Saint Francis (43 page)

The man scowled; he did not like to be annoyed. But the old woman took pity on us. Grasping Francis' feet while I held him under the arms, she helped bring him inside. We laid him down on the bed, and she brought rose vinegar which she applied to his temples. She also held some under his nose for him to smell. Francis opened his eyes.

"Peace be to this house, my brothers," he said to the two peasants, who were leaning over him.

The man took me by the arm. "Who is this monk? I've seen him somewhere."

"It's Father Francis, Francis of Assisi."

"The saint?"

"Yes, the saint."

The peasant clasped Francis' hand. "If you are really Francis of Assisi and the saint everyone says you are, then I have a word to tell you for your own benefit: Be sure to live up to your reputation for honesty and goodness because many souls who believe you to be honest and good have placed themselves in your hands."

Tears welled up to Francis' eyes.

"My brother, I shall never forget what you have said. I shall struggle as hard as I possibly can to be honest and good, so that those souls who have entrusted themselves to my care will not be ashamed of me. Bless you, my brother, for reminding me."

As soon as he had spoken he attempted to kiss the man's hand, but the other, anticipating him, kissed the mud on Francis' feet.

When I saw the old peasant's devotion, I was encouraged to say to him: "My brother, we still have a long journey ahead of us. We're going to Monte Alvernia, and my companion is unable to walk. For the love of Christ, wouldn't you like to give us your donkey so that Father Francis can ride?"

"With pleasure, monk, with pleasure. If I didn't have a donkey to give you I would carry him on my own back, for the salvation of my soul. I have committed many sins in my life, as you can well imagine, and now the time has come for me to redeem myself." He turned to the old woman. "Kill a hen, wife, and give some broth to the sick friar so that he'll be able to hold his head up. We'll eat first and then we'll start our journey. I'm going to come with you, monk."

I was delighted, since I've always been a great lover of chicken. And a little while later when I sipped the warm, fragrant soup and, stretching out my hand, took a huge piece of lean white meat together with the bird's small liver--oh, how can I describe it? Forgive me, Lord, but even now when I recall that meal my mouth waters. God grant that what Francis says is true and that hens are eligible for Paradise. If so we'll kill one each Sunday--for the greater glory of the Lord.

We lifted Francis up, placed him on the donkey's back, and started on our way.

"Is Alvernia far?" I asked our guide.

"Further than the devil's mother! What business do the likes of the two of you have around that wild mountain? I'm glad I'm not in your shoes! They say Captain Wolf, the bandit chief, has his hideaway at the summit. Aren't you afraid?"

"Why should we be afraid, my brother? We don't own anything. We belong to the order of holy Poverty."

"Poor devils, you chose the wrong order! If you think you've gone hungry up to now, just wait--the worst is yet to come. As for me," he said with a laugh, "I belong to the holy order of comfortable living."

"Yes, but we, hungry and barefooted as we are, have a chance of entering the kingdom of heaven."

"It's possible, monk; I don't say it isn't. But I have a chance of entering the kingdom of heaven just like you if I'm lucky enough to receive the sacrament at the last minute. Since both of us suck on this consoling 'chance' for the whole of our lives, isn't it more in a man's best interests to eat, drink, and kiss in order to make sure he doesn't lose his earthly life as well as the life eternal? Why look at me like that? If I don't get into heaven I have only one life to lose, while Your Holiness has two. My calculations are correct, I presume."

I coughed. There was nothing I could say in reply, for I had often--oh, how many times--made the same calculations to myself. Poor Brother Leo, what could you do? Francis went in the lead and it was your job to follow!

We walked along road after road until nightfall, when we entered a cave. Our guide collected an armful of wild grass and fed his donkey; next, he opened his sack, brought out the leftover chicken, and fed us. Producing a small jug of wine as well, he threw back his head and drank, then passed the jug to me. I could hear it cackling like a partridge above my lips.

"You'll have to excuse me, monks," he said. "I chose the order of comfortable living--remember?" Having reminded us of this, he lifted the flask to his lips once again and emptied it. Immediately afterwards, he placed a stone beneath his head to serve as a pillow, crossed himself with amazing rapidity, and fell asleep.

The next morning the weather was divine: sky absolutely clear, trees and stones glistening, the sun outfitted with a crop of long blond hair. We set Francis on the donkey and departed.

Soon we reached a large village whose name escapes me. Francis wanted to stop and preach, but the peasant was in a hurry.

"If you start to preach, expecting to convince these lubbers that they should know and follow God's commandments, expecting to drum some sense into their thick skulls, we won't reach Alvernia this year or the year after either. You'll have to forgive me, but I'm in a hurry to get back to my village. Unlike you monks, I have work to do. I struggle to put enough sense into the soil to make it nurture some grain and enable me to produce bread so that we can eat. I struggle to put enough sense into the vines to make them produce grapes for me to tread and turn into wine, so that we can drink, become merry, and then glorify the Almighty Lord."

"Just for a few moments . . ." Francis begged. "Just enough time to say two words, only two . . ."

"Words about God have no end. Don't think you can fool me! You talk and talk, get drunk on your own eloquence, then open the Gospel, and after that there's no stopping you!" He raised his stick and whacked the donkey on the rump. The animal gave a start, then lowered its head and bolted, coming within a hair's breadth of catapulting its rider to the ground. The peasant glanced at me.

"Well, what do you think: wasn't I right?" he asked, laughing behind his gray mustachios. "Forgive me for saying so, but if you keep on the way you are, telling first this one, then that one, to be saved, you won't have time to save yourselves. . . . I've got a neighbor in the village--Caroline, God bless her! She's nicely built, with a good-sized rump and a pile of children. Do you know what she said to me one day? Here, bend over and let me whisper it in your ear so the saint won't hear me."

