "for the present."

  "Still waiting, Old Jew?"

  "Certainly!" the hermit snapped.

  The abbot found the climb tiring. Twice they stopped to rest. By the time they reached the tableland, he had become dizzy and was leaning on the spindly hermit for support. A dull fire burned in his chest, warning against further exertion, but there was none of the angry clenching that had come before.

  A flock of the blue-headed goat-mutants scattered at the approach of a stranger and fled into straggly mesquite. Oddly, the mesa seemed more verdant than the surrounding desert, although there was no visible supply of moisture.

  "This way, Paulo. To my mansion."

  The Old Jew's hovel proved to be a single room, windowless and stone-walled, its rocks stacked loosely as a fence, with wide chinks through which the wind could blow. The roof was a flimsy patchwork of poles, most of them crooked, covered by a heap of brush, thatch, and goatskins. On a large flat rock, set on a short pillar beside the door, was a sign painted in Hebrew:

  The size of the sign, and its apparent attempt to advertise, led Abbot Paulo to grin and ask: "What does it say, Benjamin? Does it attract much trade up here?"

  "Hah — what should it say? It says: Tents Mended Here."

  The priest snorted his disbelief.

  "All right, doubt me. But if you don't believe what's written there, you can't be expected to believe what's written on the other side of the sign."

  "Facing the wall?"

  "Obviously facing the wall."

  The pillar was set close to the threshold, so that only a few inches of clearance existed between the flat rock and the wall of the hovel. Paulo stooped low and squinted into the narrow space. It took him a while to make it out, but sure enough there was something written on the back of the rock, in smaller letters:

  "Do you ever turn the rock around?"

  "Turn it around? You think I'm crazy? In times like these?"

  "What does it say back there?"

  "Hmmm-hnnnn!" the hermit
singsonged, refusing to answer. "But come on in, you who can't read from the backside."

  "There's a wall slightly in the way."

  "There always was, wasn't there?"

  The priest sighed. "All right, Benjamin, I know what it was that you were commanded to write "in the entry and on the door" of your house. But only you would think of turning it face down."

  "Face inward," corrected the hermit. "As long as there are tents to be mended in Israel — but let's not begin teasing each other until you've rested. I'll get you some milk, and you tell me about this visitor that's worrying you.

  "There's wine in my bag if you'd like some," said the abbot, falling with relief onto a mound of skins. "But I'd rather not talk about Thon Taddeo."

  "Oh? That one."

  "You've heard of Thon Taddeo? Tell me, how is it you've always managed to know everything and everybody without stirring from this hill?"

  "One hears, one sees," the hermit said cryptically.

  "Tell me, what do you think of him?"

  "I haven't seen him. But I suppose he will be a pain. A birth-pain, perhaps, but a pain."

  "Birth-pain? You really believe we're going to have a new Renaissance, as some say?"

  "Hmmm-hnnn."

  "Stop smirking mysteriously, Old Jew, and tell me your opinion. You're bound to have one. You always do. Why is your confidence so hard to get? Aren't we friends?"

  "On some grounds, on some grounds. But we have our differences, you and I."

  "What have our differences got to do with Thon Taddeo and a Renaissance we'd both like to see? Thon Taddeo is a secular scholar, and rather remote from our differences."

  Benjamin shrugged eloquently. "Difference, secular scholars," he echoed, tossing out the words like discarded apple pits. "I have been called a 'secular scholar' at various times by certain people, and sometimes I've been staked, stoned, and burned for it."

  "Why, you never—" The priest stopped, frowning sharply. That madness again. Benjamin was peering at him suspiciously, and his smile had gone cold. Now, thought the abbot, he's looking at me as if I were one of Them — whatever formless "Them" it was that drove him here to solitude. Staked, stoned, and burned? Or did his "I" mean "We" as in "I, my people"?

  "Benjamin — I am Paulo. Torquemada is dead. I was born seventy-odd years ago, and pretty soon I'll die. I have loved you, old man, and when you look at me, I wish you would see Paulo of Pecos and no other."

  Benjamin wavered for a moment. His eyes became moist.

  "I sometimes — forget—"

  "And sometimes you forget that Benjamin is only Benjamin and not all of Israel."

  "Never!" snapped the hermit, eyes blazing again. "For thirty-two centuries, I—" He stopped and closed his mouth tightly.

  "Why?" the abbot whispered almost in awe. "Why do you take the burden of a people and its past upon yourself alone?"

  The hermit's eyes flared a brief warning, but he swallowed a throaty sound and lowered his face into his hands. "You fish in dark waters."

  "Forgive me."

  "The burden — it was pressed upon me by others." He looked up slowly. "Should I refuse to take it?"

  The priest sucked in his breath. For a time there was no sound in the shanty but the sound of the wind. There was a touch of divinity in this madness! Dom Paulo thought. The Jewish community was thinly scattered in these times. Benjamin had perhaps outlived his children, or somehow become an outcast. Such an old Israelite might wander for years without encountering others of his people. Perhaps in his loneliness he had acquired the silent conviction that he was the last, the one, the only. And, being the last, he ceased to be Benjamin, becoming Israel. And upon his heart had settled the history of five thousand years, no longer remote, but become as the history of his own lifetime. His "I" was the converse of the imperial "We."

