A Canticle for Leibowitz - Walter M. Miller [57]
The nuncio smiled tightly. “And what do you want me to do about it, learned Thon?”
The scholar leaned forward earnestly. “Write to the abbot of this place. Assure him that the documents will be treated with utmost care, and will be returned after we have completely examined them for authenticity and studied their content.”
“Whose assurance do you want me to give him-yours or mine?”
“Hannegan’s, yours, and mine.”
“I can give him only yours and Hannegan’s. I have no troops of my own.”
The scholar reddened.
“Tell me,” the nuncio added hastily, “why-besides bandits-do you insist you must see them here, instead of going to the abbey?”
“The best reason you can give the abbot is that if the documents are authentic, if we have to examine them at the abbey, a confirmation wouldn’t mean much to other secular scholars.”
“You mean your colleagues might think the monks had tricked you into something?”
“Ummm, that might be inferred. But also important, if they’re brought here, they can be examined by everyone in the collegium who’s qualified to form an opinion. And any visiting thons from other principalities can have a look at them too. But we can’t move the entire collegium to the southwest desert for six months.”
“I see your point.”
“Will you send the request to the abbey?”
“Yes.”
Thon Taddeo appeared surprised.
“But it will be your request, not mine. And it’s only fair to tell you that I don’t think Dom Paulo, the abbot, will say yes.”
The thon, however, appeared to be satisfied. When he had gone, the nuncio summoned his clerk.
“You’ll be leaving for New Rome tomorrow,” he told him.
“By way of Leibowitz Abbey?”
“Come back by way of it. The report to New Rome is urgent.”
“Yes, Messér.”
“At the abbey, tell Dom Paulo that Sheba expects Solomon to come to her. Bearing gifts. Then you better cover your ears. When he finishes exploding, hurry back so I can tell Thon Taddeo no.”
13
Time seeps slowly on the desert and there is little change to mark its passage. Two seasons had passed since Dom Paulo had refused the request from across the Plains, but the matter had been settled only a few weeks ago. Or had it been settled at all? Texarkana was obviously unhappy with the results.
The abbot paced along the abbey walls at sundown, his jaw thrust ahead like a whiskery old crag against possible breakers out of the sea of events. His thinning hair fluttered in white pennants on the desert wind, and the wind wrapped his habit bandage-tight about his stooped body, making him look like an emaciated Ezekiel with a strangely round little paunch. He thrust his gnarled hands into his sleeves and glowered occasionally across the desert toward the village of Sanly Bowitts in the distance. The red sunlight threw his pacing shadow across the courtyard, and the monks who encountered it in crossing the grounds glanced up wonderingly at the old man. Their ruler had seemed moody of late, and given to strange forebodings. It was whispered that the time soon was coming when a new abbot would be appointed ruler over the Brothers of Saint Leibowitz. It was whispered that the old man was not well, not well at all. It was whispered that if the abbot heard the whispers, the whisperers should speedily climb over the wall. The abbot had heard, but it pleased him for once not to take note of it. He well knew that the whispers were true.
“Read it to me again,” he said abruptly to the monk who stood motionless near at hand.
The monk’s hood jogged slightly in the abbot’s direction.
“Which one, Domne?” he asked.
“You know which one.”
“Yes, m’Lord.” The monk fumbled in one sleeve. It seemed weighted down with half a bushel of documents and correspondence, but after a moment he found the right one. Affixed to the scroll was the label:
SUB IMMUNITATE APOSTOLICA HOC SUPPOSITUM EST.
QUISQUIS NUNTIUM MOLESTARE AUDEAT,
IPSO FACTO EXCOMMUNICETUR.
DET: R’dissimo Domno Paulo de Pecos, AOL, Abbati
(Monastery of the Leibowitzian Brethren,
Environs of Sanly Bowitts Village
Southwest Desert, Empire of Denver)
CUI