I liked this portly, succulent old man; I liked him because he was comfortable and prosperous, and because the sap still flowed in his veins.

"What did she say?" I asked, leaning over. "Speak softly."

" 'Marino'--oh, yes, I forgot to tell you my name is Marino--'Marino, by doing first this one's pleasure then that one's, I never found time to have any children by my husband.' "

He burst into peals of laughter.

"The same thing will happen to you, poor devils," he concluded.

Thus, conversing together, we made the time go by. Thanks to the grace of God, it did not rain. The pine trees were fragrant, the sun cool, and the old man still had some food in his sack. This we soon did away with, however.

"That's the end of our comfortable living, monk," he said as he turned the bag inside-out. "By the way, what's your name, just to make things clear?"

"Brother Leo."

"Yes, it's the end of our comfortable living, poor old Leo. Before long I'll leave you at the foot of the mountain and then you'll rejoin the order of Poverty. You called it 'holy' if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes, holy Poverty."

"A plague on it! Don't mention that word to me: it makes my hair stand on end."

The sun had finally begun to set. At a turn in the road a huge, forbidding mountain suddenly came into view.

"There--that's Alvernia," said old Marino, pointing toward the mountain. "I hope you enjoy it!"

Francis crossed himself; then, raising his hand, he blessed the mountain. "Sister Alvernia, I'm glad to see you," he said. "I greet the stones and wild beasts that inhabit you; I greet the birds and angels in the air round about you! Look, my soul: it's Sister Alvernia. Do not be afraid."

I, not breathing a word, stared in terror at the savage uninhabited mountain. It was bare rock except for a few clumps of pine trees here and there, and a few oaks. Two hawks that had been roosting on a ledge soared upward and began to plait wreaths in the air above our heads.

"It's a good thing we're not hens," said the old man. "They would eat us; and then goodbye to the kingdom of heaven!"

Suddenly a peasant darted past us, but Marino whistled at him and he stopped. Our guide went up to the man and they spoke together in undertones for a long time, standing in the middle of the road. When Marino returned to us, he was wearing a long face.

"This is as far as I go," he said. "Not a step further!"

"What's the matter, Marino? Here, at the beginning of the ascent, is just when we need your help the most. What news did your friend bring you?"

"He said that Captain Wolf the bandit chief came down from his hideaway and is roaming around the foot of the mountain. He must be dying of hunger."

He lifted Francis off the donkey and sat him down upon a stone beneath one of the pine trees.

"Farewell, saint of God," he said. "You have no possessions, no children, and you're not afraid of robbers. With me it's different."

He turned and winked at me. "Well, what do you say?" he hissed into my ear, indicating the road back with his thumb.

I threw a glance at Francis.

"No, Marino, I'm not leaving my post. You go, and may God be with you!"

He shrugged his shoulders, mounted his donkey with a leap, and was gone.

I sat down next to Francis. It wasn't cold out, but I was shivering. And as I sat there, all at once I heard chirping and the rustling of wings. I lifted my eyes, and what did I see but swarms of birds of all kinds--sparrows, larks, orioles, chaffinches, blackbirds, plus a lone partridge--all flitting about our heads, as though welcoming us to their lairs. Growing continually more bold, they came closer and closer until finally they squatted proudly round Francis' legs.

"Sister Birds, Sister Birds," Francis murmured with emotion, "yes, yes, it's me, your brother, returned from his sojourn in strange, faraway lands. I've come, I've come, and now, on this holy mountain, we shall live together at last; and if there is anything you need, you must tell me, and I shall intercede with God, our Father, in your behalf."

The partridge gazed at him tenderly from its position at his feet and listened with its head inclined to one side, like a human being.

And just as we were all completely transported by the miracle, two shrieking peasants ran up to us. "Why are you sitting there, you poor fools?" they cried. "Wolf is coming!"

"Which way?"

"There! There!"

I jumped to my feet, my heart in my mouth.

"Let's get away, Brother Francis, let's get away!"

"Stay here, man of little faith, while I go find Captain Wolf. Have no fears: God is omnipotent, and it is quite possible that He will transform this Wolf into a lamb."

He rose and set out in the direction indicated by the two peasants. I hid my head behind the sleeve of my frock and waited, completely alone. I knew that God was omnipotent, and yet I still had no confidence. How many times had He allowed His faithful to be eaten by wild beasts or to be killed by infidels! The safest thing would be for us to take to our heels. As the proverb had it: God helps those who help themselves!

But a cup of milk given me by a passing shepherd boy was enough to send my heart back to its place. I was actually ashamed, and I decided to go find Francis in order not to desert him in time of peril. Just as I was about to get up, however, I changed my mind. It's safer here, I said to myself.

I cupped my ear on the chance that I might hear Francis calling me. But everything around me was silent, serene. The darkness had begun to rise from the plain, covering the olive groves and vineyards below. It mounted without respite, headed for the mountain; layer by layer, the world was vanishing.

Suddenly a huge, savage voice resounded from behind the rocks above me. It grew constantly louder: it was approaching. But then I was able to distinguish that it was not one voice, but two: the first hoarse, wild; the other tender and weak. Recognizing Francis' singing, I jumped to my feet.

As the voices came still closer I was able to make out the words of the song. It was the anthem "Christ Is Risen from the Dead, Trampling Death by Means of Death." They met, I said to myself; they met, became friends, and now they're both returning to God's fold. And truly, I spied Francis in the dim light approaching with a ferocious-looking man, all beard, mustache, and long shaggy mop of hair. They were walking arm in arm, nodding to me.

"Here is your famous Captain Wolf," cried Francis merrily. "He isn't a wolf any more, he's a lamb."

"A lamb, brother, but one that eats wolves," growled the bandit chief. "I mustn't forget my profession."