“We hear you, St. lago,” a resonant voice answered. “What is your destination?”
Father Al almost fell through his webbing.
“Did I hear that correctly?” Brother Chard stared at the communicator, goggle-eyed. He noted the frequency readout and reached forward to adjust the video to match it. An intent face replaced the overhead view of the town street, a thin face with troubled eyes and a dark fringe of hair cut straight across the forehead. But Father Al scarcely noticed the face; he was staring at the little yellow screwdriver handle in the breast pocket of the monk’s robe.
“What is your destination, St. la… Ah!” The face lit up, and the man’s gaze turned directly toward them as they came into sight on his screen. Then he stared. “St. lago, you are men of the cloth!”
“And your own cloth, too.” Father Al straightened up in his couch. “Father Aloysius Uwell, of the order of St. Vidicon of Cathode, at your service. My companion is Brother Chard, of the Order of St. Francis Assisi.”
“Father Cotterson, Order of St. Vidicon,” the monk returned, reluctantly. “What is your destination, Father?”
“Gramarye, Father Cotterson. I’ve been dispatched to find a man named Rod Gallowglass.”
“The High Warlock?” Father Cotterson’s voice turned somber.
“You’ll pardon my surprise, Father, but how is it you’ve retained knowledge of technology?” asked Father Al. “I was told your ancestors had fled here to escape it.”
“How would you have known that?”
“Through a prophet, of a sort,” Father Al said slowly. “He left a message to be opened a thousand years after he wrote it, and we’ve just read it.”
“A prophecy?” Father Cotterson murmured, his eyes glazing. “About Gramarye?”
He was in shock; one of his prime myths had just focused on himself. The pause was fortunate; Father Al needed a little time to reflect, too.
High Warlock? Rod Gallowglass?
Already?
As to the rest of it, it was perfectly logical—there had been a Cathodean priest among the original colonists; and where there was one Cathodean, science and technology would be kept alive, somehow.
How? Well, that was nit-picking; it had any number of answers. The question could wait. Father Al cleared his throat. “I think we have a great deal to discuss, Father Cotterson—but could it wait till we’re face-to-face? I’d like to make planetfall first.”
Father Cotterson came back to life. He hesitated, clearly poised on the horns of a dilemma. Father Al could almost hear the monk’s thoughts—which was the worst danger? To allow Father Al to land? Or to send him away, and risk his return with reinforcements? Father Al sympathized; myths can be far more terrifying than the people underlying them.
Father Cotterson came to a decision. “Very well, Father, you may bring down your ship. But please land after nightfall; you could create something of a panic. After all, no one’s seen a ship land here in all our history.”
Father Al was still puzzling that one over, three hours later, when the land below them was dark and rising up to meet them. If no spaceship had landed for centuries, how had Rod Gallowglass come to be there? Yorick had said he was an off-worlder.
Well, no use theorizing when he didn’t have all the facts. He gazed up into the viewscreen. “About 200 meters away from the monastery, please, Brother Chard. That should give you time to lift off again, before they can reach us. Not that I think they would prevent you from leaving—but it never hurts to be certain.”
“Whatever you say, Father,” Brother Chard said wearily.
Father Al looked up. “You’re not still saddened at discovering they don’t need missionaries, are you?”
“Well…”
“Come, come, Brother, buck up.” Father Al patted the younger man on the shoulder. “These good monks have been out of contact with the rest of the Church for centuries; no doubt they’ll need several emissaries, to update them on advances in theology and Church history.”
Brother Chard did perk up a bit at that. Father Al was glad the young monk hadn’t realized the corollary—that those “emissaries” might find themselves having to combat heresy. Colonial theologians could come up with some very strange ideas, given five hundred years’ isolation from Rome.
And Rod Gallowglass could spark the grandaddy of them all, if he weren’t properly guided.
The pinnace landed, barely touching the grass, and Father Al clambered out of the miniature airlock. He hauled his travelling case down behind him, watched the airlock close, then went around to the nose, moving back fifty feet or so, and waved at the nose camera. Lights blinked in answering farewell, and the St. lago lifted off again. It was only a speck against dark clouds by the time the local monks came puffing up.
