"And the prince smote the cities of his enemies with the new fire, and for three days and nights did his great catapults and metal birds rain wrath upon them. Over each city a sun appeared and was brighter than the sun of heaven, and immediately that city withered and melted as wax under the torch, and the people thereof did stop in the streets and their skins smoked and they became as faggots thrown on the coals. And when the fury of the sun had faded, the city was in flames; and a great thunder came out of the sky, like the great battering-ram PIK-A-DON, to crush it utterly. Poisonous fumes fell over all the land, and the land was aglow by night with the afterfire and the curse of the afterfire which caused a scurf on the skin and made the hair to fall and the blood to die in the veins.
"And a great stink went up from Earth even unto Heaven. Like unto Sodom and Gomorrah was the Earth and the ruins thereof, ever in the land of that certain prince, for his enemies did not withhold their vengeance, sending fire in turn to engulf his cities as their own. The stink of the carnage was exceedingly offensive to the Lord, Who spoke unto the prince, Name, saying: 'WHAT BURNT OFFERING IS THIS THAT YOU HAVE PREPARED BEFORE ME? WHAT IS THIS SAVOR THAT ARISES FROM THE PLACE OF HOLOCAUST? HAVE YOU MADE ME A HOLOCAUST OF SHEEP OR GOATS, OR OFFERED A CALF UNTO GOD?'
"But the prince answered him not, and God said: 'YOU HAVE MADE ME A HOLOCAUST OF MY SONS.'
"And the Lord slew him together with Blackeneth, the betrayer, and there was pestilence in the Earth, and madness was upon mankind, who stoned the wise together with the powerful, those who remained.
"But there was in that time a man whose name was Leibowitz, who, in his youth like the holy Augustine, had loved the wisdom of the world more than the wisdom of God. But now seeing that great knowledge, while good, had not saved the world, he turned in penance to the Lord, crying:"
The abbot rapped sharply on the table and the monk who had been reading the ancient account was immediately silent.
"And that is your only account of it?" asked Thon Taddeo, smiling tightly at the abbot across the study.
"Oh, there are several versions. They differ in minor details. No one is certain which nation launched the first attack — not that it matters any more. The text Brother Reader was just reading was written a few decades after the death of Saint Leibowitz — probably one of the first accounts — after it became safe to write again. The author was a young monk who had not lived through the destruction himself; he got it second hand from Saint Leibowitz' followers, the original memorizers and bookleggers, and he had a liking for scriptural mimicry. I doubt if a single completely accurate account of the Flame Deluge exists anywhere. Once it started, it was apparently too immense for any one person to see the whole picture."
"In what land was this prince called Name, and this man Blackeneth?"
Abbot Paulo shook his head. "Not even the author of that account was certain. We've pieced enough together since that was written to know that even some of the lesser rulers of that time had got their hands on such weapons before the holocaust came. The situation he described prevailed in more than one nation. Name and Blackeneth were probably Legion."
"Of course I've heard similar legends. It's obvious that something rather hideous came to pass," the thon stated; and then abruptly: "But when may I begin to examine — what do you call it?"
"The Memorabilia."
"Of course." He sighed and smiled absently at the image of the saint in the corner. "Would tomorrow be too soon?"
"You may begin at once, if you like," said the abbot. "Feel free to come and go as you please."
The vaults were dimly filled with candlelight, and only a few dark-robed scholar-monks moved about in the stalls. Brother Armbruster pored gloomily over his records in a puddle of lamplight in his cubbyhole at the foot of the stone stairway, and one lamp burned in the Moral Theology alcove where a robed figure huddled over ancient manuscript. It was after Prime, when most of the community labored at their duties about the abbey, in kitchen, classroom, garden, stable, and office, leaving the library nearly empty until late afternoon and time for lectio devina. This morning, however, the vaults were comparatively crowded.
