A Canticle For Leibowitz l-1

by Walter M. Miller

  “God bless you for a brave fool. Even a wise fool.”

  “Hmmm-hnnn! Wise fool!” mimicked the hermit. “But you always did specialize in paradox and mystery, didn’t you, Paulo? If a thing can’t be in contradiction to itself, then it doesn’t oven interest you, does it? You have to find Threeness in Unity, life in death, wisdom in folly. Otherwise it might make too much common sense.”

  “To sense the responsibility is wisdom, Benjamin. To think you can carry it alone is folly.”

  “Not madness?”

  “A little, perhaps. But a brave madness.”

  “Then I’ll tell you a small secret. I’ve known all along that I can’t carry it, ever since He called me forth again. But are we talking about the same thing?”

  The priest shrugged. “You would call it the burden of being Chosen. I would call it the burden of Original Guilt. In either case, the implied responsibility is the same, although we might tell different versions of it, and disagree violently in words about what we mean in words by something that isn’t really meant in words at all — since it’s something that’s meant in the dead silence of a heart.”

  Benjamin chuckled. “Well, I’m glad to hear you admit it, finally, even if all you say is that you’ve never really said anything.”

  “Stop cackling, you reprobate.”

  “But you’ve always used words so wordily in crafty defense of your Trinity, although He never needed such defense before you got Him from me as a Unity. Eh?”

  The priest reddened but said nothing.

  “There!” Benjamin yelped, bouncing up and down. “I made you want to argue for once. Ha! But never mind. I use quite a few words myself, but I’m never quite sure He and I mean the same thing either. I suppose you can’t be blamed; it must be more confusing with Three than with One.”

  “Blasphemous old cactus! I really wanted your opinion of Thon Taddeo and whatever’s brewing.”

  “Why seek the opinion of a poor old anchorite?”

  “Because, Benjamin Eleazar bar Joshua, if all these years of waiting for One-Who-Isn’t-Coming haven’t taught you wisdom, at least they’ve made you shrewd.”

  The Old Jew closed his eyes, lifted his face ceilingward, and smiled cunningly. “Insult me,” he said in mocking tones, “rail at me, bait me, persecute me — but do you know what I’ll say?”

  “You’ll say, “Hmmm-hnnn!’“

  “No! I’ll say He’s already here. I caught a glimpse of Him once.”

  “What? Who are you talking about? Thon Taddeo?”

  “No! Moreover, I do not care to prophesy, unless you tell me what’s really bothering you, Paulo.”

  “Well, it all started with Brother Kornhoer’s lamp.”

  “Lamp? Oh, yes, the Poet mentioned it. He prophesied it wouldn’t work.”

  “The Poet was wrong, as usual. So they tell me. I didn’t watch the trial.”

  “It worked then? Splendid. And that started what?”

  “Me wondering. How close are we to the brink of something? Or how close to a shore? Electrical essences in the basement. Do you realize how much things have changed in the past two centuries?”

  Soon, the priest spoke at length of his fears, while the hermit, mender of tents, listened patiently until the sun had begun to leak through the chinks in the west wall to paint glowing shafts in the dusty air.

  “Since the death of the last civilization, the Memorabilia has been our special province, Benjamin. And we’ve kept it. But now? I sense the predicament of the shoemaker who tries to sell shoes in a village of shoemakers.”

  The hermit smiled. “It could be done, if he manufactures a special and superior type of shoe.”

  “I’m afraid the secular scholars are already beginning to lay claim to such a method.”

  “Then go out of the shoemaking business, before you are ruined.”

  “A possibility,” the abbot admitted. “It’s unpleasant to think of it however. For twelve centuries, we’ve been one little island in a very dark ocean. Keeping the Memorabilia has been a thankless task, but a hallowed one, we think. It’s only our worldly job, but we’ve always been bookleggers and memorizers, and it’s hard to think that the job’s soon to be finished — soon to become unnecessary. I can’t believe that somehow.”

