"Brother?" Echo was at his side, the old monk's face masked by his cowl. "If I intrude-"
"You do not. Juba?"
The monk was within the living quarters, lying supine on his narrow cot, his eyes closed in a waxen face, his thin hands resting on his stomach. For a moment Remick stood looking down at him, noting the sunken cheeks, the darkly circled eyes, the flaccidity of the skin at jaw and throat. Touching the wrist he felt a barely discernible pulse. The skin itself was febrile.
"How long?"
"An hour after you took your station, Brother. I thought he was sleeping and did what I could before attending the dispensary. A short while ago I checked and found him as you see." The calmness of his voice faltered a little. "Is there hope?"
There was always hope-but not for Brother Juba. He was dying and they both knew it. Soon now he would be dead and a life of absolute dedication would be over. And what was there to show for it? What mark would he have left? The sacrifice of personal comforts, of a wife and children, of the chance of wealth and the relinquishing of all self-pride and all self-determination-what had it achieved? Worlds still were ruled by terror, men and women were still slaves, hatred and cruelty still held domination. Men still looked on each other as things less than human. There was still pain.
And, always, there would be death.
A part of the Natural Cycle which ruled all things. To be born, to grow and then to die. The old making way for the young and the young growing to build for those who would come after. And all passing into the Great Unknown and all, at the end, truly equal.
As Echo left the cramped quarters Remick settled down to his vigil. Perhaps he should have let the other do it, the monks had been close, but it was his duty and it would have been no kindness to force the other to witness a preview of his own end. Soon he too would be making the last journey and then would be time enough for him to be involved with thoughts of extinction. Now the living, those waiting for medical aid, would occupy his mind and turn his thoughts from the still figure on the cot.
Again Remick touched the hand, his fingers searching automatically for the pulse. Drugs could restore the flush to the sunken cheeks but it would be a temporary illusion and only a momentary staving off of the inevitable end. And a man should be allowed to die in dignity, not hooked and incorporated into a machine, a part of devices which pumped blood and air and adjusted the endocrine balance and turned the body of man into a thing of mechanics.
A respite gained at what cost?
Remick had seen such things in the big hospitals on wealthier worlds and had seen, too often, the fear and greed and envy such things induced. To live! To last another day, another hour! To stave off death. To linger no matter what the cost. To squander the accumulated wealth of years and rob the young of their patronage. To glory in the cult of self. To yearn for immortality.
Madness!
Death was a part of life. An ending. A closing. Something to be accepted with calmness and equanimity. The end of an episode and the beginning of another. Birth, growth, death- the sum total of life and of existence.
"Brother!" On the cot Juba stirred, tongue touched dried lips. As Remick fed him water his voice strengthened a little yet still remained detached. "Don't leave me, Brother. How am I to manage? I know so little and must accomplish so much. Brother!"
An appeal to some long-dead monk who had been his guide and mentor when young. Remick knew the feeling well, the awesome sense of responsibility when, filled with zeal, he had set out to change the universe. An ambition all monks shared and one which slowly lost its luster as the realization was accepted that one man could do only so much and to change human nature was to attempt the near impossible.
"No!" Juba turned, twisting, sweat dewing his face and neck. "No! For the love of God, don't! Don't!"
A revived fragment of memory surfacing like a bubble on a pond, to burst and release agony. To make the past real and immediate again, a time when, still young, Juba had been taken by regressed primitives and subjected to their torture of fire. Beneath his robe his body showed the scars; savage wounds reaching to his waist, burned areas mottled in purple and angry red. They could be clearly displayed, but the other scars, those on his mind, had been buried deep.
Now to rise and produce screams and writhings, then a panting submission as Remick touched major nerves and spoke soothing words to diminish the impact with hypnotic skill.
A kindness and the reason why no monk was ever allowed to die alone if it was possible to attend him. A reassurance that he was not alone, that he would never be alone, that always there would be someone who cared. The final seal of a fellowship which embraced them all in a common cause.
"Brother!" Remick closed his fingers on those in his hand. "Rest easy, Brother, all will be well. Peace will be yours. Now rest and dream of scented fields on which shines the warm light of a brilliant sun. See how the flowers stir to the breeze and how the butterflies lift to soar and wheel in flashes of glowing color. Rest, Brother. Rest."
Juba sighed but the weight on his mind was too great to be so easily banished. When he next spoke his voice was that of a child, thin, detached, impersonal. Remick listened, his face intent, unsurprised at what he heard. Men were not angels and no man, not even a monk, could live a life free of sin. Always were temptations of the flesh, of ambition, of anger and irritation. The sin of pride was always close as were the sins of arrogance and impatience. Of rage and hate and intolerance. Things absolved by confession and subjective penance to be committed again perhaps, but the monks were men not robots, to err was human.
And Juba had lived a long time.
It was dark when Remick left the shack and stepped into the open. Far in the distance lightning still flickered over the mountains but the air was clearer now and stars could be seen glittering in the dark bowl of the sky. At the gate men clustered, talking, casual as they guarded the field and the field itself was almost deserted. A trader from Logaris and a vessel on its way to Klandah. A man was working on its lowered ramp.
Life and vessels which spanned the void, work and idle talk and, even as he took a deep breath of the air, the sudden spurt of laughter.
And, behind him, death.
Echo came toward him, eyes questioning in the lines of his face, the face itself framed by his thrown-back cowl.
"Juba?"
"Is gone. He died in peace." Remick rested his hand on the other's shoulder. "You knew him well?"
"Almost from the beginning. We learned in the same seminary and undertook our first mission together. On Flagre. I fell sick there and almost died. He saved me but I had to return to Pace for extensive treatment. I heard from him from time to time after that but it wasn't until now we worked together." Pausing Echo said, "A good man. I shall miss him."
"We shall all miss him." Remick again drew air deep into his lungs. "Now I must inform the Matriarch of his passing."
Tamiras said, "Dead? A monk dead? How droll." Wine swirled in the goblet he supported with slender fingers. "But why tell you? Surely the Matriarch of Esslin has better things to occupy her attention?"
Before Kathryn could answer, Gustav said, "A matter of courtesy, I imagine. The church is here by sufferance and must know it."
"And could want more land? More privileges?" Tamiras reached for a bowl of nuts and, holding a pair in one hand, cracked them by a sudden pressure. "Don't make the mistake of underestimating the monks. There had been a scuffle, right? The old man had got hurt in some way. Now he is dead and it could be thought that you might feel guilty."
"Guilty?"
"Responsible then." Tamiras shrugged. "The men who did the hurt were your guards. You might feel moved to grant a further tract of land or give financial support or something like that in recompense." He ended dryly, "Little do they know the ruler of this happy world."