Saint Leibowitz and the Wild Horse Woman

by Walter M Miller Jr

  “No common hoodlums would try to rob a poor monk.”

  “They weren’t out to rob me, just kill me.”

  “Exactly! and why? They must have some reason to hate you.”

  “Well, they seemed to be common hoodlums, they had no reason to hate me, so they must have been hired.”

  “By whom, do you think?” asked the officer.

  “By some fool who thinks Jæsis planned on killing Father Corvany, and that I was involved.”

  The lieutenant, who apparently thought the same thing, glowered at him and left the room for several minutes. Blacktooth prayed to Saint Leibowitz. When the lieutenant came back, his manner had changed.

  “You will have to be on guard against another attempt. Stay with people you know. Stay home at night. Stay away from crowds like this morning’s. Come outside my office and sit on the bench here. Your employer will be here soon.”

  “His Eminence? For me?”

  “For himself. There was an attempt on his life too. Here, his own man can tell you.”

  Wooshin had emerged from another interrogation room. He sat beside Blacktooth and briefly described the attack on Brownpony by two strangers armed with handguns. Brownpony was unharmed, and the attackers were dead. The police found one beheaded corpse on the scene, and a severed arm with a gun still in hand. The armless assassin had been found bleeding to death in an alley. If he said anything before he died to the constable who found him, the police were keeping it to themselves. There was no need to ask how they died. Soon an officer brought Wooshin his swords. They had been wiped, but were not quite clean of dried blood. The Axe frowned but sheathed them without complaint. Soon Brownpony emerged, and after an inquiry about Blacktooth’s wounds, they all walked together back to the Secretariat with two armed men following at a respectful distance.

  “You have thought about what this means, Nimmy?”

  “It means somebody made a mistake, connected me with Jæsis, for one thing. And you, m’Lord?”

  “Same mistake. It is politically important to the Hannegan that gennies, Nomads, and citizens should live in mutual loathing and fear, that they might be more easily governed in their disunity. Did you know, Nimmy, did you know—Jæsis was a spook?”

  “A hidden genny? Oh no, m’Lord! That’s hard to believe. I’ve seen him undressed.”

  “There was an autopsy, and they found the signs. They’ve not made the fact public. There hasn’t been a pogrom in decades, and we don’t want one to start. Move your things immediately. Until the crowd leaves the city, you will live in the Secretariat’s basement. In case they try again. We may never know who hired these men, but they were amateurs.”

  “Locally recruited,” the monk added. “I saw one of them before.”

  “Yes, but the telegraph makes us a suburb of Texark, and words now travel faster than the sun moves over the earth. Fortunately, the conclave should begin by midweek. When Benefez, or even Corvany’s replacement, gets here, he’ll take command of their people. I don’t think Cardinal Benefez hires assassins.”

  “His nephew does,” grunted the monk.

  “Professionals only, Nimmy, not amateurs,” Wooshin said.

  When they came to the Secretariat, a large but low building set well back among trees, Blacktooth found three basement rooms already furnished for use by occasional messengers or political fugitives, one of them now occupied by Axe. Blacktooth chose the room closer to the privy’s exit, but Axe immediately warned him: “At night, use a slop jar. Never go out that door in the dark unless I go with you.”

  But no further attacks had occurred by the time the requisite number of cardinals had assembled on Wednesday of Easter week, and while people afflicted with Jæsis’ disease ran amok in the streets, stripped naked in public, or just lay in bed and howled, the attempt at a conclave began. First the cardinals assembled in the great Cathedral to offer Mass together, then left the building in procession to cross the square and enter the palace where the election was to occur. An altar was set up at one end of the great throne room, and the palace was temporarily consecrated.

  Cardinal Brownpony had chosen as his conclavists Brother Blacktooth St. George and Sister Julian of the Assumption; the rule that his conclavists be clergy from Saint Maisie’s applied only in his absence, and he would not be absent. Nimmy recognized his master’s choice of the sister as an exquisitely diplomatic one, but his own selection jolted him into surprise, until he noticed that Brownpony was having frequent conversations with Jarad, and that Jarad had brought with him as one of his conclavists Brother Singing Cow. Nimmy became vaguely uneasy. Perhaps Nomad politics were to be considered by the Holy Ghost in the choice of a pope. Well, why not? But he dreaded meeting with Singing Cow or the abbot face-to-face.

