Favorious Favorius slouched forward on his elderly donkey as he guided it gently into the familiar courtyard of the abbey that had been his home since he had been eleven years old. The high graceful arches of the shaded cloister and the soaring cut-stone steeple of the chapel beyond brought a wave of peace to his troubled spirit. He dismounted shakily and led the donkey towards the water-trough by the well at the courtyard’s far corner. Bertrand, young and keen, his brown habit bellowing out behind, hurried to meet him. "God bless thee, Lord Abbot. We give thanks for thy safe return. There is pottage and small ale, newly drawn, in the refectory." "I thank thee, gentle Brother Bertrand, but I have no need of pottage. My donkey is hungry and thirsty, wilt thou attend him for me?" Bertrand took the reins and they walked together. "Brother Bertrand, wilt thou answer me this: If thou had this day spoken with a spirit, a thing without face or body yet which spoke clearly as thou or I, how wouldst thou judge it, whether angel or demon?" Bertrand looked alarmed. "A thing lacking face or body yet which spoke?" he repeated incredulously. "I thought at first how like it be to the voice that spoke to Moses from out the burning bush. Yet this was not the voice of the Almighty. This was the voice of one weak and distressed, begging succour and services lest it fade away before its proper work be done." "Thou speakest in mysteries, Father Abbot. Where foundest thou this spirit?" "In a cave, Brother, in the hills above Antion, mayhap one day’s journey from these gates." "Antion. The village of the peasant maiden and her father with whom thou left upon St. Julian’s Day?" "The village of the maiden Rube and her dutiful father Gerald the Armourer. Good people both whom God bless, I doth remember them daily in my prayers. Rube it was who showeth me the outer portal by which I entered to wherein the spirit dwelled. I have much of which I must unburden me, my Brother in Christ. I would first pray a time in the Chapel, and would have thee send Emmaeus that he might shrive me. Then I shall drink water and go to the library, where I shall write of that which weigheth heavily upon me, that the brothers of this order as well as all Christendom and those yet unborn may judge me either well or ill." "Who could judge thee ill, Brother Favorious, would be dull of intellect, or villainous of disposition." Favorious entered the library on the arm of Emmaeus, a man almost as old as himself, whose kindly sun-bronzed face beamed from behind a neatly-trimmed greying red beard. "Thou art unwell, Favorious," he gently reproached, "thou shouldst sleep a time and do this when thou awaken". "I must do this now, my brother. My time is not long." He glanced down at his hands. The yellow blisters on the palms and fingers were growing worse. "Be so good as to leave me, and pray for me." The other gave him an uneasy sidewise glance, but bowed and took his leave. Favorious took parchment, ink and quill from the shelf above his favourite bench and sat down. "I, Favorious," he began in carefully-scripted Latin, "Abbot of the Monastery of Loudane and least of God’s servants, do here set forth the events of the last four days, that those who read may understand and weigh within their conscience all that has taken place. Before the dawn upon the morning of St. Julian’s Day there came visitors to the courtyard of Loudane…" Favorious heard voices in the courtyard as he dressed for Matins. The sun would be at least another hour in rising, the air was cool and crisp and carried the scent of the new hay that the brothers had been binding to store as winter fodder for the animals. >From his window he could see Brother Seth holding a candle, and by its flickering light could make out dimly the shape of two donkeys and their dismounted riders, a small figure and a larger one. He made his way briskly to meet them. "Welcome to this place of devotion," he greeted them, "may Almighty God bless and care for ye both. Brother Seth, ale and pottage for our guests." Seth bowed and handed the candle to his superior before leaving. Favorious could see now that it was a middle-aged man and a much younger girl, most likely his daughter, both were dressed simply in woven outer-garments of brown wool with spun linen beneath them, and wore around their necks rough-hewn wooden rosary-beads. "A thousand pardons, Lord Abbot," the man began anxiously, "we come from Antion, beyond yonder great hills," he motioned back towards the gates, "where our priest Joseph bade us talk to thee, as he is old and infirm and can travel but slowly…" Favorious silenced the man with his hand. "Less haste, my son, less haste. Thee and thy daughter hath come far, and must eat and rest. Come, sit with me beneath the cloister. Brother Seth shall tend thy donkeys. We live by the rule of Saint Benedict, and so our female guests may enter only the chapel or the courtyard. But pray be seated thence, take rest. Let us give thanks together for thy safe arrival." When the three had settled on to the bench beneath the sombre arched cloisters, with the candle in its holder by the Abbot’s side, and Favorious had led them in a few simple words of prayer, the man began his story again more calmly, and Favorious listened patiently until he had finished, nodding his reassurance each time the artisan stumbled over his words. Towards