A Canticle for Leibowitz - Walter M. Miller [71]
Hongan Os threw back his head and roared with laughter. “They are afraid of the lesser clans,” he said to the old ones. “They fear being ambushed as soon as they leave my tents. They eat grass and are afraid of a fight.”
The scholar flushed slightly.
“Fear nothing, outlander!” chortled the clans chief. “Real men shall accompany you.”
Thon Taddeo inclined his head in mock gratitude.
“Tell us,” said Mad Bear, “what is it you go to seek in the western Dry Land? New places for planting fields? I can tell you there are none. Except near a few water holes, nothing grows that even cattle will eat.”
“We seek no new land,” the visitor answered. “We are not all of us farmers, you know. We are going to look for-” He paused. In the nomad speech, there was no way to explain the purpose of the journey to the Abbey of St. Leibowitz “-for the skills of an ancient sorcery.”
One of the old ones, a shaman, seemed to prick up his ears. “An ancient sorcery in the west? I know of no magicians there. Unless you mean the dark-robed ones?”
“They are the ones.”
“Ha! What magic do they have that’s worth looking after? Their messengers can be captured so easily that it is no real sport-although they do endure torture well. What sorcery can you learn from them?”
“Well, for my part, I agree with you,” said Thon Taddeo. “But it is said that writings, uh, incantations of great power are hoarded at one of their abodes. If it is true, then obviously the dark-robed ones don’t know how to use them, but we hope to master them for ourselves.”
“Will the dark-robes permit you to observe their secrets?”
Thon Taddeo smiled. “I think so. They don’t dare hide them any longer. We could take them, if we had to.”
“A brave saying,” scoffed Mad Bear. “Evidently the farmers are braver among their own kind-although they are meek enough among real people.”
The scholar, who had stomached his fill of the nomad’s insults, chose to retire early.
The soldiers remained at the council fire to discuss with Hongan Os the war that was certain to come; but the war, after all, was none of Thon Taddeo’s affair. The political aspirations of his ignorant cousin were far from his own interest in a revival of learning in a dark world, except when that monarch’s patronage proved useful, as it already had upon several occasions.
16
The old hermit stood at the edge of the mesa and watched the approach of the dust speck across the desert. The hermit munched, muttered words and chuckled silently into the wind. His withered hide was burned the color of old leather by the sun, and his brushy beard was stained yellow about the chin. He wore a basket hat and a loincloth of rough homespun that resembled burlap-his only clothing except for sandals and a goat-skin water bag.
He watched the dust speck until it passed through the village of Sanly Bowitts and departed again by way of the road leading past the mesa.
“Ah!” snorted the hermit, his eyes beginning to burn.
“His empire shall be multiplied, and there shall be no end of his peace: he shall sit upon his kingdom.”
Suddenly he went down the arroyo like a cat with three legs, using his staff, bounding from stone to stone and sliding most of the way. The dust from his rapid descent plumed high on the wind and wandered away.
At the foot of the mesa he vanished into the mesquite and settled down to wait. Soon he heard the rider approaching at a lazy trot, and he began slinking toward the road to peer out through the brush. The pony appeared from around the bend, wrapped in a thin dust shroud. The hermit darted into the trail and threw up his arms.
“Olla allay!” he shouted; and as the rider halted, he darted forward to seize the reins and frown anxiously up at the man in the saddle.
His eyes blazed for a moment. “For a Child is born to us, and a Son is given us…” But then the anxious frown melted away into sadness. “It’s not Him!” he grumbled irritably at the sky.
The rider had thrown back his hood and was laughing.