Three monks stood lounging in the shadows behind the new machine. They kept their hands tucked in their sleeves and watched a fourth monk who stood at the foot of the stairs. The fourth monk gazed patiently up toward a fifth monk who stood on the landing and watched the entrance to the stairway.
Brother Kornhoer had brooded over his apparatus like an anxious parent, but when he could no longer find wires to wiggle and adjustments to make and remake, he retired to the Natural Theology alcove to read and wait. To speak a summary of last-minute instructions to his crew would be permissible, but he chose to maintain the hush, and if any thought of the coming moment as a personal climax crossed his mind as he waited, the monastic inventor's expression gave no hint of it. Since the abbot himself had not bothered to watch a demonstration of the machine, Brother Kornhoer betrayed no symptoms of expecting applause from any quarter, and he had even overcome his tendency to glance reproachfully at Dom Paulo.
A low hiss from the stairway alerted the basement again, although there had been several earlier false alarms. Clearly no one had informed the illustrious thon that a marvelous invention awaited his inspection in the basement. Clearly, if it had been mentioned to him at all, its importance had been minimized. Obviously, Father Abbot was seeing to it that they all cooled their heels. These were the wordless significances exchanged by glances among them as they waited.
This time the warning hiss had not been in vain. The monk who watched from the head of the stairs turned solemnly and bowed toward the fifth monk on the landing below.
"In principio Deus," he said softly.
The fifth monk turned and bowed toward the fourth monk at the foot of the stairs. "Caelum et terram creavit," he murmured in turn.
The fourth monk turned toward the three who lounged behind the machine. "Vacuus autem erat mundus," he announced.
"Cum tenebris in superficie profundorum," chorused the group.
"Ortus est Dei Spiritus supra aquas," called Brother Forbore, returning his book to its shelf with a rattling of chains.
"Gratias Creatori Spiritui," responded his entire team.
"Dixitque Deus: 'FIAT LUX,' " said the inventor in a tone of command.
The vigil on the stairs descended to take their posts. Four monks manned the treadmill. The fifth monk hovered over the dynamo. The sixth monk climbed the shelf-ladder and took his seat on the top rung, his head bumping the top of the archway. He pulled a mask of smoke-blackened oily parchment over his face to protect his eyes, then felt for the lamp fixture and its thumbscrew, while Brother Kornhoer watched him nervously from below.
"Et lux ergo facta est," he said when he had found the screw.
"Lucem esse bonam Deus vidit," the inventor called to the fifth monk.
The fifth monk bent over the dynamo with a candle for one last look at the brush contacts. "Et secrevit lucem a tenebris," he said at last, continuing the lesson.
"Lucem appellavit 'diem,' " chorused the treadmill team, "et tenebras 'noctes,' " Whereupon they set their shoulders to the turnstile beams.
Axles creaked and groaned. The wagon-wheel dynamo began to spin, its low whir becoming a moan and then a whine as the monks strained and grunted at the drive-mill. The guardian of the dynamo watched anxiously as the spokes blurred with speed and became a film. "Vespere occaso," he began, then paused to lick two fingers and touch them to the contacts. A spark snapped.
"Lucifer!" he yelped, leaping back, then finished lamely: "ortus est et primo die."
"CONTACT!" said Brother Kornhoer, as Dom Paulo, Thon Taddeo and his clerk descended the stairs.
The monk on the ladder struck the arc. A sharp spffft! — and blinding light flooded the vaults with a brilliance that had not been seen in twelve centuries.
The group stopped on the stairs. Thon Taddeo gasped an oath in his native tongue. He retreated a step. The abbot,
who had neither witnessed the testing of the device nor credited extravagant claims, blanched and stopped speech in mid-sentence. The clerk froze momentarily in panic and suddenly fled, screaming "Fire!"
The abbot made the sign of the cross. "I had not known!" he whispered.
The scholar, having survived the first shock of the flare, probed the basement with his gaze, noticing the drive-mill, the monks who strained at its beams. His eyes traveled along the wrapped wires, noticed the monk on the ladder, measured the meaning of the wagon-wheel dynamo and the monk who stood waiting, with downcast eyes, at the foot of the stairs.
