“No,” I said, “no trouble. Isn’t he here?”
“He went,” he said. “Walked out on me. Must be nearly a year ago now. Never heard a word from him, nor did anyone else. Left everything in order, I must say. But when you asked for him, I wondered.”
I said, “It doesn’t matter.” I turned and walked back to the car, feeling his eyes on my back the whole way. Now, of course, I shall never know. Only I did not imagine it. I can see him and hear him much too clearly for that, railing in his soft country voice against some monstrous celestial tyranny I could not understand.
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~ * ~
WALTER M. MILLER, JR.
It’s a strange and moving story that Walter Miller has chosen to tell on this his first (and very welcome!) appearance in these annuals. In the background is a bitter history of atomic devastation and of man’s deliberate conscious creation of a new Dark Age. But this is no bitter story; for in the foreground stands little Brother Francis of Utah, gentle, humble, fallibly human—and this loving account of his trials glow with the light that must lie at the heart of the Darkest Age.
A CANTICLE FOR LEIBOWITZ
Brother Francis Gerard of Utah would never have discovered the sacred document, had it not been for the pilgrim with girded loins who appeared during that young monk’s Lenten fast in the desert. Never before had Brother Francis actually seen a pilgrim with girded loins, but that this one was the bona fide article he was convinced at a glance. The pilgrim was a spindly old fellow with a staff, a basket hat, and a brushy beard, stained yellow about the chin. He walked with a limp and carried a small waterskin over one shoulder. His loins truly were girded with a ragged piece of dirty burlap, his only clothing except for hat and sandals. He whistled tunelessly on his way.
The pilgrim came shuffling down the broken trail out of the north, and he seemed to be heading toward the Brothers of Leibowitz Abbey six miles to the south. The pilgrim and the monk noticed each other across an expanse of ancient rubble. The pilgrim stopped whistling and stared. The monk, because of certain implications of the rule of solitude for fast days, quickly averted his gaze and continued about his business of hauling large rocks with which to complete the wolf-proofing of his temporary shelter. Somewhat weakened by a ten-day diet of cactus fruit, Brother Francis found the work made him exceedingly dizzy; the landscape had been shimmering before his eyes and dancing with black specks, and he was at first uncertain that the bearded apparition was not a mirage induced by hunger, but after a moment it called to him cheerfully, “Ola allay!”
It was a pleasant musical voice.
The rule of silence forbade the young monk to answer, except by smiling shyly at the ground.
“Is this here the road to the abbey?” the wanderer asked.
The novice nodded at the ground and reached down for a chalklike fragment of stone. The pilgrim picked his way toward him through the rubble. “What are you doing with all the rocks?” he wanted to know.
The monk knelt and hastily wrote the words “Solitude & Silence” on a large flat rock, so that the pilgrim—if he could read, which was statistically unlikely—would know that he was making himself an occasion of sin for the penitent and would perhaps have the grace to leave in peace.
“Oh, well,” said the pilgrim. He stood there for a moment, looking around, then rapped a certain large rock with his staff. “That looks like a handy crag for you,” he offered helpfully, then added: “Well, good luck. And may you find a Voice, as y’ seek.”
Now Brother Francis had no immediate intuition that the stranger meant “Voice” with a capital V, but merely assumed that the old fellow had mistaken him for a deaf mute. He glanced up once again as the pilgrim shuffled away whistling, sent a swift silent benediction after him for safe wayfaring, and went back to his rock-work, building a coffin-sized enclosure in which he might sleep at night without offering himself as wolf-bait.
A skyherd of cumulus clouds, on their way to bestow moist blessings on the mountains after having cruelly tempted the desert, offered welcome respite from the searing sunlight, and he worked rapidly to finish before they were gone again. He punctuated his labors with whispered prayers for the certainty of a true Vocation, for this was the purpose of his inward quest while fasting in the desert.
At last he hoisted the rock which the pilgrim had suggested.
The color of exertion drained quickly from his face. He backed away a step and dropped the stone as if he had uncovered a serpent.
A rusted metal box lay half crushed in the rubble . . . only a rusted metal box.
He moved toward it curiously, then paused. There were things, and then there were Things. He crossed himself hastily, and muttered brief Latin at the heavens. Thus fortified, he readdressed himself to the box.
“Apage Satanas!”
He threatened it with the heavy crucifix of his rosary.
“Depart, O Foul Seductor!”
He sneaked a tiny aspergillum from his robes and quickly spattered the box with holy water before it could realize what he was about.
“If thou be creature of the Devil, begone!”
The box showed no signs of withering, exploding, melting away. It exuded no blasphemous ichor. It only lay quietly in its place and allowed the desert wind to evaporate the sanctifying droplets.