“Why… did you let him… take off again?” Father Cotterson panted.
“Why, because this is my mission, not his,” Father Al answered in feigned surprise. “Brother Chard was only assigned to bring me here, Father, not to aid me in my mission.”
Father Cotterson glared upward at the receding dot, like a spider trying to glare down a fly that gained wisdom at the last second. The monk didn’t look quite so imposing in the flesh; he was scarcely taller than Father Al, and lean to the point of skinniness. Father Al’s respect for him rose a notch; no doubt Father Cotterson fasted frequently.
Either that, or he had a tapeworm.
Father Cotterson turned back to Father Al, glaring. “Have you considered, Father, how you are to leave Gramarye once your mission is completed?”
“Why…” said Father Al slowly, “I’m not certain that I will, Father Cotterson.” As he said it, the fact sank in upon him—this might indeed be his final mission, though it might last decades. If it didn’t, and if the Lord had uses for him elsewhere, no doubt He would contrive the transportation.
Father Cotterson didn’t look too happy about the idea of Father Al’s becoming a resident. “I can see we’ll have to discuss this at some length. Shall we return to the monastery, Father?”
“Yes, by all means,” Father Al murmured, and fell into step beside the lean monk as he turned back toward the walled enclosure in the distance. A dozen other brown-robes fell in behind them.
“A word as to local ways,” Father Cotterson said. “We speak modern English within our own walls; but without, we speak the vernacular. There are quite a few archaic words and phrases, but the greatest difference is the use of the second person singular, in place of the second person plural. You might wish to begin practice with us, Father.”
“And call thee ‘thee’ and ‘thou?’ Well, that should be easy enough.” After all, Father Al had read the King James Version.
“A beginning, at least. Now tell me, Father—why dost thou seek Rod Gallowglass?”
Father Al hesitated. “Is not that a matter I should discuss with the head of thine Order, Father Cotterson?”
“The Abbot is absent at this time; he is in Runnymede, in conference with Their Majesties. I am his Chancellor, Father, and the monastery is in my care while he is gone. Anything that thou wouldst say to him, thou mayst discuss with me.”
A not entirely pleasant development, Father Al decided. He didn’t quite trust Father Cotterson; the man had the look of the fanatic about him, and Father Al wasn’t quite certain which Cause he served.
On the other hand, maybe it was just the tapeworm.
“The prophecy I told thee of,” Father Al began—and paused. Decidedly, he didn’t trust Father Cotterson. If the man was the religious fanatic he appeared to be, how would he react to the idea that the High Warlock would become even more powerful?
So he changed the emphasis a little. “Our prophecy told us that Rod Gallowglass would be the most powerful wizard ever known. Thou dost see the theological implications of this, of course.”
“Aye, certes.” Father Cotterson smiled without mirth—and also without batting an eye. “Wrongly guided, such an one could inspire a Devil’s Cult.”<
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“Aye, so it is.” Father Al fell into the monk’s speech style, and frowned up at him. “How is it this doth not disconcert thee, Father?”
“We know it of old,” the monk replied wearily. “We have striven to hold our witchfolk from Satan for years. Rest assured, Father—if no Devil’s Cult hath yet arisen on Gramarye, ‘tis not like to rise up now.”
“ ‘Witchfolk?’ ” Suddenly, Father Al fairly quivered with attention to the monk’s words. “What witchfolk are these, Father?”
“Why, the warlocks and witches in the mountains and fens, and in the King’s Castle,” Father Cotterson answered. “Did not thy prophecy speak of them, Father?”
“Not in any detail. And thou dost not see thy High Warlock as any greater threat to thy flock?”
“Nay; he ha’ been known nigh onto ten years, Father, and, if aught, hath brought the witchfolk closer to God.” Father Cotterson smiled with a certain smugness, relaxing a little. “Thy prophet seems to have spake somewhat tardily.”
