'What miserable wretches we mortals be,' he recited gravely, the opening line to an old verse written by a poet deemed a heretic in the fifth century.
'Calvin of Bri'Onnaire,' came the voice of Fio Bou-raiy behind him, and Francis turned, startled. 'Strong words, brother.'
Francis noted the one-armed master, flanked by Father Abbot Agronguerre. 'Fitting words,' he replied to Bou-raiy, 'for who in this time is not considering his own mortality? '
'Calm, brother,' Father Abbot Agronguerre bade Francis. 'He who believes in God does not fear death,' Bou- raiy promptly and sternly replied. 'Calvin of Bri'Onnaire's words were wrought of fear, not contemplation. He knew that he was a sinner, who faced excommunication by the Church for the lies he spread, and thus grew his fear of death and his bitterness toward all things Abellican. It is well documented.'
Master Francis chuckled and shook his head, then closed his eyes and in a voice thick with gravity and sincere emotion recited Calvin's 'Mortalis,' the verse that had sealed the poet's fate at the stake.
What miserable wretches we mortals be To build our homes in sheltered lea, To build our hopes in sheltered womb Weaving fancies of the tomb.
What wretched souls we mortals be To bask in false epiphany, To see a light so clear, so true, To save us from the fate we rue. Deny the truth before our sight That worms invade eternal night, That maggots feed within the skin Of faithful pure, devoid of sin.
Oh what hopeful children mortals be!
Castles in air, grand barges at sea,
Bed of clouds and angels' song,
Heavenly feasting eternity long.
What mockery made of endless night!
That prayer transcends truth and hope denies sight!
That all that we know and all that we see
Is washed away by what we pray must be.
So tell me not of eternal soul
That flees my coil through worm-bit hole.
For when I die what is left of me?
A whisper lost to eternity.
'I know the tale, brother,' Francis finished, opening his eyes to stare solemnly at Bou-raiy, 'and I know, too, that 'Mortalis' was considered a work of great introspection when Calvin presented it to the brothers of St. Honce in the time of plague.' 'The time of contemplation,' Master Bou-raiy corrected.
'It was only when Calvin went out among the people, reciting his dark works, that the Church took exception,' Francis remarked.
'Because some things should not be spoken openly,' said Bou-raiy.
Francis gave another helpless chuckle.
'Brother, you must admit that we are the caretakers of the souls of Corona,' Father Abbot Agronguerre put in.
'While the bodies rot,' Francis said sarcastically.
Master Bou-raiy started to jump in, but the Father Abbot held him back with an upraised hand. 'We do what we can,' Agronguerre admitted. It was obvious to Francis that the man was agonizing over the dark happenings in the world about him. 'Calvin of Bri'Onnaire was condemned not for his words but for rousing the common folk against the Church, for preying upon their fears of mortality. That is the challenge before us: to hold the faith of the populace.'
A smile grew upon Master Francis' face as he considered those wordsand the irony behind them. 'There is a woman out there among them,' he said, 'one-eyed and horribly scarred on her face and neck, with the rings of plague scars all over her arms. They say she tends the sick tirelessly; I have heard that many of the victims have called out for her beatification on their deathbeds.'
'I have heard of the woman, and expect that she will be investigated when the time for such tasks arrives,' Father Abbot Agronguerre replied.
'Even your canonization of Brother Avelyn has been put off,' Bou-raiy had to add.
Francis didn't even bother to spout the retort that came immediately to his lips: that he would hardly consider himself a supporter of Avelyn Desbris, let alone a sponsor for the wayward brother's canonization!
'It is also whispered that this peasant woman is no friend of the Abellican Church,' Francis went on. 'According to her, we have deserted her and all the other victims of the rosy plague. And there is the other rumor that says it was an Abellican brother who wounded her face outside St. Gwendolyn, a brother with a hand that resembled a cat's paw. Would you wager a guess about his identity? '
He ended with heavy sarcasm, but it was lost on the other two, neither of whom were overfond of Marcalo De'Unnero. De'Unnero and his Brothers Repentant, by all reports, were laying waste southern Honce-the-Bear, inciting riots, even murdering some unfortunates who did not fit their particular description of a proper Abellican. Even more disconcerting to all the leaders at St.-Mere-Abelle was that when Father Abbot Agronguerre had sent a messenger by ship to Entel to warn Abbot Olin about the Brothers Repentant and to offer Olin the full backing of the Church if he chose to confront them openly, Agronguerre had received a reply that seemed to condone Brother Truth more than condemn him. The other abbey in Entel, the much smaller St. Rontlemore, had been faithful to the spirit of Agronguerre's warning, but Olin of Bondabruce had seemed ambivalent at best.
'We cannot end their suffering,' Fio Bou-raiy stated flatly, moving to stand right before Francis, 'and all that we might accomplish in trying would be to destroy the last bastions of security against the rosy plague. In this time, God alone will choose who is to live and who is to die. Our duty, brother, is to ensure that those who die do not do so without hope; to ensure that those unfortunate victims understand the truth of what awaits them beyond this life; for in that hope, they can come to accept their mortality.'
' 'So tell me not of eternal soul that flees my coil through worm-bit hole,' ' Francis replied.
'Master Francis,' said Agronguerre, having heard enough. He, too, walked over, pushing past Bou-raiy. 'I warn you in all sincerity and in all generosity, as your father abbot and as your friend, to guard well your words. Master Bou-raiy speaks realistically of our role against the rosy plague. We are the caretakers of souls more than of bodies.'
'And the caretakers of hope, perhaps?' Francis asked.
'Yes.'
'And when do we stop asking the question of what the populace might believe and begin asking the question of what we, honestly, believe?' Francis asked.
The two brothers looked at him curiously.
'I know when, and so do you,' Francis went on. 'It will happen to each of us in turn, as we contract the plague, perhaps, or come to sense, what- ever the cause, that our personal end is near. Only then will we, each of us, honestly confront that greatest of mysteries. Only then will we hear the words of Calvin of Bri'Onnaire, or like words.'
'You seem to be confronting them right now,' Master Bou-raiy observed.
'Because I look out at them,' said Francis, turning back to the small window, 'and I wonder at my place in all this. I wonder at the morality of hiding behind our walls and flower beds. We, the possessors of the sacred stones- of hematite, the soul stone of healing. There lies an incongruity, brother, of which I cannot make sense.'
Father Abbot Agronguerre patted Francis' shoulder comfortingly, but Fio Bou-raiy's face screwed up with a jumble of emotions, disgust mostly, and he turned away with a snort.
Pony, Roger, and Dainsey arrived in Caer Tinella amid a melange of latespring scents, with mountain laurel and other flowers blooming bright and thick. A cruel irony, Pony thought, for in Palmaris, in all the cities of Honce- the-Bear to the south, the plague grew thicker by the day, the vibrancy of life dulling under the dark pall, the springtime scents overcome by the smell of rot. All three had been invited by Abbot Braumin to stay within St. Precious, and Pony most of all had understood the generosity of that gesture. St. Precious was a veritable fortress now, and not even the new baron of Palmaris, an arrogant duke named Tetrafel, had been allowed entrance when he had gone to speak with Abbot Braumin. But Braumin did not forget his friends.