  No sooner had the conclave convened, however, than a cardinal from Utah fell deathly ill and had to be excused, thus forcing an adjournment for lack of a quorum. Blacktooth returned to his new basement home. Police watched the building, but there was no further attack.

  During the three days the Cardinal President of the Conclave allowed the adjournment to continue, seven more electors arrived from a far northeastern province. Word came from the telegraph terminal that the Archbishop of Texark would arrive within ten days. As soon as the conclave reconvened, Cardinal Brownpony, joined by one of Benefez’s conclavists to show nonpartisanship, proposed a rule empowering the sergeant-at-arms to arrest any cardinal elector attempting to leave the city or even the building without permission from the conclave. A heated protest was made by cardinals fearing the epidemic, but Brownpony in his reply pointed grimly to the anger of the people in the streets, and what might happen to the cardinal electors if they failed to sustain the quorum. The rule was passed by a large majority, and was sent on to the Valana city government with a request for help in enforcement. The request was approved, and it became a crime for a cardinal to flee Valana. And so began the process of finding a candidate agreeable to the Holy Ghost and various earthly powers, began even before that most eminent of earthly powers, Lord Cardinal Archbishop Urion Benefez, had arrived.

  The city continued to sicken.

  The ancient custom of burning ballots with or without moist straw as a signal to lend white or dark color to the smoke from the chimney was observed, but the laws governing the election of a pope had changed according to the requirements of the age. In theory, the Bishop of Rome was elected by the clergy of Rome, locked in a closed building (con clave) until two-thirds reached agreement. For thousands of years, each new cardinal, wherever he might live, was assigned a Roman Church whose upkeep was his responsibility, and whose name was part of his title: Elia Cardinal Brownpony, Deacon of Saint Maisie’s in New Rome. Now there were more cardinals than there were Churches in New Rome and Valana combined.

  From time to time a protest group would march across the city to gather in Saint John’s square and chant slogans before the palace. By the fifth day of the conclave, people were throwing occasional stones at the doors, and the Papal Guard, in mourning for the dead Pope, were sent out to keep order. Unwilling to shed blood, they were soon disarmed by the populace. The civil police were unable to control the crowd, short of using firearms. The crowds gathered and dispersed as they pleased. In fear, the cardinals voted for three days. When there was voting, the crowds drifted away, although there were always people who watched for white smoke.

  An occasional cardinal, usually ill, tried to leave the city, was caught, and was hauled bodily back to the palace, where a room adjoining the great hall of the conclave was staffed as an infirmary. An elector in bed could vote, his ballot carried up to the altar by a conclavist helper who held it aloft so that everyone could see that no switching was done before he placed it in the chalice. While the early and indecisive balloting continued, however, citizens from outside the palace were sealing the great, bronze double doors by building wooden scaffolding against them. A blacksmith anchored the scaffolding by hammering long spikes into lead anchors set in holes d
rilled into the granite walls. Other men boarded up windows.

  On the sixth day of confinement, a man climbed to the roof with a sledge and a crowbar and broke away clay tiles while another man, with an axe, chopped a hole in the roof deck beneath the tiles. Buckets of slops were drawn up to the roof, and a citizen cheerfully poured them through the hole. The ladies of the Valana Altar Society were prevented from bringing emergency food, since the kitchen had been closed by rioters. The water to the palace was shut off.

  The cardinal with the loudest voice climbed to a broken window and yelled anathemas at the crowd, excommunicating everybody who remained in the plaza after five minutes. The crowd cheered and applauded as if he had been heard to announce good news. Actually, he was not heard at all above the din.

  By late afternoon, a cardinal with diarrhea wailed that the privies were full to overflowing, for the Sanjoanini who worked outside were being prevented from emptying them. All requests from within for candles and lamp oil were refused. The palace began to smell like the local jail, with incense. The conclave was now indeed “with key.” Also with nails and timbers. There were cots enough for the cardinals, but their conclavists slept on the floor.

