“Father Cotterson, Order of St. Vidicon,” the monk returned, reluctantly. “What is your destination, Father?”
“Gramarye, Father Cotterson. I’ve been dispatched to find a man named Rod Gallowglass.”
“The High Warlock?” Father Cotterson’s voice turned somber.
“You’ll pardon my surprise, Father, but how is it you’ve retained knowledge of technology?” asked Father Al. “I was told your ancestors had fled here to escape it.”
“How would you have known that?”
“Through a prophet, of a sort,” Father Al said slowly. “He left a message to be opened a thousand years after he wrote it, and we’ve just read it.”
“A prophecy?” Father Cotterson murmured, his eyes glazing. “About Gramarye?”
He was in shock; one of his prime myths had just focused on himself. The pause was fortunate; Father Al needed a little time to reflect, too.
High Warlock? Rod Gallowglass?
Already?
As to the rest of it, it was perfectly logical—there had been a Cathodean priest among the original colonists; and where there was one Cathodean, science and technology would be kept alive, somehow.
How? Well, that was nit-picking; it had any number of answers. The question could wait. Father Al cleared his throat. “I think we have a great deal to discuss, Father Cotterson—but could it wait till we’re face-to-face? I’d like to make planetfall first.”
Father Cotterson came back to life. He hesitated, clearly poised on the horns of a dilemma. Father Al could almost hear the monk’s thoughts—which was the worst danger? To allow Father Al to land? Or to send him away, and risk his return with reinforcements? Father Al sympathized; myths can be far more terrifying than the people underlying them.
Father Cotterson came to a decision. “Very well, Father, you may bring down your ship. But please land after nightfall; you could create something of a panic. After all, no one’s seen a ship land here in all our history.”
Father Al was still puzzling that one over, three hours later, when the land below them was dark and rising up to meet them. If no spaceship had landed for centuries, how had Rod Gallowglass come to be there? Yorick had said he was an off-worlder.
Well, no use theorizing when he didn’t have all the facts. He gazed up into the viewscreen. “About 200 meters away from the monastery, please, Brother Chard. That should give you time to lift off again, before they can reach us. Not that I think they would prevent you from leaving—but it never hurts to be certain.”
“Whatever you say, Father,” Brother Chard said wearily.
Father Al looked up. “You’re not still saddened at discovering they don’t need missionaries, are you?”
“Well…”
“Come, come, Brother, buck up.” Father Al patted the younger man on the shoulder. “These good monks have been out of contact with the rest of the Church for centuries; no doubt they’ll need several emissaries, to update them on advances in theology and Church history.”
Brother Chard did perk up a bit at that. Father Al was glad the young monk hadn’t realized the corollary—that those “emissaries” might find themselves having to combat heresy. Colonial theologians could come up with some very strange ideas, given five hundred years’ isolation from Rome.
And Rod Gallowglass could spark the grandaddy of them all, if he weren’t properly guided.
The pinnace landed, barely touching the grass, and Father Al clambered out of the miniature airlock. He hauled his travelling case down behind him, watched the airlock close, then went around to the nose, moving back fifty feet or so, and waved at the nose camera. Lights blinked in answering farewell, and the St. lago lifted off again. It was only a speck against dark clouds by the time the local monks came puffing up.
“Why… did you let him… take off again?” Father Cotterson panted.
“Why, because this is my mission, not his,” Father Al answered in feigned surprise. “Brother Chard was only assigned to bring me here, Father, not to aid me in my mission.”
Father Cotterson glared upward at the receding dot, like a spider trying to glare down a fly that gained wisdom at the last second. The monk didn’t look quite so imposing in the flesh; he was scarcely taller than Father Al, and lean to the point of skinniness. Father Al’s respect for him rose a notch; no doubt Father Cotterson fasted frequently.
Either that, or he had a tapeworm.
Father Cotterson turned back to Father Al, glaring. “Have you considered, Father, how you are to leave Gramarye once your mission is completed?”
“Why…” said Father Al slowly, “I’m not certain that I will, Father Cotterson.” As he said it, the fact sank in upon him—this might indeed be his final mission, though it might last decades. If it didn’t, and if the Lord had uses for him elsewhere, no doubt He would contrive the transportation.
Father Cotterson didn’t look too happy about the idea of Father Al’s becoming a resident. “I can see we’ll have to discuss this at some length. Shall we return to the monastery, Father?”
“Yes, by all means,” Father Al murmured, and fell into step beside the lean monk as he turned back toward the walled enclosure in the distance. A dozen other brown-robes fell in behind them.
“A word as to local ways,” Father Cotterson said. “We speak modern English within our own walls; but without, we speak the vernacular. There are quite a few archaic words and phrases, but the greatest difference is the use of the second person singular, in place of the second person plural. You might wish to begin practice with us, Father.”
“And call thee ‘thee’ and ‘thou?’ Well, that should be easy enough.” After all, Father Al had read the King James Version.
“A beginning, at least. Now tell me, Father—why dost thou seek Rod Gallowglass?”
Father Al hesitated. “Is not that a matter I should discuss with the head of thine Order, Father Cotterson?”
“The Abbot is absent at this time; he is in Runnymede, in conference with Their Majesties. I am his Chancellor, Father, and the monastery is in my care while he is gone. Anything that thou wouldst say to him, thou mayst discuss with me.”
A not entirely pleasant development, Father Al decided. He didn’t quite trust Father Cotterson; the man had the look of the fanatic about him, and Father Al wasn’t quite certain which Cause he served.
On the other hand, maybe it was just the tapeworm.
“The prophecy I told thee of,” Father Al began—and paused. Decidedly, he didn’t trust Father Cotterson. If the man was the religious fanatic he appeared to be, how would he react to the idea that the High Warlock would become even more powerful?
So he changed the emphasis a little. “Our prophecy told us that Rod Gallowglass would be the most powerful wizard ever known. Thou dost see the theological implications of this, of course.”
“Aye, certes.” Father Cotterson smiled without mirth—and also without batting an eye. “Wrongly guided, such an one could inspire a Devil’s Cult.”
“Aye, so it is.” Father Al fell into the monk’s speech style, and frowned up at him. “How is it this doth not disconcert thee, Father?”
“We know it of old,” the monk replied wearily. “We have striven to hold our witchfolk from Satan for years. Rest assured, Father—if no Devil’s Cult hath yet arisen on Gramarye, ‘tis not like to rise up now.”
“ ‘Witchfolk?’ ” Suddenly, Father Al fairly quivered with attention to the monk’s words. “What witchfolk are these, Father?”
“Why, the warlocks and witches in the mountains and fens, and in the King’s Castle,” Father Cotterson answered. “Did not thy prophecy speak of them, Father?”
“Not in any detail. And thou dost not see thy High Warlock as any greater threat to thy flock?”
“Nay; he ha’ been known nigh onto ten years, Father, and, if aught, hath brought the witchfolk closer to God.” Father Cotterson smiled with a certain smugness, relaxing a little. “Thy prophet seems to have spake somewhat tardily.”