  “So you try to best the other ‘shoemakers’ by building strange contraptions in your basement?”

  “I must admit, it looks that way—”

  “What will you do next to keep ahead of the seculars? Build a flying machine? Or revive the Machina analytica? Or perhaps step over their heads and resort to metaphysics?”

  “You shame me, Old Jew. You know we are monks of Christ first, and such things are for others to do.”

  “I wasn’t shaming you. I see nothing inconsistent in monks of Christ building a flying machine, although it would be more like them to build a praying machine.”

  “Wretch! I do my Order a disservice by sharing a confidence with you!”

  Benjamin smirked. “I have no sympathy for you. The books you stored away may be hoary with age, but they were written by children of the world, and they’ll be taken from you by children of the world, and you had no business meddling with them in the first place.”

  “Ah, now you care to prophesy!”

  “Not at all. ‘Soon the sun will set’ — is that prophecy? No, it’s merely an assertion of faith in the consistency of events. The children of the world are consistent too — so I say they will soak up everything you can offer, take your job away from you, and then denounce you as a decrepit wreck. Finally, they’ll ignore you entirely. It’s your own fault. The Book I gave you should have been enough for you. Now you’ll just have to take the consequences for your meddling.”

  He had spoken flippantly, but his prediction seemed uncomfortably close to Dom Paulo’s fears. The priest’s countenance saddened.

  “Pay me no mind,” said the hermit. “I’ll not venture to soothsay before I’ve seen this contraption of yours, or taken a look at this Thon Taddeo — who begins to interest me, by the way. Wait until I’ve examined the entrails of the new era in better detail, if you expect advice from me.”

  “Well, you won’t see the lamp because you never come to the abbey.”

  “It’s your abominable cooking I object to.”

  “And you won’t see Thon Taddeo because he comes from the other direction. If you wait to examine the entrails of an era until after it’s born, it’s too late to prophesy its birth.”

  “Nonsense. Probing the womb of the future is bad for the child. I shall wait — and then I shall prophesy that it was born and that it wasn’t what I’m waiting for.”

  “What a cheerful outlook! So what are you looking for?”

  “Someone who shouted at me once.”

  “Shouted?”

  “‘Come forth!’ “

  “What rot!”

  “Hmmm-hnnn! To tell you the truth, I don’t much expect Him to come, but I was told to wait, and—” he shrugged “ — I wait.” After a moment his twinkling eyes narrowed to slits, and he leaned forward with sudden eagerness. “Paulo, bring this Thon Taddeo past the foot of the mesa.”

  The abbot recoiled in mock horror. “Accoster of pilgrims! Molester of novices! I shall send you the Poet-sirrah! — and may he descend upon you and rest forever. Bring the thon past your lair! What an outrage.”

  Benjamin shrugged again. “Very well. Forget that I asked it. But let’s hope this thon will be on our side, and not with the others this time.”

  “Others, Benjamin?”

  “Manasses, Cyrus, Nebuchadnezzar, Pharaoh, Caesar, Hannegan the Second — need I go on? Samuel warned us against them, then gave us one. When they have a few wise men shackled nearby to counsel them, they become more dangerous than ever. That’s all the advice I’ll give you.”

  “Well, Benjamin, I’ve had enough of you now to last me another five years, so—”

  “Insult me, rail at me, bait me-”

  “Stop it.
I’m leaving, old man. It’s late.”

  “So? And how is the ecclesiastical belly fixed for the ride?”

  “My stomach — ?” Dom Paulo paused to explore, found himself more comfortable than at any time in recent weeks.

  “It’s a mess, of course,” he complained. “How else would it be after listening to you?”

  “True-ElShaddai is merciful, but He is also just.”

  “Godspeed, old man. After Brother Kornhoer reinvents the flying machine, I’ll send up some novices to drop rocks on you.”