"Incredible!" he breathed.
The monk at the foot of the stairs bowed in acknowledgment and depreciation. The blue-white glare cast knife-edge shadows in the room, and the candle flames became blurred wisps in the tide of light.
"Bright as a thousand torches," breathed the scholar. "It must be an ancient — but no! Unthinkable!"
He moved on down the stairs like a man in a trance. He stopped beside Brother Kornhoer and gazed at him curiously for a moment, then stepped onto the basement floor. Touching nothing, asking nothing, peering at everything, he wandered about the machinery, inspecting the dynamo, the wiring, the lamp itself.
"It just doesn't seem possible, but—"
The abbot recovered his senses and descended the stairs.
"You're dispensed from silence!" he whispered at Brother Kornhoer. "Talk to him. I'm — a little dazed."
The monk brightened. "You like it, m'Lord Abbot?"
"Ghastly," wheezed Dom Paulo.
The inventor's countenance sagged.
"It's a shocking way to treat a guest! It frightened the thon's assistant out of his wits. I'm mortified!"
"Well, it is rather bright."
"Hellish! Go talk to him while I think of a way to apologize."
But the scholar had apparently made a judgment on the basis of his observations, for he stalked toward them swiftly. His face seemed strained, and his manner crisp.
"A lamp of electricity," he said. "How have you managed to keep it hidden for all these centuries! After all these years of trying to arrive at a theory of—" He choked slightly, and seemed to be fighting for self-control, as if he had been the victim of a monstrous practical joke. "Why have you hidden it? Is there some religious significance — And what—" Complete confusion stopped him. He shook his head and looking around as if for an escape.
"You misunderstand," the abbot said weakly, catching at Bother Kornhoer's arm. "For the love of God, Brother, explain!"
But there was no balm to soothe an affront to professional pride — then or in any other age.
19
* * *
AFTER THE UNFORTUNATE INCIDENT in the basement, the abbot sought by every conceivable means to make amends for that unhappy moment. Thon Taddeo gave no outward sign of rancor, and even offered his hosts an apology for his spontaneous judgment of the incident, after the inventor of the device had given the scholar a detailed account of its recent design and manufacture. But the apology succeeded only in convincing the abbot further that the blunder had been serious. It put the thon in the position of a mountaineer who has scaled an "unconquered" height only to find a rival's initials carved in the summit rock — and the rival hadn't told him in advance. It must have been shattering for him, Dom Paulo thought, because of the way it was handled.
If the thon had not insisted (with a firmness perhaps born of embarrassment) that its light was of a superior quality, sufficiently bright even for close scrutiny of brittle and age-worn documents which tended to be indecipherable by candlelight, Dom Paulo would have removed the lamp from the basement immediately. But Thon Taddeo had insisted that he liked it — only to discover, then, that it was necessary to keep at least four novices or postulants continuously employed at cranking the dynamo and adjusting the arc-gap; thereupon, he begged that the lamp be removed — but then it was Paulo's turn to become insistent that it remain in place.
So it was that the scholar began his researches at the abbey, continuously aware of the three novices who toiled at the drive-mill and the fourth novice who invited glare-blindness atop the ladder to keep the lamp burning and adjusted — a situation which caused the Poet to versify mercilessly concerning the demon Embarrassment and the outrages he perpetrated in the name of penitence or appeasement.
For several days the thon and his assistant studied the library itself, the files, the monastery's records apart from the Memorabilia — as if by determining the validity of the oyster, they might establish the possibility of the pearl. Brother Kornhoer discovered the thon's assistant on his knees in the entrance of the refectory, and for a moment he entertained the impression that the fellow was performing some special devotion before the image of Mary above the door, but a rattle of tools put an end to the illusion. The assistant laid a carpenter's level across the entranceway and measured the concave depression worn in the floor stones by centuries of monastic sandals.