dusk two days before, as the farmers had driven their animals home from the fields, a great light had sped across the sky, growing brighter as it moved, until it had disappeared behind the low hills where the farmers grazed their sheep in winter, and turned to a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning that was for an instant as bright as any noon-day sun. The village-folk had mostly fled to their homes fearing Armageddon, some to the Parish Church to confess their sins and receive the Blessed Sacrament. Only Rube, the inquisitive and strong-willed daughter of Gerald the Armourer, had ventured out to the scene of the explosion, and on the strength of what she had seen, persuaded her father to return with her a few hours later. The falling thunderbolt had sliced a new brown valley into the forested hillside, longer than ten villages, deeper than the church steeple was high, the trees along its sides charred and burned, and at the end of this valley, where it met with the rocky plateau above Antion, all manner of strange misshapen metal was strewn for a distance of half a day’s walk in every direction. The larger pieces seemed to be of a shining polished iron, stronger than anything Gerald had seen forged, yet torn asunder into shards and jagged fragments by the force of the impact. To corroborate his story, Gerald produced from his belt-bag a bright twisted fragment of a metal that Favorious had never seen before, its surface shiny and reflective like a looking-glass, lighter than iron or pewter or even copper, yet so strong that Favorious could not bend it the least fraction at its narrowest point. He found that his attempt to do so had drawn a little blood from the side of his index-finger. Other strange materials also littered the plateau, the armourer and his daughter assured him, things whose shapes, colours and textures defeated their modest powers of description. Favorious listened attentively, then, when the food came, bade them pause to eat and drink while he reflected on what they had said, studied the unfamiliar yet strangely beautiful shard of metal, and prayed for the guidance of Almighty God in deciding what action he should take. "Good Sir and gentle Lady," he said at last, "thou hast done well to inform me of these mysteries. My duty is to return with ye and to see these things with my own eyes, and, if it be meet, send forth word to the Holy Father that mayhap the Almighty hath visited a miracle upon the village of Antion. Now I beseech that ye kneel a moment and pray with me that God may grant me wisdom." Neither Favorious nor his donkey were in the first flush of youth and they journeyed a lot more slowly than Gerald and Rube would have done by themselves, reaching Antion as the sun was beginning to set the following evening. The armourer and his daughter returned to their clay-and-wattle hovel, leaving Favorious to spend the night at the house of Joseph, the local priest, who flattered him about his scholarship and tried to engage him in theological discussion, but Favorious was too weary to rise to the bait and took his leave early to get some sleep. Favorious dreamed a curious dream that night, of a barren rocky mountainside where huge crows the colour of deepest midnight came to roost one after the other, until the hillside became black with the great birds and the colours of the jagged rocks disappeared beneath the seething mass of angry fluttering wings, and the cawing of the enraged creatures filled the air, and the hillsides seemed to crawl, like a great seething pile of living black maggots, and still more crows came and tried to roost amid the threshing wings of those that were already there, and their angry calls added one to the other made his ears painful… and still they came, still the sky blackened with more and more and more of them… a torrent of crows that would overflow the whole world. A malicious blackness that would engulf Creation. To his embarrassment he was still asleep just before sunrise when Rube arrived, riding her own donkey and leading his, to guide him to the field of shining fragments. She waited patiently while he completed his morning priestly office and loaded-up his faithful animal. Favorious found her presence distracting at first, and prayed silently for purity of thought. As they rode slowly up the path that wound between the boughs of the towering elms, oak and birch trees Rube remained respectfully silent. Favorious could boast little experience of the female sex, beyond a polite acquaintance with some nuns of the Order of St. Constantine who occasionally attended mass at the Abbey, but he deduced from the careless slackness of the lacing at the back of Rube’s gown and the suggestive slit at the side of her brown woollen skirt, revealing the white linen chemise beneath, that she was a female of a different kind to the Sisters of St. Constantine. His gaze was oddly attracted to her as they rode along, and he tried hard to make innocent conversation but felt awkward and received scant response. Gradually the way became steeper and more rocky and the trees turned to stunted shrubs and coarse brushwood, finally fading into thistle and patches of gorse. Then, on attaining the crest of a hill, the whole vast plateau of the highland above Antion was suddenly laid out before him, with further pine-covered peaks beyond, their summits