  They embraced affectionately. The Old Jew led him to the edge of the mesa. Benjamin stood wrapped in a prayer shawl, its fine fabric contrasting oddly with the rough burlap of his loincloth, while the abbot climbed down to the trail and rode back toward the abbey. Dom Paulo could still see him standing there at sundown, his spindly figure silhouetted against the twilight sky as he bowed and munched a prayer over the desert.

  “Memento, Domine Gomnium famulorum tuorum,” the abbot whispered in response, adding: “And may he finally win the Poet’s eyeball at mumbly-peg. Amen.”

  17

  “I can tell you definitely: There will be war,” said the messenger from New Rome. “All Laredo’s forces are committed to the Plains. Mad Bear has broken camp. There’s a running cavalry battle, nomad style, all over the Plains. But the State of Chihuahua is threatening Laredo from the south. So Hannegan is getting ready to send Texarkana forces to the Rio Grande — to help ‘defend’ the frontier. With the Laredans’ full approval, of course.”

  “King Goraldi is a doddering fool!” said Dom Paulo. “Wasn’t he warned against Hannegan’s treachery?”

  The messenger smiled. “The Vatican diplomatic service always respects state secrets if we happen to learn them. Lest we be accused of espionage, we are always careful about—”

  “Was he warned?” the abbot demanded again.

  “Of course. Goraldi said the papal legate was lying to him; he accused the Church of fomenting dissension among the allies of the Holy Scourge, in an attempt to promote the Pope’s temporal power. The idiot even told Hannegan about the legate’s warning.”

  Dom Paulo winced and whistled. “So Hannegan did what?”

  The messenger hesitated. “I suppose I can tell you: Monsignor Apollo is under arrest. Hannegan ordered his diplomatic files seized. There’s talk in New Rome of placing the whole realm of Texarkana under interdict. Of course, Hannegan has already incurred ipso facto excommunication, but that doesn’t seem to bother many Texarkanans. As you surely know, the population is about eighty per cent cultist anyhow, and the Catholicism of the ruling class has always been a thin veneer.”

  “So now Marcus,” the abbot murmured sadly. “And what of Thon Taddeo?”

  “I don’t quite see how be expects to get across the Plains without picking up a few musket-ball holes just now. It seems clear why he hadn’t wanted to make the trip. But I know nothing about his progress, Father Abbot.”

  Dom Paulo’s flown was pained. “If our refusal to send the material to his university leads to his being killed—”

  “Don’t trouble your conscience about that, Father Abbot. Hannegan looks out for his own. I don’t know bow, but I’m sure the thon will get here.”

  “The world could ill afford to lose him, I hear. Well — But tell me, why were you sent to report Hannegan’s plans to us? We’re in the empire of Denver, and I can’t see how this region is affected.”

  “Ah, but I’ve told you only the beginning. Hannegan hopes to unite the continent eventually. After Laredo’s firmly leashed, he will have broken the encirclement that’s kept him in check. Then the next move will be against Denver.”

  “But wouldn’t that involve supply lines across nomad country? It seems impossible.”

  “It’s extremely difficult, and that’s what makes the next move certain. The Plains form a natural geographical barrier. If they were depopulated, Hannegan might regard his western frontier as secure as it stands. But the nomads have made it necessary for all states adjoining the Plains to tie up permanent military forces around the nomad territory for containment. The only way to subdue the Plains is to control both fertile strips, to the east and to the west.”

  “But even so,” the abbot wondered, “the nomads—”

  “Hannegan’s plan for them is devilish. Mad Bear’s warriors can easily cope with Laredo’s cavalry, but what they can’t cope with is a cattle plague. The Plains tribes don’t know it yet, but when Laredo set out to punish the nomads for border raiding, the Laredans drove several hundred head of diseased cattle ahead to mingle with the nomads’ herds. It was Hannegan’s idea. The result will be famine, and then it will be easy to set tribe against tribe. We don’t, of course, know all the details, but the goal is a nomad legion under a puppet chieftain, armed by Texarkana, loyal to Hannegan, ready to sweep west to the mountains. If it comes to pass, this region will get the first breakers.”