“Indeed he doth.” But Father Al wondered; the lean monk didn’t seem to have noticed anything unusual about Rod Gallowglass. Perhaps there was a big change due in the High Warlock’s life-style.
“At all odds, if thou hast come to guide our High Warlock, I fear thou hast wasted time and effort,” Father Cotterson said firmly. “I assure thee, Father, we are equal to that task.” They came to a halt at the monastery gates. Father Cotterson pounded on them with a fist, shouting, “Ho, porter!”
“I am sure that thou art,” Father Al murmured as the huge leaves swung open. “Yet the prime task given me, Father, is to seek out the truth regarding our prophecy. If nought else, my mission is well-spent simply in the learning so much of a flock we had thought lost—and better spent in finding that they are not lost at all, but exceedingly well cared for.”
Father Cotterson fairly beamed at the compliment. “We do what we can, Father—though we are sorely tried by too little gold, and too few vocations.”
“I assure thee, Father, ‘tis the case on every world where humanity doth bide.” Father Al looked about him as they came into a wide, walled yard. “A fair House you hold, Father, and exceedingly well-kept.”
“Why, I thank thee, Father Uwell. Wilt thou taste our wines?”
“Aye, with a right good will. I would fane see summat of this goodly land of thine, Father, and thy folk. Canst thou provide me with means of transport, and one to guide me?”
The thaw reversed itself, and Father Cotterson frosted up again. “Why… aye, certes, Father. Thou shalt have thy pick of the mules, and a Brother for guide. But I must needs enjoin thee not to leave this our House, till the Lord Abbot hath returned, and held thee in converse.”
“Indeed, ‘tis only courtesy, Father,” Father Al said easily.
“Yet most needful,” Father Cotterson said, in a tone of apology that had iron beneath it. “Our good Lord Abbot must impress upon thee, Father, how strictly thou must guard thy tongue outside these walls. For these people have lived for centuries in a changeless Middle Ages, look you, and any hint of modern ways will seem to them to be sorcery, and might shake their faith. And, too, ‘twould cause avalanches of change in this land, and bring ruin and misery to many.”
“I assure thee, Father, I come to verify what is here, not to change it,” Father Al said softly.
But something in the way Father Cotterson had said it assured Father Al that, if he waited for the Abbot, he might spend the rest of his life waiting. After all, he had taken an oath of obedience, and the Abbot might see himself as Father Al’s lawful superior, entitled to give binding orders—and might resent it if Father Al chose to honor the Pope’s orders over those of an Abbot. His resentment might be rather forcibly expressed—and, though Father Al valued times of quiet contemplation in his cell, he preferred that the cell be above ground, and that the door not be locked from the outside.
“…per omnia saecula saeculorum,” Father Cotterson intoned.
“Amen,” responded fifty monks, finishing the grace.
Father Cotterson sat, in his place at the center of the head table, and the other monks followed suit. Father Al was seated at Father Cotterson’s right hand, in the guest’s place of honor.
“Who are servitors tonight?” Father Cotterson asked.
“Father Alphonse in the kitchen, Father.” One of the monks rose and stripped off his robe, revealing a monk’s-cloth coverall beneath. “And myself, at the table.”
“I thank thee, Brother Bertram,” Father Cotterson answered, as the monk floated up over the refectory table and hung there, hovering face-down above the board. Father Alphonse bustled out of the kitchen with a loaded tray and passed it to Brother Bertram, who drifted down to the monk farthest from the head table and held the platter down for the monk to serve himself.
Father Cotterson turned to Father Al. “Is this custom still maintained in all chapters of the Order, Father—that each monk becomes servitor in his turn, even the Abbot?”
“Well… yes.” Father Al stared at Brother Bertram, his eyes fairly bulging. “But, ah—not quite in this manner.”
“How so?” Father Cotterson frowned up at Brother Bertram. “Oh—thou dost speak of his levitation. Well, many of our brethren do not have the trick of it; they, of necessity, walk the length of the tables. Still, ‘tis more efficient in this fashion, for those that can do it.”
“I doubt it not.” Father Al felt a thrill course through him; his heart began to sing. “Are there those amongst thee who can move the dishes whilst they remain seated?”