“So be it,” said the brother, and knelt to extract it from its lodging. He sat down on the rubble and spent nearly an hour battering it open with a stone. The thought crossed his mind that such an archeological relic—for such it obviously was—might be the Heaven-sent sign of his vocation but he suppressed the notion as quickly as it occurred to him. His abbott had warned him sternly against expecting any direct personal Revelation of a spectacular nature. Indeed, he had gone forth from the abbey to fast and do penance for forty days that he might be rewarded with the inspiration of a calling to Holy Orders, but to expect a vision or a voice crying “Francis, where art thou?” would be a vain presumption. Too many novices had returned from their desert vigils with tales of omens and signs and visions in the heavens, and the good abbot had adopted a firm policy regarding these. Only the Vatican was qualified to decide the authenticity of such things. “An attack of sunstroke is no indication that you are fit to profess the solemn vows of the order,” he had growled. And certainly it was true that only rarely did a call from Heaven come through any device other than the inward ear, as a gradual congealing of inner certainty.
Nevertheless, Brother Francis found himself handling the old metal box with as much reverence as was possible while battering at it.
It opened suddenly, spilling some of its contents. He stared for a long time before daring to touch, arid a cool thrill gathered along his spine. Here was antiquity indeed! And as a student of archeology, he could scarcely believe his wavering vision. Brother Jeris would be frantic with envy, he thought, but quickly repented this unkindness and murmured his thanks to the sky for such a treasure.
He touched the articles gingerly—they were real enough— and began sorting through them. His studies had equipped him to recognize a screwdriver—an instrument once used for twisting threaded bits of metal into wood—and a pair of cutters with blades no longer than his thumbnail, but strong enough to cut soft bits of metal or bone. There was an odd tool with a rotted wooden handle and a heavy copper tip to which a few flakes of molten lead had adhered, but he could make nothing of it. There was a toroidal roll of gummy black stuff, too far deteriorated by the centuries for him to identify. There were strange bits of metal, broken glass, and an assortment of tiny tubular things with wire whiskers of the type prized by the hill pagans as charms and amulets, but thought by some archeologists to be remnants of the legendary machina analytica, supposedly dating back to the Deluge of Flame.
All these and more he examined carefully and spread on the wide flat stone. The documents he saved until last. The documents, as always, were the real prize, for so few papers had survived the angry bonfires of the Age of Simplificati
on, when even the sacred writings had curled and blackened and withered into smoke while ignorant crowds howled vengeance.
Two large folded papers and three hand-scribbled notes constituted his find. All were cracked and brittle with age, and he handled them tenderly, shielding them from the wind with his robe. They were scarcely legible and scrawled in the hasty characters of pre-Deluge English—a tongue now used, together with Latin, only by monastics and in the Holy Ritual. He spelled it out slowly, recognizing words but uncertain of meanings. One note said: Pound pastrami, can kraut, six bagels, for Emma. Another ordered: Don’t forget to pick up form 1040 for Uncle Revenue. The third note was only a column of figures with a circled total from which another amount was subtracted and finally a percentage taken, followed by the word damn! From this he could deduce nothing, except to check the arithmetic, which proved correct.
Of the two larger papers, one was tightly rolled and began to fall to pieces when he tried to open it; he could make out the words racing form, but nothing more. He laid it back in the box for later restorative work.
The second large paper was a single folded sheet, whose creases were so brittle that he could only inspect a little of it by parting the folds and peering between them as best he could.
A diagram ... a web of white lines on dark paper!
Again the cool thrill gathered along his spine. It was a blueprint—that exceedingly rare class of ancient document most prized by students of antiquity, and usually most challenging to interpreters and searchers for meaning.
And, as if the find itself were not enough of a blessing, among the words written in a block at the lower corner of the document was the name of the founder of his order—of the Blessed Leibowitz himself!
His trembling hands threatened to tear the paper in their happy agitation. The parting words of the pilgrim tumbled back to him: “May you find a Voice, as y’ seek.” Voice indeed, with V capitalized and formed by the wings of a descending dove and illuminated in three colors against a background of gold leaf. V as in Vere dignum and Vidi aquam, at the head of a page of the Missal. V, he saw quite clearly, as in Vocation.
He stole another glance to make certain it was so, then breathed, “Beate Leibowitz, ora pro me . . . Sancte Leibowitz, exaudi me,” the second invocation being a rather daring one, since the founder of his order had not yet been declared a saint.
Forgetful of his abbot’s warning, he climbed quickly to his feet and stared across the shimmering terrain to the south in the direction taken by the old wanderer of the burlap loincloth. But the pilgrim had long since vanished. Surely an angel of God, if not the Blessed Leibowitz himself, for had he not revealed this miraculous treasure by pointing out the rock to be moved and murmuring that prophetic farewell?
Brother Francis stood basking in his awe until the sun lay red on the hills and evening threatened to engulf him in its shadows. At last he stirred, and reminded himself of the wolves. His gift included no guarantee of charismata for subduing the wild beast, and he hastened to finish his enclosure before darkness fell on the desert. When the stars came out, he rekindled his fire and gathered his daily repast of the small purple cactus fruit, his only nourishment except the handful of parched corn brought to him by the priest each Sabbath. Sometimes he found himself staring hungrily at the lizards which scurried over the rocks, and was troubled by gluttonous nightmares.
