We began the descent, proceeding very very slowly. When we were halfway down, Francis signaled Captain Wolf to stop. Then he turned, lifted his arms, and bade farewell to Monte Alvernia.
"Beloved mountain, mountain trodden by God, I thank you for the good you have done me, for the wounds you have given me, for the sleepless nights, the terrors, the blood! It is said that when Christ was crucified, you, alone of all mountains, quaked and rived your heart in two. And your daughters the partridges tore out their feathers and wailed the death chant, their eyes turned toward Jerusalem. My heart is another partridge; it too has begun to wail and lament. Christ, crucified in the air above your rocks, has brought me a secret message, and I am leaving. I am leaving, dearest Alvernia. Farewell. Farewell, beloved. We shall never meet again. Farewell forever!"
We resumed the descent in silence. Even Captain Wolf's eyes were dimmed with tears, and he stumbled frequently.
In the surrounding villages, meanwhile, the peasants had leapt out of bed, startled by the intense brightness which had been visible at dawn. The bells began to ring. Everyone had seen Alvernia ablaze. Shouting, "Francis has been made a saint, Francis has been made a saint!" men, women and children set out to find him, and they took along the sick and infirm so that the new Saint could heal them with his touch.
The moment they glimpsed us approaching them, they all darted forward to touch Francis' hands, feet, and knees. But he kept his hands and feet tightly wrapped in his frock, hiding them so that the people would not see his wounds.
"Touch us, holy father," howled the sick. "Look at us, extend your hand, heal us!"
Forgetting himself for a moment, Francis brought his hand out from under his frock in order to bless the multitude. When the people saw the wound they bellowed madly. The women dashed forward with mantles outstretched to catch the drops; the men thrust in their hands and anointed their faces with blood. The villagers' expressions grew savage, and so did their souls. They longed to be able to tear the Saint limb from limb in order for each of them to claim a mouthful of his flesh, for they wanted to make him their own, to have him enter them so that they could become one with a saint-- could be sanctified. Blind rage had overpowered them; their eyes were leaden, their lips ringed with froth. Sensing the danger, I stepped forward.
"In God's name, fellow Christians," I shouted, "let us continue. The Saint is in a great hurry to return to his native soil. If you want his blessing, make way!"
"He's not going to go! We won't let him!" shouted angry voices on every side. "Here's where he's going to leave his bones--here, so they can sanctify our village." "And we'll build him a church, and people will come on pilgrimage from all over the world!"
"Hold him! Don't let him go! He's ours! Ours! Ours!"
I turned to Captain Wolf.
"My brother, I'm frightened. They want to take him from us. Help me!"
Francis had concealed his bloody hand beneath his frock again. He was waiting with bowed head, the sweat pouring from his brow. His eyes had once more become two running wounds.
"Have pity on him," I cried. "Don't you see him? He's bleeding!"
But the sight of additional blood only provoked the crowd that much more.
"He's ours! Ours! Ours!"
"We never had a saint in our village before. Now that God has sent us one, are we going to let him escape?"
"Bring some rope! Tie him up!"
This was too much for Captain Wolf. He seized a club from one of the old men and stepped forward, clutching the donkey's bridle.
"Make way, make way," he bellowed, "make way or I'll crack open your skulls! Don't forget, I'm Captain Wolf! Step aside!"
The men lost courage and backed out of his path, but the women pounced on Francis. Foaming with rage, they started to drag him by his frock, which ripped, exposing his bruised, skeleton-like body.
"My children, my children," murmured Francis, weeping.
The tiny donkey put forward its trembling front legs and began to kneel. Just as it was about to fall, Captain Wolf gave it a smack which made it stand up straight again. The crowd charged him, but he swung the club: there was the sound of a skull cracking.
"Back, back, sacrilegious thieves!" he cried, and he made his way forward, swinging the club up and down.
As soon as the sick and infirm beheld the saint leaving them, they began to shout and weep.
"How can you abandon us like this, Saint of God? Have you no pity? You cry, 'Love! Love!' Where is this love? Touch us, heal us!"
Francis kept his head turned toward them. He was gazing at them, blood and tears flowing from his eye's. "God . . . God . . ." he kept murmuring, unable to utter anything else.
At last it pleased the Lord that we should escape them. We reached the plain and began to breathe freely again.
"They wanted to gobble you up alive, Brother Francis," said Captain Wolf laughingly. "But they didn't, thanks to this holy cudgel. Bless it. With your permission, I'm going to take it along with the other things when I go to heaven."
Eventually we reached a village where we stopped to rest. It was necessary for me to wash Francis' wounds and to find some clean strips of cloth with which to bind them. There was a fountain in the center of the village. I began to attend to Francis while Captain Wolf went out to beg. Soon he returned with a piece of cloth. I tore it and bound the wounds in Francis' hands, feet, and right side.
