"Walter M. Miller - The Lost Masters - Volume 01" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Walter M)

name-saintтАУa bit of burlap? fibers from the hangmanтАЩs noose? fingernail clippings from the bottom of the
rusty box?тАУor perhaps RACING FORM. But the fantasy withered. The chances of Brother Francis
becoming a priest were slightтАУnot being a missionary Order, the Brothers of Leibowitz needed only
enough priests for the abbey itself and a few smaller communities of monks in other locations.
Furthermore, the тАЬSaintтАЭ was still only a Beatus officially, and would never be formally declared a saint
unless he wrought a few more good solid miracles to underwrite his own beatification, which was not an
infallible proclamation, as canonization would be, although it permitted the monks of the Leibowitz Order
formally to venerate their founder and patron, outside of the Mass and the Office. The proportions of the
fantasy church dwindled to the size of a wayside shrine; the river of pilgrims shrank to a trickle. New
Rome was busy with other matters, such as the petition for a formal definition on the question of the
Preternatural Gifts of the Holy Virgin, the Dominicans holding that the Immaculate Conception implied
not only indwelling grace, but also that the Blessed Mother had had the preternatural powers which were
EveтАЩs before the Fall; some theologians of other Orders, while admitting this to be pious conjecture,
denied that it was necessarily the case, and contended that a тАЬcreatureтАЭ might be тАЬoriginally innocentтАЭ but
not endowed with preternatural gifts. The Dominicans bowed to this, but contended that the belief had
always been implicit in other dogmaтАУsuch as the Assumption (preternatural immortality) and the
Preservation from Actual Sin (implying preternatural integrity) and still other examples. While attempting
to settle this dispute, New Rome had seemingly left the case for the canonization of Leibowitz to gather
dust on the shelf.
Contenting himself with a small shrine of the Beatus and a casual trickle of pilgrims, Brother Francis
drowsed. When he awoke, the fire was reduced to glowing embers. Something seemed amiss. Was he
quite alone? He blinked around at the encompassing darkness.
From beyond the bed of reddish coals, the dark wolf blinked back.
The novice yelped and dived for cover.
The yelp, he decided as he lay trembling within his den of stones and brush, had been only an
involuntary breach of the rule of silence. He lay hugging the metal box and praying that the days of Lent
might pass swiftly, while padded feet scratched about his enclosure.


3

тАЬтАжand then, Father, I almost took the bread and cheese.тАЭ
тАЬBut you didnтАЩt take it?тАЭ
тАЬNo.тАЭ
тАЬThen there was no sin by deed.тАЭ
тАЬBut I wanted it so badly, I could taste it.тАЭ
тАЬWillfully? Did you deliberately enjoy the fantasy?тАЭ
тАЬNo.тАЭ
тАЬYou tried to get rid of it.тАЭ
тАЬYes.тАЭ
тАЬSo there was not culpable gluttony of thought either. Why are you confessing this?тАЭ
тАЬBecause then I lost my temper and splashed him with holy water.тАЭ
тАЬYou what? Why?тАЭ
Father Cheroki, wearing his stole, stared at the penitent who knelt in profile before him in the
scorching sunlight on the open desert; the priest kept wondering how it was possible for such a youth
(not particularly intelligent insofar as he could determine) to manage to find occasions or near-occasions
of sin while completely isolated on barren desert, far from any distraction or apparent source of
temptation. There should be very little trouble a boy could get into out here, armed as he was with only a
rosary, a flint, a penknife, and a prayerbook. So it seemed to Father Cheroki. But this confession was
taking up quite a lot of time; he wished the boy would get on with it. His arthritis was bothering him again,