A Canticle for Leibowitz - Walter M. Miller [31]
The Black Friar laughed. “Trivial? I think not. But if your Order turns up evidence, relics, miracles, and whatever, the court has to consider the source. Every religious community is eager to see its founder canonized. So your abbot very wisely told you: ‘Hands off the shelter.’ I’m sure it’s been frustrating for all of you, but-better for the cause of your founder to let the shelter be explored with other witnesses present.”
“You’re going to open it again?” Francis asked eagerly.
“No, not I. But when the court is ready, it will send observers. Then anything that is found in the shelter that might affect the case will be safe, in case the opposition questions its authenticity. Of course, the only reason for suspecting that the contents of the shelter might affect the cause is-Well, the things you found.”
“May I ask how that is, Father?”
“Well, one of the embarrassments at the time of the beatification was the early life of Blessed Leibowitz-before he became a monk and a priest. The advocate for the other side kept trying to cast doubt on the early period, pre-Deluge. He was trying to establish that Leibowitz never made a careful search-that his wife might even have been alive at the time of his ordination. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, of course; sometimes dispensations have been granted-but that’s beside the point. The advocatus diaboli was just trying to cast doubt on your founder’s character. Trying to suggest that he had accepted Holy Orders and taken vows before being certain his family responsibility was ended. The opposition failed, but it may try again. And if those human remains you found really are-” He shrugged and smiled.
Francis nodded. “It would pinpoint the date of her death.”
“At the very beginning of the war that nearly ended everything. And in my own opinion-well, that handwriting in the box, it’s either that of the Beatus or a very clever counterfeit.”
Frauds reddened.
“I’m not suggesting that you were involved in any counterfeit scheme,” the Dominican added hastily, upon noticing the blush.
The novice, however, had only been remembering his own opinion of the scrawl.
“Tell me, how did it happen?-how you located the site, I mean. I’ll need the whole story of it.”
“Well, it started because of the wolves.”
The Dominican began taking notes.
A few days after the messenger’s departure from the abbey, Abbot Arkos called for Brother Francis. “Do you still feel that your vocation is with us?” Arkos asked pleasantly.
“If m’Lord Abbot will pardon my execrable vanity-”
“Oh, let’s ignore your execrable vanity £or a moment. Do you or don’t you?”
“Yes, Magister meus.”
The abbot beamed. “Well, now, my son. I think we’re convinced of it too. If you’re ready to commit yourself for all time, I think the time’s ripe for you to profess your solemn vows.” He paused for a moment, and, watching the novice’s face, seemed disappointed not to detect any change of expression. “What’s this? You’re not glad to hear it? You’re not-? Ho! what’s wrong?”
While Francis’ face had remained a politely attentive mask, the mask gradually lost color. His knees buckled suddenly.
Francis had fainted.
Two weeks later, the novice Francis, having perhaps set an endurance record for survival time on desert vigils, left the ranks of the novitiate and, vowing perpetual poverty, chastity, obedience, together with the special pledges peculiar to the community, received blessings and a bindlestiff in the abbey, and became forever a professed monk of the Albertian Order of Leibowitz, chained by chains of his own forging to the foot of the Cross and the rule of the Order. Thrice the ritual inquired of him: “If God calleth thee to be His Booklegger, wilt then suffer death before betraying thy brethren?” And thrice Francis responded: “Aye, Lord.”
“Then arise Brother Bookleggers and Brother Memorizers and receive the kiss of brotherhood. Ecce quam bonum, et quam jucundum…”
Brother Francis was transferred from the kitchen and assigned to less menial labor. He became apprentice