I could not believe what I was hearing. I stared incredulously at the bishop's softly glowing form.
"Oh, a very great boon, that," I muttered scornfully. "I went to Byzantium believing I would die, but willing to face martyrdom for Christ's sake. Indeed, I was prepared for death, but nothing happened-nothing."
"And so you were disappointed," the bishop's apparition mocked, adopting the tone of one well used to exhorting thickheaded pupils. I made no answer, but glowered sullenly back. Cadoc frowned and drew a deep breath. "Perhaps, if you had pondered the meaning of your dream more deeply-"
"What difference does it make now? It is over and done."
"I tell you the truth, Aidan mac Cainnech," he declared in solemn displeasure, "you are making me angry."
I am mad, I thought. Here was I, arguing with a dead man's apparition in the middle of the night. I must be losing my mind-first angels and now the spirits of the departed. What next?
"This is what you came to tell me?" I inquired sourly.
"No, son," he said, his voice gentling. "I came to warn you, and to encourage you." He leaned towards me earnestly. "Beware: great danger gathers about you. Forces in high places seek your destruction. Continue on the way you are going, and the abyss will claim you."
"That is encouraging," I muttered.
"That was the warning," snapped the dead bishop. "But I say to you, rejoice, brother; the race is soon run, and the prize awaits. Persevere!"
So saying, he began to move away from me-I say "move away" because while he did not so much as lift a foot, I sensed motion and he began to fade from my sight, growing rapidly smaller as if retreating across a vast distance. "Remember this: all flesh is grass!" he called, his voice dwindling away. "Keep your eyes on the prize!"
"Wait!" I cried, jumping up again.
His words drifted back to me, now very faint and far away: "All flesh is grass, Brother Aidan. The race is soon run. Farewell…"
Cadoc disappeared from sight, and I came to myself with a shudder and looked around. The camp was quiet and still, the men asleep. Low in the west, the moon shone brightly, but pink dawn marbled the sky in the east. I stood for a time, trying to understand what had happened to me. It had been a dream, I decided. What else could it have been? Unlike my other dreams, however, this one had caused me to get up and walk in my sleep; I had never done that before.
I felt foolish standing alone in the dark, talking to myself, so I crept back to my place beneath the tree and wrapped my robe around me and tried to go to sleep. Daylight roused the others a short time later. We broke fast on the remains of the previous night's meal, then saddled the horses and rode on.
The strange events of the previous day had cast me into a pensive humour. I rode beside Faysal, as before, but my mind was far away and preoccupied with all I had seen and heard. Time and again I kept returning to the same words: All flesh is grass. That is what the angel had told me, and Bishop Cadoc had said it, too. I found this curiously comforting: at least my spectral visitors agreed with one another.
The words themselves were from the Holy Scriptures; I had copied out enough psalms to recognize that much at least. And the prophets often likened man and his span of days to the ephemeral grass that blushed green in the dawnlight only to be blasted by the sun's all-consuming fire and blown away on the desert wind.
I thought about this as I rode along, and thought, too, how long it had been since I had contemplated anything of Holy Writ. Once it had been all my life, and now such thoughts were few and exceedingly far between. Melancholy settled over me, and I gave myself to wondering what else I could recall.
My efforts were rewarded at once: All men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field. That was from one of the prophets-Isaiah, I think. And then there was one from the Psalms: You, Lord God, sweep away men in the sleep of death; they are like the grass of the morning-though in the morning it springs up new, by evening it is dry and withered.
Once begun, other fragments of scripture surfaced. I found the mental exercise mildly diverting-at least it relieved the monotony of the ride. They wither more quickly than grass-such is the destiny of those who forget the Lord. Sure, I had copied that once or twice, but though I wrung my poor brain for trying, I could in no wise remember the source. The message was clear enough, however; it made me wonder whether I had forgotten the Lord. No, I maintained, God had forgotten me.
Another versicle floated up from the hidden depths of memory: Who are you that fear mortal men, who are but grass, that you forget the Lord, your Maker, who has stretched out the heavens and laid the Earth's foundations?
The question spoke to me with such directness and force that I turned in the saddle to see if Faysal had spoken. But he rode with his head bent beneath the sun, and his eyes were closed; some of the others were dozing in the saddle, too. Clearly, no one paid any attention to me.
Again, the question resounded in my mind, and with an insistence that seemed to require an answer: Who was I to fear mortal men and forget my Maker? Was it fear that led to forgetting? Perhaps, but it seemed more likely that forgetting? Perhaps, but it seemed more likely that forgetting led to fear. Further, the question implied the foolishness of fearing mere mortals when the Maker of Heaven and Earth alone held power over the soul. Obviously, if fear were coinage, then God was the treasurer who demanded payment.
Oh, but it was not fear that so beset me: I was not afraid, I was angry! I had given my all to God, and he had rejected the gift. He had abandoned me, withdrawn his guiding hand and cast me adrift in a world that knew neither mercy nor justice.
As if in response to this observation, another scriptural shred floated to my attention: Do not fret because of evil men, or be envious of those who do wrong; for like the grass they soon wither and die away. That one I knew; it was from Psalms. Thus, I had worked myself around to the same place once more. But what did it mean, this talk of flesh and grass and fear and forgetting-what did any of it mean?
As the blistering sun reached the summit of its upward climb, we stopped to rest. I took a little water and lay down under a thornbush-the last of the trees was far behind us now, and all that gave shade or shelter in the rough, dry hills was a tough low bush with small leathery leaves and short, sharp thorns. I tried to sleep, but the ground was hard and uneven, and my mind kept returning to the questions that had occupied me during the morning.
The implication suggested by the fragments tossed up by my agitated spirit, was that I had allowed my disappointment to turn to bitterness and doubt, which had in turn corroded my faith. Perhaps that was true. But I had every right to be bitter! God had abandoned me, after all. How long was I obliged to remain faithful to a god who no longer cared?
I did my best to put the issue behind me, but the questions gnawed at me through the day. As I could get no peace, I engaged Faysal in discussion. "Which do you think the greater boon," I asked as we rode along, climbing the ragged track up into the hills, "knowing your death, or remaining ignorant of it?"
After pondering the question for a time, he had answered, "Both positions have much to commend them."
"That is no answer-"
"Allow me to finish," he replied. "It seems to me that it is the lot of man to remain ignorant of his demise until the unhappy event overtakes him. Therefore, I am persuaded that Allah has ordained it thus for our benefit."
"Even so," I allowed, "if the choice were yours to make, which would you choose?"
He thought for a moment, then asked, "Is it likely that this should happen to me?"