  But I, too, am a member of a oneness, thought Dom Paulo, a part of a congregation and a continuity. Mine, too, have been despised by the world. Yet for me the distinction between self and nation is clear. For you, old friend, it has somehow become obscure. A burden pressed upon you by others? And you accepted it? What must it weigh? What would it weigh for me? He set his shoulders under it and tried to heave, testing the bulk of it: I am a Christian monk and priest, and I am, therefore, accountable before God for the actions and deeds of every monk and priest who has breathed and walked the earth since Christ, as well as for the acts of my own.

  He shuddered and began shaking his head.

  No, no. It crushed the spine, this burden. It was too much for any man to bear, save Christ alone. To be cursed for a faith was burden enough. To bear the curses was possible, but then — to accept the illogic behind the curses, the illogic which called one to task not only for himself but also for every member of his race or faith, for their actions as well as one's own? To accept that too? — as Benjamin was trying to do?

  No, no.

  And yet, Dom Paulo's own Faith told him that the burden was there, had been there since Adam's time — and the burden imposed by a fiend crying in mockery, "Man!" at man. "Man!" — calling each to account for the deeds of all since the beginning; a burden impressed upon every generation before the opening of the womb, the burden of the guilt of original sin. Let the fool dispute it. The same fool with great delight accepted the other inheritance — the inheritance of ancestral glory, virtue, triumph, and dignity which rendered him "courageous and noble by reason of birthright," without protesting that he personally had done nothing to earn that inheritance beyond being born of the race of Man. The protest was reserved for the inherited burden which rendered him "guilty and outcast by reason of birthright," and against that verdict he strained to close his ears. The burden, indeed, was hard. His own Faith told him, too, that the burden had been lifted from him by the One whose image hung from a cross above the altars, although the burden's imprint still was there. The imprint was an easier yoke, compared to the full weight of the original curse. He could not bring himself to say it to the old man, since the old man already knew he believed it. Benjamin was looking for Another. And the last old Hebrew sat alone on a mountain and did penance for Israel and waited for a Messiah, and waited, and waited, and—

  "God bless you for a brave fool. Even a wise fool."

  "Hmmm-hnnn! Wise fool!" mimicked the hermit. "But you always did specialize in paradox and mystery, didn't you, Paulo? If a thing can't be in contradiction to itself, then it doesn't even interest you, does it? You have to find Threeness in Unity, life in death, wisdom in folly. Otherwise it might make too much common sense."

  "To sense the responsibility is wisdom, Benjamin. To think you can carry it alone is folly."

  "Not madness?"

  "A little, perhaps. But a brave madness."

  "Then I'll tell you a small secret. I've known all along that I can't carry it, ever since He called me forth again. But are we talking about the same thing?"

  The priest shrugged. "You would call it the burden of being Chosen. I would call it the burden of Original Guilt. In either case, the implied responsibility is the same, although we might tell different versions of it, and disagree violently in words about what we mean in words by something that isn't really meant in words at all — since it's something that's meant in the dead silence of a heart."

  Benjamin chuckled. "Well, I'm glad to hear you admit it, finally, even if all you say is that you've never really said anything."

  "Stop cackling, you reprobate."

  "But you've always used words so wordily in crafty defense of your Trinity, although He never needed such defense before you got Him from me as a Unity. Eh?"

  The priest reddened but said nothing.

  "There!" Benjamin yelped, bouncing up and down. "I made you want to argue for once. Ha! But never mind. I use quite a few words myself, but I'm never quite sure He and I mean the same thing either. I suppose you can't be blamed; it must be more confusing with Three than with One."

  "Blasphemous old cactus! I really wanted your opinio
n of Thon Taddeo and whatever's brewing."

  "Why seek the opinion of a poor old anchorite?"

  "Because, Benjamin Eleazar bar Joshua, if all these years of waiting for One-Who-Isn't-Coming haven't taught you wisdom, at least they've made you shrewd."

  The Old Jew closed his eyes, lifted his face ceilingward, and smiled cunningly. "Insult me," he said in mocking tones, "rail at me, bait me, persecute me — but do you know what I'll say?"

  "You'll say, "Hmmm-hnnn!' "

  "No! I'll say He's already here. I caught a glimpse of Him once."

  "What? Who are you talking about? Thon Taddeo?"

  "No! Moreover, I do not care to prophesy, unless you tell me what's really bothering you, Paulo."

  "Well, it all started with Brother Kornhoer's lamp."

  "Lamp? Oh, yes, the Poet mentioned it. He prophesied it wouldn't work."

  "The Poet was wrong, as usual. So they tell me. I didn't watch the trial."

  "It worked then? Splendid. And that started what?"

  "Me wondering. How close are we to the brink of something? Or how close to a shore? Electrical essences in the basement. Do you realize how much things have changed in the past two centuries?"

  Soon, the priest spoke at length of his fears, while the hermit, mender of tents, listened patiently until the sun had begun to leak through the chinks in the west wall to paint glowing shafts in the dusty air.

  "Since the death of the last civilization, the Memorabilia has been our special province, Benjamin. And we've kept it. But now? I sense the predicament of the shoemaker who tries to sell shoes in a village of shoemakers."

  The hermit smiled. "It could be done, if he manufactures a special and superior type of shoe."

  "I'm afraid the secular scholars are already beginning to lay claim to such a method."

  "Then go out of the shoemaking business, before you are ruined."

  "A possibility," the abbot admitted. "It's unpleasant to think of it however. For twelve centuries, we've been one little island in a very dark ocean. Keeping the Memorabilia has been a thankless task, but a hallowed one, we think. It's only our worldly job, but we've always been bookleggers and memorizers, and it's hard to think that the job's soon to be finished — soon to become unnecessary. I can't believe that somehow."