"Are you in pain, Father Francis?"
He gave me a look of surprise. "In pain?" he asked. "Who is in pain? What is pain? I don't understand what you mean, Brother Leo."
And truly--I noticed it then for the first time--his face had become completely transformed. It was radiant with calmness, beatitude. A nimbus of light crowned his hair, and his hands and feet were sparkling.
I sat down at the edge of the fountain and watched Francis, watched him as he departed, vanished without even turning to look at me. God and God alone occupied his heart now. My journey was ended as well--finished! I was left midway. I would never be able to reach him. We would never meet again; I would never again journey at his side.
I sighed. Francis turned and looked at me for a long time, a bitter smile quivering round the edge of his lips.
"Brother Leo," he said finally, "can you find a piece of paper and a quill?"
I ran to the village priest and returned with the quill and paper. "I've brought them, Father Francis."
"Write!"
I leaned over the paper and waited, quill in hand.
"Are you ready, Brother Leo?"
"Ready."
"Write!"
Thou art holy, Lord God. Thou art the God of gods, Who
alone workest miracles.
Thou art strong, Thou art great, Thou art most high!
Thou art good, every good, the highest good.
Thou art love, wisdom, humility, patience.
Thou art beauty, certitude, peace, joy.
Thou art our hope, Thou art justice, Thou art all our
wealth.
Thou art our protector, Thou art the guardian and
defender.
Thou art the great sweetness of our souls!
As he dictated to me he became more and more carried away. First he began to tap with his hands and feet; then all of a sudden he attempted to stand up and dance. But his legs would not support him, and he sank back to the ground.
"What joy this is, what happiness!" he exclaimed. "The heavens have come down to earth. These beings all around me are not men, but stars. . . . Did you write everything down, Brother Leo? Everything?"
"Yes, Father Francis, everything," I replied, and as I said this I felt a serpent biting my heart. My soul was embittered, for I did not share the happiness he spoke about. I looked around me, but saw no one. Even Francis had left me, had gone far far away--forever.
"Write some more, Brother Leo. Write underneath, in capitals: THE LORD turn His countenance to thee, that thy face may be cleansed and radiant, BROTHER LEO. THE LORD place His han
d upon thy heart, BROTHER LEO, and give thee peace.
"Did you write that?"
"Yes, Father Francis," I replied, my eyes filling with tears.
"Give me the paper and the quill. I want to add something myself."
He tried to clasp the quill, but he was unable to close his hand. With great effort he managed to trace a skull at the bottom of the paper, and above the skull a cross, and above the cross a star.
'Take this sheet and keep it always with you, Brother Leo. And whenever you are overcome with grief, remove it from beneath your frock and read it in order to remember me--to remember how much I loved you." THE MORE I RECALL those days when we journeyed back to our native soil, the more certain am I that Giles was right: the saint does emit an odor which makes its way into the homes of men. Penetrating mountains and forests, it takes each man by surprise, overwhelming him with fear and anxiety. All his sins bound into his mind: every instance of cowardice, of villainy, of faintness of soul he thought he had forgotten, thought that time had erased. The jaws of hell suddenly open wide beneath his feet, and he, his heart in turmoil, sniffs the air, turns his face in the direction the odor is coming from, and sets out with trembling steps to find its source.
The friars--all who remained faithful--ran to the Portiuncula. Francis had lost almost all his blood. We laid him down in his hut, on the ground, and the brothers crowded around him, kissing him repeatedly and begging him without respite to describe how he had received his wounds, and the brilliance of the figure of Christ nailed upon the wings, and what were the secret words which the Son of God had confided to him. Francis, keeping his hands and feet hidden, wept and laughed in turn, so great was his joy. He had conquered pain: he felt that someone was in pain, but someone else, not him. He had already departed this world, and he looked upon all the rest of us with compassion.
Pilgrims from the large cities and from distant villages kept arriving continually, having been guided to our hut by the odor of sainthood. Some had diseases of the soul, some of the body. They touched Francis, kissed his feet, and he spoke to them using simple words, but ones they had forgotten: love, concord, humility, hope, poverty. And these simple words, when pronounced by his lips, took on for the first time a deep significance full of mystery and certitude. The people were comforted. They were astonished to find how easy beatitude was, how close to them, and many returned to their homes so changed, so sweetened, that their families no longer recognized them. Thus more and more ran to drink a drop of the immortal water which flowed from the Saint's mouth.
One day Francis had closed his eyes: he was exhausted. It was terribly hot, and I, seated cross-legged next to him, was cooling him with a fan of sycamore leaves when an elderly, aristocratically dressed lady approached, walking on tiptoe in order not to disturb him. She knelt at his side and, without speaking, bent to kiss his hands and feet; then she caressingly grazed his hair, which was drenched with sweat. So tender was her caress that I looked up, trying to discover the identity of this majestic woman who was so tightly wrapped in her black wimple. She stared at Francis, did not take her eyes from him. Suddenly her lips moved:
"My child . . ." And she burst into tears.