“Telekinesis?” Father Cotterson frowned. “Nay; the gene for it is sex-linked, and only females have the ability. Though Brother Mordecai hath pursued some researches into the matter. How doth thy experiments progress, Brother?”
A lean monk swallowed and shook his head. “Not overly well, Father.” The salt-cellar at the center of the table trembled, rose a few inches, then fell with a clatter. Brother Mordecai shrugged. “I can do no better; yet I hope for improvement, with practice.”
Father Al stared at the salt-cellar. “But—thou didst just say the trait was sex-linked!”
“Aye; yet my sister is telekinetic, and we are both telepaths; so I have begun to attempt to draw on her powers, with the results thou dost see.” Brother Mordecai speared a slab of meat as Brother Bertram drifted past him. “She, too, doth make the attempt, and doth draw on mine ability. To date, she hath managed to levitate three centimeters, when she doth lie supine.”
Father Cotterson nodded, with pursed lips. “I had not known she had made so much progress.”
“But…but…” Father Al managed to get his tongue working again. “Is there no danger that she will learn of the technology thou dost so wish to keep hidden?”
“Nay.” Brother Mordecai smiled. “She is of our sister Order.”
“The Anodeans?”
Father Cotterson nodded, smiling. “It doth warm my heart, Father, to learn that our Orders are maintained still, on other worlds.”
“Yet ‘tis indeed a problem of security,” another monk volunteered. “Our old disciplines seem to wear thin, Father Cotterson, in the closing of our minds to the espers without our Order.”
Father Cotterson stiffened. “Hath one of the King’s ‘witch-folk’ learned of technology from our minds, Father Ignatius?”
“I think not,” the monk answered. “Yet, the whiles I did meditate on mine electrolyte vies an hour agone, I did sense an echo, an harmonic to my thoughts. I did, of course, listen, and sensed the mind of a babe in resonance with mine. So ‘tis not an immediate threat; yet the child will, assuredly, grow.”
“Might not his parents have been listening to his thoughts!”
“Nay; I sensed no further resonance. And yet I think it matters little; the babe’s mind held an image of his mother, and ‘twas the High Warlock’s wife.”
Father Cotterson relaxed. “Aye, ‘tis small danger there; Lady Gallowglass cannot have escaped learning something
of technology, and must assuredly comprehend the need of silence on the issue.”
“I take it, then, thou hast found ways of shielding thy minds from other telepaths?” Father Al burst in.
“Indeed.” Father Cotterson nodded. “ ‘Tis linked with the meditation of prayer, Father, in which the mind is closed to the outside world, but opened toward God. Yet it doth seem we’ll have to seek new ways to strengthen such closure. Brother Milaine, thou’It attend to it?”
A portly monk nodded. “Assuredly, Father.”
“Research is, of course, common amongst we who are cloistered within this monastery,” Father Cotterson explained.
Father Al nodded. “ ‘Twould not be a House of St. Vidicon, otherwise. Yet I assume such activity is forbidden to thy parish priests.”
“Nay; ‘tis more simply done.” Father Cotterson started cutting his ounce of meat. “Monks trained for the parishes are taught only their letters and numbers, and theology; only those who take monastic vows are trained in science and technology.”
“A practical system,” Father Al admitted, “though I mislike secrecy of knowledge.”
“So do we, Father.” Father Cotterson’s eyes burned into his. “Knowledge ought to be free, that all might learn it. Yet ‘twas only through subterfuge that Father Ricci, the founder of our Chapter, did manage to retain knowledge of science when he did come to Gramarye; and assuredly, he’d have been burned for a witch had he attempted to teach what he knew. Those who originally did colonize this planet were intent on forgetting all knowledge of science. We’d likely suffer burning ourselves, if we did attempt to disclose what we know—and ‘twould throw the land into chaos. The beginnings of science did batten the turmoil of Europe’s Renaissance, on Terra; what would knowledge of modern technology and science do to this medieval culture? Nay, we must keep our knowledge secret yet awhile.”
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