But tonight his hunger was less troublesome than an impatient urge to run back to the abbey and announce his wondrous encounter to his brethern. This, of course, was unthinkable. Vocation or no, he must remain here until the end of Lent, and continue as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.
A cathedral will be built upon this site, he thought dreamily as he sat by the fire. He could see it rising from the rubble of the ancient village, magnificent spires visible for miles across the desert. . . .
But cathedrals were for teeming masses of people. The desert was home for only scattered tribes of huntsmen and the monks of the abbey. He settled in his dreams for a shrine, attracting rivers of pilgrims with girded loins. ... He drowsed. When he awoke, the fire was reduced to glowing embers. Something seemed amiss. Was he quite alone? He blinked about at the darkness.
From beyond the bed of reddish coals, the dark wolf blinked back. The monk yelped and dived for cover.
The yelp, he decided as he lay trembling within his den of stones, had not been a serious breach of the rule of silence. He lay hugging the metal box and praying for the days of Lent to pass swiftly, while the sound of padded feet scratched about the enclosure.
~ * ~
Each night the wolves prowled about his camp, and the darkness was full of their howling. The days were glaring nightmares of hunger, heat, and scorching sun. He spent them at prayer and wood-gathering, trying to suppress his impatience for the coming of Holy Saturday’s high noon, the end of Lent and of his vigil.
But when at last it came, Brother Francis found himself too famished for jubilation. Wearily he packed his pouch, pulled up his cowl against the sun, and tucked his precious box beneath one arm. Thirty pounds lighter and several degrees weaker than he had been on Ash Wednesday, he staggered the six-mile stretch to the abbey where he fell exhausted before its gates. The brothers who carried him in and bathed him and shaved him and anointed his desiccated tissues reported that he had babbled incessantly in his delirium about an apparition in a burlap loincloth, addressing it at times as an angel and again as a saint, frequently invoking the name of Leibowitz and thanking him for a revelation of sacred relics and a racing form.
Such reports filtered through the monastic congregation and soon reached the ears of the abbot, whose eyes immediately narrowed to slits and whose jaw went rigid with the rock of policy.
“Bring him,” growled that worthy priest in a tone that sent a recorder scurrying.
The abbot paced and gathered his ire. It was not that he objected to miracles, as such, if duly investigated, certified, and sealed; for miracles—even though always incompatible with administrative efficiency, and the abbot was administrator as well as priest—were the bedrock stuff on which his faith was founded. But last year there had been Brother Noyen with his miraculous hangman’s noose, and the year before that, Brother Smirnov, who had been mysteriously cured of the gout upon handling a probable relic of the Blessed Leibowitz, and the year before that . . . Faugh! The incidents had been too frequent and outrageous to tolerate. Ever since Leibowitz’ beatification, the young fools had been sniffing around after shreds of the miraculous like a pack of good-natured hounds scratching eagerly at the back gate of Heaven for scraps.
It was quite understandable, but also quite unbearable. Every monastic order is eager for the canonization of its founder, and delighted to produce any bit of evidence to serve the cause in advocacy. But the abbot’s flock was getting out of hand, and their zeal for miracles was making the Albertian Order of Leibowitz a laughingstock at New Vatican. He had determined to make any new bearers of miracles suffer the consequences, either as a punishment for impetuous and impertinent credulity, or as payment in penance for a gift of grace in case of later verification.
By the time the young novice knocked at his door, the abbot had projected himself into the desired state of carnivorous expectancy beneath a bland exterior.
“Come in, my son,” he breathed softly.
“You sent for . . .” The novice paused, smiling happily as he noticed the familiar metal box on the abbot’s table. “. . . for me, Father Juan?” he finished.
“Yes . . .” The abbot hesitated. His voice smiled with a withering acid, adding: “Or perhaps you would prefer that I come to you, hereafter, since you’ve become such a famous personage.”
“Oh, no, Father!” Brother Francis reddened and gulped.
“You are seventeen, and plainly an idiot.”
“That is undoubtedly true, Father.”
“What improbable excuse can you propose for your outrageous vanity in believing yourself fit for Holy Orders?”
>
“I can offer none, my ruler and teacher. My sinful pride is unpardonable.”
“To imagine that it is so great as to be unpardonable is even a vaster vanity,” the priest roared.
“Yes, Father. I am indeed a worm.”
The abbot smiled icily and resumed his watchful calm. “And you are now ready to deny your feverish ravings about an angel appearing to reveal to you this . . .” He gestured contemptuously at the box. “. . . this assortment of junk?” Brother Francis gulped and closed his eyes. “I—I fear I cannot deny it, my master.”
“What?”
“I cannot deny what I have seen, Father.”
“Do you know what is going to happen to you now?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then prepare to take it!”
With a sigh, the novice gathered up his robes about his waist and bent over the table.—The good abbot produced his stout hickory ruler from the drawer and whacked him soundly ten times across the bare buttocks. After each whack, the novice dutifully responded with a “Deo Gratias!” for this lesson in the virtue of humility.
The Best From Fantasy and Science Fiction Fifth Series Page 21