Read Online A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller - Free Book Online

ready to admit that you imagined him?”
    “If there are not really two marks on that rock where he-then maybe I might-”
    The abbot dosed his eyes and sighed wearily. “The marks are there-faintly,” he admitted. “You might have made them yourself.”
    “No, m’Lord.”
    “Will you admit that you imagined the old creature?”
    “No, m’Lord.”
    “Very well, do you know what is going to happen to you now?”
    “Yes, Reverend Father”
    “Then prepare to take it.”
    Trembling, the novice gathered up his habit about his waist and bent over the desk. The abbot withdrew a stout hickory ruler from the drawer, tested it on his palm, then gave Francis a smart whack with it across the buttocks.
    “Deo gratias!” the novice dutifully responded, gasping slightly.
    “Care to change your mind, my boy?”
    “Reverend Father, I can’t deny-”
    WHACK!
    “Deo gratias!”
    WHACK!
    “Deo gratias!”
    Ten times was this simple but painful litany repeated, with Brother Francis yelping his thanks to Heaven for each scorching lesson in the virtue of humility, as he was expected to do. The abbot paused after the tenth whack. Brother Francis was on tip-toe and bouncing slightly. Tears squeezed from the corners of clenched eyelids.
    “My dear Brother Francis,” said the Abbot Arkos “are you quite sure you saw the old man?”
    “Certain,” he squeaked, steeling himself for more.
    Abbot Arkos glanced clinically at the youth, then walked round his desk and sat down with a grunt. He glowered for a time at the slip of parchment bearing the letters

    “Who do you suppose he could have been?” Abbot Arkos muttered absently.
    Brother Francis opened his eyes, causing a brief shed of water.
    “Oh, you’ve convinced me, boy, worse luck for you.
    Francis said nothing, but prayed silently that the need to convince his sovereign of his veracity would not often arise. In response to an irritable gesture from the abbot, he lowered his tunic.
    “You may sit down,” said the abbot, becoming casual if not genial
    Francis moved toward the indicated chair, lowered himself halfway into it, but then winced and stood up again. “If it’s all the same to the Reverend Father Abbot-”
    “All right, then stand. I won’t keep you long anyhow. You’re to go out and finish your vigil.” He paused, noticing the novice’s face brighten a little. “Oh no you don’t!” he snapped. “You’re not going back to the same place. You’ll trade hermitages with Brother Alfred, and not go near those ruins again. Furthermore, I command you not to discuss the matter with anyone, except your confessor or with me, although, Heaven knows, the damage is already done. Do you know what you’ve started?”
    Brother Francis shook his bead. “Yesterday being Sunday, Reverend Father, we weren’t required to keep silent, and at recreation I just answered the fellows’ questions. I thought-”
    “Well, your fellows have cooked up a very cute explanation, dear son. Did you know that it was the Blessed Leibowitz himself you met out there?”
    Francis looked blank for a moment then shook his head again. “Oh, no, m’Lord Abbot. I’m sure it couldn’t have been. The Blessed Martyr wouldn’t do such a thing.”
    “Wouldn’t do such-a -what thing?”
    “Wouldn’t chase after somebody and try to hit him with a stick that had a nail in one and.”
    The abbot wiped his mouth to hide an involuntary smile. He managed to appear thoughtful after a moment. “Oh, I don’t know about that, now. It was you he was chasing, wasn’t it? Yes, I thought so. You told your fellow novices about that part too? Yes, eh? Well, you see, they didn’t think that would exclude the possibility of his being the Beatus. Now I doubt if there are very many people that the Beatus would chase with a stick, but-” He broke off, unable to suppress laughter at the expression on the novice’s face. “All right, son-but who do you suppose he could have been?”
    “I thought