  Blacktooth sat against the wall, alert lest his master beckon, and watched and listened and smelled and tried not to be afraid. He had gained much self-confidence in Brownpony’s employ. Also, that he could fight off attackers was a relaxing bit of knowledge to have with him in any situation. Blacktooth knew that he had not been changing, but unfolding in new dimensions. But he felt he was becoming worldly as he did so.

  Brownpony waved him forward. “Talk to as many of the cardinals’ conclavists as you can. Sound them out on Cardinal Nauwhat and Abbot Jarad, especially Nauwhat.”

  “Yes, m’Lord.” He looked around at a particularly loud crash of a window breaking.

  “I’ve been to four conclaves and never seen anything like this,” Brownpony told him as he sent him on the vote-counting mission. “The sickness must be causing madness.”

  Blacktooth began moving from cardinal to cardinal, not approaching the electors directly, but consulting the prelates’ assistants. But he came finally to Abbot Jarad. The self-confidence that had helped him with the police suddenly vanished. Brother Singing Cow was there as the abbot’s conclavist, but Blacktooth fell to his knees and kissed the abbot’s ring. Jarad pulled him gently to his feet and smiled but did not embrace him, and called him by name without calling him Brother. “You wanted to see me, my son?”

  “Domne, my master asked me to solicit advice as to the possible nomination of Sorely Cardinal Nauwhat.”

  “From me, or everyone?”

  “From everyone, Domne.”

  “Tell him that if the Holy Ghost is not against it, I’m for it.” He smiled at Blacktooth and turned away again.

  “What of the nomination of Jarad Cardinal Kendemin?”

  “The Holy Ghost and I are both against it. Is that all?”

  “Not quite.”

  “I was afraid not.”

  “I would like to ask the abbot’s blessing on my release from the Order.”

  Jarad looked at him remotely. “I was the minister who conferred on you the sacrament of Holy Orders, remember?”

  “Of course.”

  Jarad pressed his palms together, eyed the darkness above, and said to God, “Have you ever been known to take back Holy Orders?”

  “Never,” said Cardinal Brownpony, joining them. “What do we have, a problem here?”

  “None whatever,” exclaimed Jarad, clamping an arm around his shoulder.

  “No problem with you, Nimmy?”

  “Yes, a problem. When and how am I going to be laicized?”

  “Well, that’s partly up to the abbot here.”

  “And without his permission, it’s up to the Pope?” Blacktooth shifted his gaze toward Jarad, noticed the anger, noticed the controlling of anger, and saw Jarad’s lips move slightly in prayer while he breathed deeply and listened to Brownpony.

  “Oh, it’s up to the Pope in the end anyway, but his permission is almost automatic if the abbot has given his.” Brownpony looked questioningly at Jarad. Jarad let go of his shoulder.

  “And almost automatically refused if the abbot refuses?” Blacktooth also looked at Jarad.

  “No,” said the Red Deacon, “probably the Pope would want to talk to you personally. In your case, I’m sure he would.”

  Jarad faced Blacktooth squarely. “I suppose I owe you a hearing. Do you want to talk to me about it? Come to my quarters when all this is over.”

  “I thank you, Domne!”

  When he turned away, Brownpony fell in step with him. “Do you want to be laicized, or do you just want to make the whole thing a quarrel with the abbot? He’ll let you go, if you don’t make him any madder than he is now. Let it alone, Nimmy. He’s not happy with you. Don’t make it worse.”

  The monk left the vicinity, his self-confidence drained. He missed the abbey. He yearned for Jarad’s blessing, or at least some evidence of forgiveness. He continued canvassing, although he knew that all Brownpony really wanted was to spread the knowledge that he was considering Sorely Nauwhat. A deception, Nimmy thought. Or maybe not. The Northwest had probably been happier when the papacy was located across the Plains. There had been less interference in the Northwest Church’s affairs from New Rome than from Valana. Nauwhat was leaning toward an immediate return, in spite of the hostility of Cardinal Benefez toward the Northwest’s independence in matters of liturgy and of Catholic teaching. Brownpony was dragging in a red herring to lead the hounds away from politics toward theology, if Blacktooth correctly understood his master’s hints. But on the other hand, Sorely Nauwhat would perhaps be a good man for the highest office.