"We're looking for ways of determining dates," he told Kornhoer when questioned. "This seemed like a good place to establish a standard for rate of wear, since the traffic's easy to estimate. Three meals per man per day since the stones were laid."
Kornhoer could not help being impressed by their thoroughness; the activity mystified him. "The abbey's architectural records are complete," he said. "They can tell you exactly when each building and wing was added. Why not save your time?"
The man glanced up innocently. "My master has a saying: 'Nayol is without speech, and therefore never lies.' "
"Nayol?"
"One of the Nature gods of the Red River people. He means it figuratively, of course. Objective evidence is the ultimate authority. Recorders may lie, but Nature is incapable of it." He noticed the monk's expression and added hastily:
"No canard is implied. It is simply a doctrine of the thon's that everything must be cross-referenced to the objective."
"A fascinating notion," murmured Kornhoer, and bent down to examine the man's sketch of a cross-section of the floor's concavity. "Why, it's shaped like what Brother Majek calls a normal distribution curve. How strange."
"Not strange. The probability of a footstep deviating from the center-line would tend to follow the normal error function."
Kornhoer was enthralled. "I'll call Brother Majek," he said.
The abbot's interest in his guests' inspection of the premises was less esoteric. "Why," he demanded of Gault, "are they making detailed drawings of our fortifications?"
The prior looked surprised. "I hadn't heard of it. You mean Thon Taddeo—"
"No. The officers that came with him. They're going about it quite systematically."
"How did you find out?"
"The Poet told me."
"The Poet! Hah!"
"Unfortunately, he was telling the truth this time. He pick-pocketed one of their sketches."
"You have it?"
"No, I made him return it. But I don't like it. It's ominous."
"I suppose the Poet asked a price for the information?"
"Oddly enough, he didn't. He took an instant dislike to the thon. He's gone around muttering to himself ever since they came."
"The Poet has always muttered."
"But not in a serious vein."
"Why do you suppose they're making the drawings?"
Paulo made a grim mouth. "Unless we find out otherwise, we'll assume their interest is recondite and professional. As a walled citadel, the abbey has been a success. It's never been taken by siege or assault, and perhaps their professional admiration is aroused."
Father Gault gazed speculatively across the desert toward the east. "Come to think of it; if an army meant to strike west across the plains, they'd probably have to establish a garrison somewhere in this region before marching on Denver." He thought for a few moments and began to look alarmed. "And here they'd have a fortress ready-made!"
"I'm afraid that's occurred to them."
"You think they wer
e sent as spies?"
"No, no! I doubt if Hannegan himself has ever heard of us. But they are here, and they are officers, and they can't help looking around and getting ideas. And now very likely Hannegan is going to hear about us."
"What do you intend doing?"
"I don't know yet."
"Why not talk to Thon Taddeo about it?"
"The officers aren't his servants. They were only sent as an escort to protect him. What can he do?"
"He's Hannegan's kinsman, and he has influence."
The abbot nodded. "I'll try to think of a way to approach him on the matter. We'll watch what's going on for a while first, though."
In the days that followed, Thon Taddeo completed his study of the oyster and, apparently satisfied that it was not a disguised clam, focused his attention on the pearl. The task was not simple.
Quantities of facsimile copy were scrutinized. Chains rattled and clanked as the more precious books came down from their shelves. In the case of partially damaged or deteriorated originals, it seemed unwise to trust the facsimile-maker's interpretation and eyesight. The actual manuscripts dating back to Leibowitzian times which had been sealed in airtight casks and locked in special storage vaults for indefinitely long preservation were then brought out.
The thon's assistant assembled several pounds of notes. After the fifth day of it, Thon Taddeo's pace quickened, and his manner reflected the eagerness of a hungry hound catching scent of tasty game.
"Magnificent!" He vacillated between jubilation and amused incredulity. "Fragments from a twentieth century physicist! The equations are even consistent."
A Canticle For Leibowitz Page 20
