A Canticle for Leibowitz - Walter M. Miller [79]
“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 party 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.
“Wolfskins?”
“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.
By the time the priests had descended from the wall, the travelers had reined up just outside the courtyard. A horseman detached himself from the others, trotted forward, dismounted, and presented his papers.
“Dom Paulo of Pecos, Abbas?”
The abbot bowed. “Tibi adsum. Welcome in the name of Saint Leibowitz, Thon Taddeo. Welcome in the name of his abbey, in the name of forty generations who’ve waited for you to come. Be at home. We serve you.” The words were heart-felt; the words had been saved for many years while awaiting this moment. Hearing a muttered monosyllable in reply, Dom Paulo looked up slowly.
For a moment his glance locked with the scholar’s. He felt the warmth quickly fade. Those icy eyes-cold and searching gray. Skeptical, hungry, and proud. They studied him as one might study a lifeless curio.
That this moment might be as a bridge across a gulf of twelve centuries, Paulo had fervently prayed-prayed too that through him the last martyred scientist of that earlier age would clasp hands with tomorrow. There was indeed a gulf; that much was plain. The abbot felt suddenly that he belonged not to this age at all, that he had been left stranded somewhere on a sandbar in Time’s river, and that there wasn’t really ever a bridge at all.
“Come,” he said gently. “Brother Visclair will attend to your horses.”
When he had seen the guests installed in their lodgings and had retired to the privacy of his study, the smile on the face of the wooden saint reminded him unaccountably of the smirk of old Benjamin Eleazar, saying, “The children of this world are consistent too.”
18
“’Now even as in the time of Job,’ ” Brother Reader began from the refectory lectern:
“When the sons of God came to stand before the Lord, Satan also was present among them.
“And the Lord said to him: ‘Whence comest thou, Satan?’
“And Satan answering said, as of old: ‘I have gone round about the