  From outside came the repeated roar: “Elect the Pope! Elect the Pope!” Occasionally, it became, “Elect the Amen! Elect the Amen!” Rumor came in from outside that Father Specklebird had left his cave and gone up the mountain, and a committee of citizens searched for his trail. Blacktooth prayed to Saint Leibowitz, and tried to keep up with his breviary, but could not pray well in the midst of havoc, as Abbot Jarad seemed able to do.

  He was becoming very hungry.

  Cardinal High Chamberlain Hilan Bleze tried to lead the frightened prelates in a Veni Creator Spiritus, but the hymn could scarcely be heard above the racket on the roof, the hammering of doors and windows, the splash of slop on the floor, and the babble of frightened conversation among the hundreds of electors and their conclavists.

  Two hours later, perhaps in response to the invocation of the Holy Ghost, someone tossed a living bird down through the hole in the roof and covered the hole to prevent its escape. Not a dove but a vulture flapped around the Cathedral in terror and finally alighted atop the giant crucifix which hung suspended in midair by chains from a roof beam between the nave and the altar. Several cardinals were screaming about an omen, a warning from God.

  Brownpony climbed up on the temporary altar itself and roared, “Silence! In the name of God, silence!”

  Only the desecration of the altar could have caught their attention, and silence did at last prevail.

  “What you see and hear is indeed the judgment of God on us! Now this congregation must invite Father Amen to address us. He should be one of us. We shall hear him, and hear him now. How say you?”

  “Get down from there, Elia!” Abbot Jarad shouted.

  “Not until you vote!”

  There were dissenting murmurs among the cardinals, and a few cries of outrage, but after some muffled shouting outside the walls, the crowd fell suddenly silent. The crowd had posted reporters to listen at some of the broken windows.

  “Quiet! Let the nays vote first,” Brownpony called. “They’ll be easier to count. Those who refuse to hear Father Amen, raise your hands.”

  Pointing here and there, counting aloud, Brownpony said, “Seventeen!” and stopped. “Amen Specklebird shall speak to us.” He nodded and climbed down.


  A face was looking in through a broken window above the choir loft. It was a Valana policeman. Brownpony and the Cardinal High Chamberlain disappeared through a doorway and soon were in the balcony talking to the officer. He shouted their words to the crowd. The hole in the roof was uncovered to allow the buzzard to escape, but the frightened bird took no notice and remained perched on the upright above the INRI sign. A roar of enthusiasm went up from the mob outside.

  Soon some of the windows were uncovered, but nothing was done about the doors. Within two hours, shit was being shoveled from the privies. Baskets of sour rye bread with the black specks were lowered through the roof hole, and the water pumps began working again. Screaming reerupted, however, when the buzzard suddenly descended from the cross to the floor, attracted by a smelly lump of garbage on the tiles. Three Sanjoanini were finally allowed entrance through a loft window to shoo away the bird and clean up the slops from the floor.

  Chaos subsided, order returned, and the only sound in the palace was the murmur of hiccups, moans, sighs, groans from the ill, a murmur which occluded any whispered conversations drifting past and echoing in the great and temporarily sacred cavern. The light was low, near sunset. Servants were beginning to light the candles, but only a few of the cardinals were up and about. The rye bread had been consumed, and most of the water, but hunger, thirst, and fear presided over the night.

  Blacktooth overheard a Texark conclavist talking to one of the abbess’s assistants:

  “Everybody knows Cardinal Brownpony has taken off his gloves. Brownpony went to Leibowitz Abbey and hired himself a secretary and a bodyguard this spring. And who is this new bodyguard? A Texark runaway criminal, the former executioner Wooshin, now under a sentence of death for treason. And who is this secretary? A Texark-hating refugee from the Grasshopper Horde, brought up to despise imperial civilization but educated at the abbey, who was a friend of Corvany’s assassin. The cardinal deacon stood up and denounced our learned Thon Yordin and at the same time slandered Cardinal Benefez and all but declared war on the Texark Church. Now he wants a mountain-dwelling hermit, who barely speaks Latin and would be frightened to death by New Rome, to become the next Bishop of New Rome, in absentia again. Permanently in absentia, as Cardinal Brownpony would probably have it. However my master might otherwise have voted with respect to Amen Specklebird, Cardinal Brownpony’s support of him will cause him to abstain, of that I am certain.”