draped in a whiteness that was equal parts snow and cloud, and sliced into the side of the nearest mountain he saw the perfectly straight, artificial-looking slash that marked the path of the thunderbolt’s descent. All around the plateau, but most noticeably towards the point at which the thunderbolt had struck the granite plain, thousands of shards of desiccated metal reflected back the orange light of the setting sun behind him, like jewels flung carelessly from the treasure-sack of a passing giant. It was the scene of some disaster beyond human imagining, Favorious was certain. For a few minutes he simply paused and marvelled. "It is as I told thee, Father," Rube stated with a hint of pride. "It is more wondrous than I couldst have e’r imagined," Favorious confirmed. He dismounted and held the rein of his donkey, still gazing at the sight in awe. "The hour groweth late, my child. Cans’t thou return to Antion safely by moonlight?" "I have wandered these hills since I could first walk, Father. I couldst return safe without light of moon, star or candle on the darkest night of winter." "Then I beg thee return to thy father, gentle lady, and I pray to God thy journey be safe and swift. I shall return before two more nights be past, if I do not then mightest thou ask thy good father to find me." "As thou will, Father Abbot." She hesitated and seemed to look deeply into his eyes. She had a pleasant face, Favorious reflected, most pleasant… "Father Abbot," she began in a low tone, "may I speak with thee?" "Of course, my child." "I fear that I may have committed a very great sin." Favorious felt a bead of sweat on his brow. "Hast thou spoken to thine own confessor, child?" he asked awkwardly. "My confessor…" she stumbled over the words, "was the one with whom I… sinned" Favorious sighed. Why could the Lord not allow him the simple contemplative life that was all he had ever wanted? "Child," he said uncomfortably, "what thou hast told me thou hast told me under the seal of the confessional. It is between thee and thy Creator, whose mercy and forgiveness I have been entrusted to dispense. Wilt thou kneel and receive God’s forgiveness and my blessing?" When she had received her absolution Rube became almost a different person. She chattered to Favorious about her life in the village and the animals she had seen in the hillside, and how she would soon marry, she hoped, and bear many children for the Church to lead into Paradise. Favorious could barely find pause to say anything himself. He smiled inwardly, pleased with the outcome of his simple ministry. Before Rube left him she showed him the location of a narrow stream, fed by the melt-waters of the hills above, and also directed him to where he would find a small cave in a nearby rock-face, some twenty paces deep, its entrance near the ground, where neither wind nor rain could reach him. He thanked her, gave her one more solemn blessing, and asking that she might remember him in her prayers, bade her go. She hesitated and came forward as though to kiss him, then thought better of it and left with a smile. Favorious stood by the cave, his donkey idly champing the rough grasses nearby, and stared out across the Plain of Miracles while the stars came out one by one and the quarter-moon rose lethargically from behind the snowy peaks. He knew that this was the moment for which God had been preparing him all of his life. Spread before him was the clear evidence of an event not of earthly origin. The work of demon or angel, devil or God? It was he who must make the judgement. And by that judgement, so also would he be judged. He knelt carefully among the stones and the dusty soil and bowed his head in prayer. When he lifted it again he was immediately aware of a change in the quality of the light around him. This was light neither of moon nor star, but a cold green light, such as he had seen shed by the candles sold from hand-carts and roadside stalls by charlatans and fake magicians at fairs. And yet it seemed a steady light, it did not flicker like the light from a candle. At first he thought he must be allowing his imagination to play tricks, but then he realized that the glow was indeed real and that it was coming from behind him, and he was actually casting a distinct shadow out on to the plain. But there was nothing behind him… nothing but a vertical face of rock and a cave. Dreading what he would find behind him, Favorious slowly turned around. The light was emanating from the cave, it was quite faint but absolutely distinct. Its source lay within, out of sight around a slight natural bend. What happened next Favorious could not have imagined in his strangest nightmare. A calm deep voice spoke his name. A gasp of sheer terror escaped Favorious’ lips and he retreated from the cave’s entrance in a clumsy backwards bound, which caused him to fall over into a painful and undignified heap. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph save and protect me!" he breathed, and tried painfully to raise himself up on his elbows, his monks’ habit making the manoeuvre doubly difficult. "Good Favorious," the voice continued with infinite calmness, "I beg you not to be afraid. I am no demon and no angel, but a plain living creature such as yourself, and I wish you no ill." Favorious stopped struggling and pulled his knees up into a more natural seated position. "Who art thou?" he whispered, "how knowest thou my name?" "I am a humble messenger of creatures much greater than myself. I am able to see a little way into your mind. I know that you are a good man and wish only good to those around you." "Sir, I am a poor sinner and the vilest of men. My soul is like unto a very pit of vipers." "No, Favorious. If all men were as good as you I would have no need to deliver my message." Favorious’ brow became knitted in apprehension. "From whence comest thou, Sir?" "From a time beyond the death of you and all your kind." "Thou speakest in riddles." "I speak as plainly as I know how." Favorious carefully drew himself to his feet and peered into the cave. The source of the light was just around the curve and it seemed brighter than before. "May I see thee, Sir?" he whispered. "In a little while," the voice assured him, "but first I must ask you to do a service for me, because I have no more physical strength, and I will soon die." "Thou wishest to confess thy sins, gentle Sir?" "I need you to find something and bring it to me. If it remains out in the open it will cause great harm to the people who touch it or come close to it." "… The voice then told me," Favoriouis continued in his meticulous Latin script, "that I must seek a sphere which glows with the same green light as the cave, and take it to where the voice was speaking. It warned me that touching the sphere might make me ill, and might shorten my time on earth. I replied that my time on earth had already been long and I had no fear of what evil the sphere of green light might cause me. I sought the sphere and found it on the plain, about an hour’s walk from the entrance to the cave. I could see it by its own strange light at a great distance when my eyes became accustomed to the dark. Although small, perhaps the width of two hands, it was very heavy and seemed alive with an inner green fire so bright I could not look straight upon it. I carried it with difficulty back to the cave, and the voice then asked me to approach and set it down. Only then, for the first time, did I see what lay within…" Emmaeus interrupted his flow of thought, knocking at the door and then coming in to Favorious’ cell with a tray containing a cup of small ale and a bowl of thin pottage, which he placed on the floor beside the Abbot’s straw bedding. "Dear Brother Favorious," he said in a kindly voice, "I beg thee eat and drink a little, lest thy fever worsen." "My fever worsens hourly, gentle Emmaeus, that is why I must complete my writing with all haste. The blisters grow worse on my hands and my body weakens. I well know that my time is short. Hast thou sent word to Rome?" "Yes, Brother. I am certain that the Papal Nuncio shall make all haste in coming, I know how highly thou art respected in the court of the Holy Father. It is said that he doth read daily from thy book of meditations on the life of St. Thomas Aquinas." "I am sure the Holy Father hath greater works than that from which to read." He looked straight at Emmaeus. "Brother Emmaeus, thou knowest well that the brothers of this abbey shalt elect thee Abbot on my passing. I beg thee speak plainly to His Eminence the Nuncio. Tell him this parchment must reach the eyes of the Holy Father before any other at the Court of Rome." "Thou shalt talk to the Nuncio thyself, Brother Favorious." "No, Brother Emmaeus, I shall not." He dipped his quill once more and returned shakily to the parchment. "… as I moved forward and rounded the bend in the cave, I saw by the light of the globe what seemed a formless pile of shining armour, from which protruded here and there strands of fine drawn metal wire, and ruptured metal tubes like to something a brewer of ale might use, and other diverse artefacts also, many spilling from what seemed a broken metal urn, to which the limb-pieces of armour had been connected. I counted twelve armour limbs, which ended in gloves of diverse kinds, some with two fingers, some with four. There was no man wearing this armour, nor could there have been, for its shape was in no manner human. As I laid down my burden beside the armour, the voice spoke to me again…" Abbot Emmaeus looked sad and drawn as he kissed the ring of Cardinal Vinnetti, the Papal Nuncio, and watched the tall gaunt Italian in his dazzling scarlet robes, along with his taciturn Jesuit secretary Father Billani, arrayed entirely in black, ascend the steps to their fine carriage and pull away from the courtyard gates. He raised his hand once in a gesture of salute and blessing as they left. The Jesuit made him uneasy, there was no warmth in the man’s eyes: he was like all of the priests Emmaeus had met from the new and secretive Society of Jesus that had so swiftly soared to the very top of the pyramid of power and influence in Rome. They had a cleverness about them, even a ruthlessness he thought uncharitably, but no humanity. The visit was of course an honour, but one that he could well have done without, coinciding as it had with the burial ceremony for his dear friend Favorious. Emmaeus had no appetite for his new position, and wished only to return to his work in the vineyards and his studies of the life of Saint Simon, both of which he loved. But at least he had been there to grant the dying wish of Favorious, to deliver the two manuscripts safely into the hands of the Pope’s own representative. As their coach left