Saint Francis (47 page)

My anxiety made me creep stealthily each day to a place behind a rock which stood opposite his shelter. In this way I was able to watch him unobserved. He did not go to his cave any more, but instead climbed the ledge outside his hut, where he remained the entire day with his arms uplifted in prayer, mute and immobile, as though he were petrified. Toward evening a splendor began to lick his features, and the hair of his head caught fire.

On the vigil of the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross I was unable to sleep. I knelt down shortly before midnight to pray, but I could not get Francis out of my mind. The air in the vicinity smelled as though it were burning, as though a terrible thunderbolt had fallen on Francis' head. I rose and went outside. The sky above me had caught fire. Stars were jumping like sparks and plunging toward the earth. The Milky Way shone brightly; the night was transparent, the rocks luminous. Goatsuckers flew from tree to tree uttering piercing cries; a warm, gentle breeze blowing, a springtime breeze, the sort that induces buds to open. Unable to comprehend where such sweetness and calm were coming from, I stood motionless and looked around me. The sky was filled with swords, while the earth below was all kindness and obedience, like a compliant wife.

The closer I came to Francis' hut, the more my heart trembled: it was on such nights, when the heavens were infuriated and the earth submissive, when a springtime breeze like this one was blowing--it was on such nights that miracles took place. I entrenched myself behind my rock, and looked. Francis was kneeling in front of his hut, given over to prayer. A quivering disk of fire licked his face and palms. I could clearly see his hands and feet beaming in the glare from the lightning flashes--no, not beaming: burning!

I watched him for a long time, crouching motionless behind my rock. The breeze had subsided; not a leaf stirred. The eastern sky began to shine bluish white. The largest of the stars were still flashing and dancing in the sky. The first songbird chirped in a distant tree. The night was collecting its stars and darkness, preparing to leave, when suddenly there was a vehement, brilliantly red flash in the heavens. I lifted my eyes. A seraph with six wings of fire was descending, and in the midst of the fire, wrapped in the plumes, was Christ Crucified. Two of the wings embraced His head, two others His body, and the last two, one on each side, enwrapped His arms. Alvernia was encircled by a ring of flames whose glow descended, irradiating the plain below. The winged figure of the Crucified rushed down upon Francis with a hiss and touched him for the space of a lightning flash. Francis uttered a heartrending cry as though nails were being driven into him, and, spreading his arms, stood crucified in the air. Then I heard the six-winged seraph utter several words, rapidly, melodiously, as though it were a bird. I was unable to make out what these words were, but I distinctly heard Francis shout, "More! More! I want more!" and after that the divine voice replying, "Do not ask to go further. Here, at the Crucifixion, man's ascent comes to an end." Then Francis cried again, desperately: "I want more, more--the Resurrection!" And the voice of Christ replied from amid the seraph's wings, "Beloved Francis, open your eyes and look! Crucifixion and Resurrection are identical." "And Paradise?" cried Francis. "Crucifixion, Resurrection, and Paradise are identical," said the voice, and as it pronounced these final words there was a clap of thunder in the heavens, as though another voice were commanding the vision to return to God's bosom; and all at once the six-winged conflagration rose like a red and green lightning flash and mounted with a hiss into the sky.

Francis lay stretched on the ground now, face down, writhing convulsively. I bolted out from behind my rock and ran to him. His hands and feet were bleeding profusely. Lifting him up and opening his frock, I saw that blood was also flowing from a deep open wound in his side, a wound which seemed to have been made by a lance.

"Father Francis, dearest Father Francis . . ." I murmured, sprinkling him with water to bring him to. I was no longer able to address him as "Brother." I didn't dare, for he stood now far above the heads of the brothers, fax above the heads of all mankind.

He could not hear me, so submerged was he in complete unconsciousness. Only his face continued to move, twisting and turning from terror.

I washed his wounds, but they immediately opened again and the flow of blood recommenced. I began to weep. His body will be drained dry, I was thinking; he'll lose all his blood and will die. God fell upon him too heavily. The divine grace was excessive. He will die. . . .

Suddenly he opened his eyes and recognized me.

"Did you see anything, Brother Leo?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yes, Father."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Yes." "Do not reveal the secret, Brother Leo. Swear!"

"I swear. . . . How did you feel, Father Francis?"

"Afraid!"

"You weren't overcome with joy?"

"No, I was afraid!"

He touched my shoulder. "Get ready to leave now, Brother Leo. The journey is over; we are going to return to the Portiuncula. I shall die where I was born."