I jumped to my feet. I had understood.
"Lady Pica, noble Lady Pica," I whispered. She parted her wimple slightly, revealing her face. It was aged, full of wrinkles, deathly pale. She shook her head.
"Oh, Brother Leo, I delivered my son up to your care, and now look how you are returning him to me!"
"Not I, Lady Pica--God."
She lowered her head. "Yes," she murmured, "God . . ." and she fixed her tearful eyes once more upon her son.
Truly, this son, this darling son, was now nothing more than a tatter: one huge wound lying on the ground in a pool of blood.
"Is this my boy?" she whispered. "Is this my Francis?" She stared at him through her tears, struggling to recognize him.
Francis heard the whisper. Opening his eyes, he saw his mother and knew her immediately.
"Mother, Mother, you've come!" He held out his hands to her.
"My son . . . my father--I don't know what to call you any more--I kiss the five wounds which the Lord gave you. I have come to ask a favor. Remember the milk you drank from my breast, and do not refuse me."
"I do, I do, Mother; I remember everything, and I shall take all my memories with me and bring them to God so that He may sanctify them. What favor do you wish to ask?"
"Cut off my hair, call me Sister Pica; let me flee to San Damiano's. I have lost my husband, lost my son: I have no further use for the world."
"To have no further use for the world is not enough, Mother. You must have a use for God. You should say, 'I have lost my husband, lost my son--praise the Lord! But I have not lost God; I still possess everything, and I wish to enter San Damiano's not because I hate the world but because I love Almighty God.' "
"I wish to enter San Damiano's because I love Almighty God," repeated Lady Pica, struggling to restrain her sobs. "Give me your blessing, Father Francis!"
Francis raised himself up painfully. With my help he leaned back against the stone which served as his pillow.
"Have you distributed your belongings among the poor? Have you bowed, prostrated yourself before our noble Lady Poverty? Have you abandoned your magnificent house with a feeling of relief and joy, just as though you had recovered from a serious illness? Have you parted with everything?"
"Everything, everything, Father Francis."
"Then you have my blessing, Sister Pica," he said, placing his hand on his mother's head. "Go to Sister Clara's; she will cut off your hair and give you a frock. And farewell! We may never see each other again."
Lady Pica fell tearfully upon her son's breast and kissed it with reverence. Spreading her arms, she lifted him up, embraced him tightly, tenderly, as though he were an infant. Then she wrapped her black wimple securely around her again and set off in the direction of San Damiano's.
Francis glanced at me.
"Brother Leo, how can those who do not believe in God leave their mothers, leave them forever, without having their hearts break in two? How can they bear the sorrow, the unbearable sorrow of parting? Even the sight of an ordinary lamp flickering and about to die is enough to make one sick at heart. . . . What do you think, Brother Leo?"
I was completely bewildered. What could I say--that whoever loves God does not love anything else, does not pity anything in the world; that his soul is burning, and that even mother, father, brothers and sisters are enveloped in its flames and consumed, as are joy, suffering, wealth-- everything?
"I remember the time in Assisi," I offered by way of reply, "when the night watchman began to shout 'Fire!' It was midnight. The bells tolled; the half-naked inhabitants dashed into the streets. But it wasn't a fire that was burning, it was your soul. Your soul, Father Francis, and the whole of creation was being consumed within it. Look how your mother was just reduced to ashes."
He said nothing. Deathly pale, he kept looking at his hands and feet, biting his lips.
"Are you in pain, Father Francis?"
"Yes, someone is in pain, Brother Leo," he replied.
Exerting all his strength, he raised himself up. "Let him suffer, let him groan in the flames. As for us, we shall hold our heads high! Do you remember the song the three children Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah sang in the fiery furnace where they had been thrown by the Babylonian tyrant? Ready, little lion of God, let's clap our hands and sing it too. Oh, if I could only stand on my feet and dance! I'll begin; you keep time."
Clapping his hands, he commenced to sing in a firm, jubilant voice:
All ye works of the Lord, bless the Lord: praise and exalt
Him forever.
O all ye waters that are above the heavens, and all ye
powers of the Lord, bless the Lord: praise and exalt
Him forever.
O ye sun and moon and ye stars of heaven, bless the Lord:
praise and exalt Him fore
ver.
O ye light and darkness, and ye nights and days, bless the
Lord: praise and exalt Him forever.
O every shower and dew, and all ye spirits of God, bless
the Lord: praise and exalt Him forever.
O ye fire and heat, and ye cold and warmth, bless the
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