"Have you ever seen a baby born?" he asked.
"That's a natural process!"
"The creation of a new soul is not - 'tis an act of God."
I tensed against an eerie feeling that was stealing over me. "I thought that was the phrase for horrible storms and earthquakes."
"Do you see God only as a destroyer, then? Or do you see each lightning bolt as a miracle?"
"I thought it was supposed to be the wrath of God," I snapped.
"Nay, though it may be His instrument, as virtually anything of this world may be - and as any good Christian must hope to be."
"Now, hold on!" I held up a hand to forestall him. "Are you trying to say everything that happens is a miracle?"
"Certainly not - but by the same token, a miracle need not be rare. It will nonetheless be a miracle, my friend," Friar Ignatius said, with that gentle smile. "I have seen hopeless illness cured, and not through the laying-on of hands, but only through prayer, and because it pleased God; I have seen melancholy lifted from a maiden's heart by the beauty of a sunrise; I have seen a man, bent on death, restored to the will to live by the song of a skylark. The grace of God can reach us all at any time, if we are open to it."
Revelation. "So that's what prayer is! Just turning on the receiver, opening a channel!"
"Odd terms," Friar Ignatius said with a frown, "but that is certainly an aspect of prayer. Not the whole of it, of course, but a part."
"The part that seems to pertain to the discussion at hand." I frowned. "So how do you think magic works?"
"By symbols and intent." He rested a hand on Frisson's shoulder, and sang,
Frisson looked up, startled, then turned to Friar Ignatius - with a frown. "What have you done?"
"Only given you a song to ward your heart," the monk assured him. Frisson held a level gaze a moment longer. "You have, and I thank you deeply. Alas, the wanton was fair! But in truth, she had thought only for her own pleasure, and none for my welfare. It is removed, now, though the memory of the passion is sweet." His face darkened.
"Alack-a-day, what I fool I made of myself!"
"You had a great deal of aid," the monk assured him. Frisson smiled, and I stared in shock, for it was a sardonic smile, such as I had never seen on his face before. "I had small need of help, Friar Ignatius, for I've made a fool of myself many, many times in the past. Ah, so many!"
"Why, then, we are brothers," the monk said with a smile.
"Are we so? Nay, I think not - for you did cleave unto God's rules, and thereby did save yourself from shame."
"As the psalm says, 'The salvation of my countenance, and my God,' " Friar Ignatius said softly.
"For you, mayhap - but for myself, I played the fool roundly. In truth, I would be tempted to say that I could not have made a fool of myself, for God did."
"Say not so." Friar Ignatius' voice became stern. "The only true folly is turning away from God, Master Poet, and as long as you reach out to others, you have not done that."
"Even if they should spurn me? There is some sense in what you say." Frisson nodded. "But there are ways of reaching out, and there are other ways of reaching out. I think I must modify my techniques, Friar Wisdom."
"Friar Fool, say rather." The monk smiled. "For as long as we do live and breathe, we must needs be fools in some measure." He noticed my stare and turned to me. "What amazes you, Master Saul?" I gave myself a shake and said, "Thought you claimed you couldn't work magic."
Friar Ignatius flushed and lowered his gaze. " 'Twas only a small magic, Master Wizard, such as a cotter might use." I started to object, then caught his meaning - the "spell" had been as much suggestion as anything else. Convince Frisson that he had put Thyme behind him, and he did - for certainly, he believed in both magic and monks. Instead, I said, "Had that spell ready to hand, did you?"
"I did," Friar Ignatius admitted, "though I recast a few lines as I spoke. 'Tis a sovereign for many ills, Master Saul - for all things must pass, and it behooves us to speed their passing if they are not for our good." It made sense, but it wasn't the kind of wisdom I was used to hearing from the West. "I was beginning to think you were this universe's equivalent of a theoretical physicist," I said, "but I'm beginning to suspect you're something of a psychologist, too. Friar Ignatius frowned. "These terms are strange."
"Darn right they are. So, Friar Ignatius, just how do you think magic works?"
"As it will," he answered, "and constantly, for it sustains us all, though we know it not. 'Tis like some great, thick, unseen blanket that overlies the whole world, Master Saul, like a mist upon the plain.
I started to object to "overlies" and was about to suggest "englobes," when I remembered that to him, the world was flat. "So it's a substance, though a diffuse one?"
"Not a substance," he said, "but a kind of energy, like the thrumming you feel within you on a fair morning, when you are in good health."
I stiffened: he was describing a field force. "And this energy blanket covers the whole Earth?"
"Aye, but the energy within us can thicken and direct it, if we have the talent."
"How?" I frowned. "By thinking at it? That would make sense - thought waves modulating a field force . . ." But Friar Ignatius held up a cautioning hand. "Not thought alone, Master Saul, but all of our bodies, every bit of our being. Our own energies fill us; they are not in our minds alone, or we could never walk."
I didn't like the way this was going, but Frisson did - his gaze was fairly glued to Friar Ignatius' face.
"A man born with the gift for it," the monk said, "can make the magic thicken, gather power from it, and direct that power as he wills.
"And how does he do that?"
"By the symbols that he chooses, to clarify his thinking and involve his whole being in his intention," Friar Ignatius said.
"Then what," Frisson asked, "makes the magic black or white, good or evil?"
"The purpose for which he intends it," Friar Ignatius replied, "and his motives for doing so. If a virtuous woman wishes to heal, to help, or to protect another, then she appeals to God for His aid in her deeds, and her magic will be white."
"How about if she's using it to kill an attacker?" I said.
"A good woman would not wish to kill." Friar Ignatius turned back to me. "She would wish to protect herself and would therefore only wish to stop or withhold the attacker. Her spell might kill him, if that were the only way to stop him, but her intent would be good, and her magic from goodness."
It sounded specious, but I didn't argue - I'd heard enough about sex crimes to believe that a woman might very well kill an attacker by accident. All she'd really be thinking about, of course, would be stopping him - but if she hit a vital organ, tough luck. I'd be the first to say it, and the last to deny it. "So how can you tell if you're dealing with a wizard or a sorcerer?"
"You may know him by the symbols he uses," Friar Ignatius answered. "If he inflicts pain to gain magical powers, if he speaks of death and uses skulls and twisted blades and blood, then his magic is surely ill, and aided by evil."
"Symbols?" I frowned. "I've only seen sorcerers use words!"
"You may also see them brandish a staff or a wand," Friar Ignatius said. "It magnifies the force of a spell, even as it magnifies the force of a blow."
I had a notion it had something to do with directing the force, like an antenna, but it was not fair bringing electromagnetism into the discussion.