  “But why? Surely Hannegan doesn’t expect the barbarians to be dependable troops, or capable of holding an empire once they finish mutilating it!”

  “No, m’Lord. But the nomad tribes will be disrupted, Denver will be shattered. Then Hannegan can pick up the pieces,”

  “To do what with them? It couldn’t be a very rich empire.”

  “No, but secure on all flanks. He might then be in a better position to strike east or northeast. Of course, before it comes to that, his plans may collapse. But whether they collapse or not, this region may well be in danger of being overrun in the not-too-distant future. Steps should be taken to secure the abbey within the next few months. I have instructions to discuss with you the problem of keeping the Memorabilia safe.”

  Dom Paulo felt the blackness beginning to gather. After twelve centuries, a little hope had come into the world — and then came an illiterate prince to ride roughshod over it with a barbarian horde and…

  His fist exploded onto the desktop. “We kept them outside our walls for a thousand years,” he growled, “and we can keep them out for another thousand. This abbey was under siege three times during the Bayring influx, and once again during the Vissarionist schism. We’ll keep the books safe. We’ve kept them that way for quite some time.”

  “But there is an added hazard these days, m’Lord.”

  “What may that be?”

  “A bountiful supply of gunpowder and grapeshot.”

  The Feast of the Assumption had come and gone, but still there was no word of the party from Texarkana. Private votive masses for pilgrims and travelers were beginning to be offered by the abbey’s priests. Dom Paulo had ceased taking even a light breakfast, and it was whispered that he was doing penance for having invited the scholar at all, in view of the present danger on the Plains.

  The watchtowers remained constantly manned. The abbot himself frequently climbed the wall to peer eastward.

  Shortly before Vespers on the Feast of Saint Bernard, a novice reported seeing a thin and distant dust trail, but darkness was coming on, and no one else had been able to make it out. Soon, Compline and the Salve Regina were sung, but still no one appeared at the gates.

  “It might have been their advance scout,” suggested Prior Gault.

  “It might have been Brother Watchman’s imagination,” countered Dom Paulo.

  “But if they’ve camped just ten miles or so down the way—”

  “We’d see their fire from the tower. It’s a clear night.”

  “Still, Domne, after the moon rises, we could send a rider—”

  “Oh, no. That’s a good way to get shot by mistake. If it’s really them, they’ve probably kept their fingers on their triggers for the whole trip, especially at night. It can wait until dawn.”

  It was late the following morning when the expected party of horsemen appeared out of the east. From the top of the wall Dom Paulo blinked and squinted across the hot and dry terrain, trying to focus myopic eyes on the distance. Dust from the horses’ hooves was drifting away to the north. The part
y had stopped for a parley.

  “I seem to be seeing twenty or thirty of them,” the abbot complained, rubbing his eyes in annoyance. “Are there really so many?”

  “Approximately,” said Gault.

  “How will we ever take care of them all?”

  “I don’t think we’ll be taking care of the ones with the wolfskins, m’Lord Abbot,” the younger priest said stiffly.

  “Wolf skins?”

  “Nomads, m’Lord.”

  “Man the walls! Close the gates! Let down the shield! Break out the—”

  “Wait, they’re not all nomads, Domne.”

  “Oh?” Dom Paulo turned to peer again.

  The parley was being ended. Men waved; the group split in two. The larger party galloped back toward the east. The remaining horsemen watched briefly, then reined around and trotted toward the abbey.

  “Six or seven of them — some in uniform,” the abbot murmured as they drew closer.

  “The thon and his party, I’m sure.”

  “But with nomads? It’s a good thing I didn’t let you send a rider out last night. What were they doing with nomads?’

  “It appeared that they came as guides,” Father Gault said darkly.

  “How neighborly of the lion to lie down with the lamb!”

  The riders approached the gates. Dom Paulo swallowed dryness. “Well, we’d better go welcome them, Father,” he sighed.