the Monastery of Loudane ever further behind and the small bowed figure of Emmaeus disappeared from view the Cardinal spoke with his secretary in the clipped colloquial Latin of the inner circle of St. Peters clerics. "A load of nonsense, Father Billani," he stated with bored resignation, holding up the two wax-sealed parchment rolls about which Emmaeus had made such a fuss. "Do you think so, Your Emminence?" the other probed, his brow furrowed in an affected gesture of deep concern. "I always liked Favorious," the Nuncio replied quietly, "One of the finest scholars I ever met when he was young. But not very worldly, I am afraid. Easy prey to those who would take advantage of his innocence and goodness to further their own ends." "What do you mean, Emminence?" With a theatrical gesture the Cardinal broke the seal on the larger of the two parchments and laid out the sheets on top of one another on the lap of his red robes. Billani feigned shock, but his eyes were cold and steely. "Do you think, Emminence, we should read that which was sealed for the eyes of another?" "Don’t patronise me, Billani." He unrolled the parchment and read its contents carefully. "It’s exactly as I thought," he announced with a mixture of contempt and amusement, " a cynical attempt at manipulation. That old rogue Father Joseph in Antion has come up with a scheme to make his impoverished little village a place of pilgrimage throughout all Christendom. You almost have to admire him. Gerald the armourer has helped him by making a many-armed doll of discarded armour and hiding it in a cave. At some travelling fair they have bought candles that give off coloured light and pieces of polished iron, trinkets made to amaze the minds of simple villagers." As he said this he pulled the shard of gleaming metal from its leather belt-bag and flung it carelessly from the carriage window to disappear into the weed-choked verge. "Gerald’s daughter leads Favorious to the cave and the show begins. It is sad that one so good and so wise could be taken-in by such simple trickery. But it was the innocence and goodness of his heart that laid him open to the deceits of worldly men." "But Emminence," Billani urged gently, "did Favorious not speak of other greater mysteries? Of a deep slice cut into a hillside, a globe that gave forth green light too bright to look upon, and a great earthquake that sealed-up the cave forever as he left?" Vinnetti looked knowingly at his secretary. "Sealed-up the cave forever. How very, very convenient." He crumpled-up the pages and shoved them crudely into the now empty belt-bag. "We will have good kindling for our fire tomorrow," he said absently. "And the other parchment?" Billani probed, "The message?" "Oh yes, the message. There is always a message, isn’t there? Whenever the Blessed Virgin or a heavenly angel appears there is always a message. This will be about the tenth I have seen this year." Vinnetti broke the seal and quickly read the parchment. "Why do we waste our time on these ridiculous rural miracles, Billani?" he asked with exasperation, screwing the second parchment into a ball and pushing it into the same leather bag. "Favorious was a fine and holy man. Our only duty now is to protect his memory and his reputation from those who would take advantage of the darkening of his intellect in old age to further their own cynical purposes." For a moment neither man spoke. The carriage jogged along comfortingly. At last Billani leaned forward and motioned to the leather bag. "With your permission, Emminence?" Vinnetti shrugged and reached into the bag, drawing out the crumpled second parchment. He flicked it playfully across the carriage on to Billani’s lap. "I thought your conscience would not allow you to read that which was sealed for the eyes of the Holy Father," the Cardinal joked. Billani smiled and opened out the sheet. He ran his eyes over the words Favorious had written. "Do you see what it is, Billani?" his superior went on as the other read, "It’s the fantasy of a lustful old man. The kind of smut the ballad-singers peddle for a farthing. We are warned that the world is going to die of overpopulation unless the Church sanctions and promotes artificial methods of birth-control. Did you ever hear anything as ridiculous… not to mention distasteful?" He motioned out of the carriage window at the empty scrub-land stretching as far as the eye could see. "Does that seem overcrowded to you, Billani?" By way of reply Billani returned a rather false smile. "It’s filth, Billani. A perverted dream of a world in which fornication has no consequences. That old Father Joseph of Antion has quite a reputation, you know. Have you heard about him?" Billani nodded in a non-committal sort of way, but his gaze never shifted from the parchment. "The Society of Jesus keeps a special closed library at the Vatican where such curiosities are stored… for the possible interest of historians in some far future time," he said in the tone of one asking a favour, knowing that the Nuncio would indulge him. Vinnetti could scarcely hold back his laughter. "Well I know it, Father Billani, well I know it!" As Vinnetti looked on with an air of amused contempt Billani smoothed out the parchment on his knee and rolled it up tightly and neatly before placing it with care in the inner pocket of his raven-black habit.
Copyright © 2001 David Gardiner |