"Do not talk about death, Father Francis."

"And what else should men talk about, Brother Leo? About life? Be still and do not weep. We shall part for an instant, my brother, but then shall be reunited for all eternity. God bless Brother Death!"

I laid him down and bound his wounds with strips torn from my frock. After I had prostrated myself before his hands and feet, I left the shelter, weeping. Day was about to break.

I sat down in front of my hut, my tears flowing. The journey is over, I murmured to myself, the journey is over. Francis reached the highest peak of the ascent: he reached the Crucifixion. Man can go no higher. Now he has no further need of his body. He has arrived and is dismounting; he has arrived. . . . And me, what will become of me? Where will I go? I shall be lost!

Captain Wolf appeared with our daily alms. He was surprised to find me weeping.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Francis wants to return to his birthplace. I'm afraid, my brother, that he is going there to die."

Captain Wolfs face grew dark. "A bad sign, a bad sign. One breed of sheep I know of break their ropes the moment they sense death approaching, vault the walls of the sheepfold, and race off to their birthplace. . . . Poor Brother Francis!"

"Don't feel sad, my brother. Francis has no fear of death. He says it isn't the end but the beginning, and that a man's true life commences only after he dies."

"It might be the beginning for him, but for you and me it's the end. I've grown used to coming up to your hideaway to bring you a few scraps of bread. It made me happy: I felt I was doing a good deed. But now . . ."

He wiped his eyes.

"All right," he said, swallowing hard, "I'll go find a donkey for him to ride on, and a blanket to keep the pack- saddle from bruising him. Make him ready; I'll be back!"

He twirled round and began to descend the mountain. For a long time I could hear the stones as they shifted beneath his feet.

An hour later the donkey was standing in front of Francis' hut. A thick red blanket covered the saddle. Francis was in great pain, and we lifted him as carefully as we knew how. His blood, which had soaked through the strips I had used to bind his wounds, was flowing freely again. "Brother Lamb," he said, placing his blood-soaked hand on the unruly head, "God grant that one day you and this donkey and the red blanket you brought to keep the saddle from bruising me may all enter Paradise together."

We began the descent, proceeding very very slowly. When we were halfway down, Francis signaled Captain Wolf to stop. Then he turned, lifted his arms, and bade farewell to Monte Alvernia.

"Beloved mountain, mountain trodden by God, I thank you for the good you have done me, for the wounds you have given me, for the sleepless nights, the terrors, the blood! It is said that when Christ was crucified, you, alone of all mountains, quaked and rived your heart in two. And your daughters the partridges tore out their feathers and wailed the death chant, their eyes turned toward Jerusalem. My heart is another partridge; it too has begun to wail and lament. Christ, crucified in the air above your rocks, has brought me a secret message, and I am leaving. I am leaving, dearest Alvernia. Farewell. Farewell, beloved. We shall never meet again. Farewell forever!"

We resumed the descent in silence. Even Captain Wolf's eyes were dimmed with tears, and he stumbled frequently.

In the surrounding villages, meanwhile, the peasants had leapt out of bed, startled by the intense brightness which had been visible at dawn. The bells began to ring. Everyone had seen Alvernia ablaze. Shouting, "Francis has been made a saint, Francis has been made a saint!" men, women and children set out to find him, and they took along the sick and infirm so that the new Saint could heal them with his touch.

The moment they glimpsed us approaching them, they all darted forward to touch Francis' hands, feet, and knees. But he kept his hands and feet tightly wrapped in his frock, hiding them so that the people would not see his wounds.

"Touch us, holy father," howled the sick. "Look at us, extend your hand, heal us!"

Forgetting himself for a moment, Francis brought his hand out from under his frock in order to bless the multitude. When the people saw the wound they bellowed madly. The women dashed forward with mantles outstretched to catch the drops; the men thrust in their hands and anointed their faces with blood. The villagers' expressions grew savage, and so did their souls. They longed to be able to tear the Saint limb from limb in order for each of them to claim a mouthful of his flesh, for they wanted to make him their own, to have him enter them so that they could become one with a saint-- could be sanctified. Blind rage had overpowered them; their eyes were leaden, their lips ringed with froth. Sensing the danger, I stepped forward.

"In God's name, fellow Christians," I shouted, "let us continue. The Saint is in a great hurry to return to his native soil. If you want his blessing, make way!"

"He's not going to go! We won't let him!" shouted angry voices on every side. "Here's where he's going to leave his bones--here, so they can sanctify our village." "And we'll build him a church, and people will come on pilgrimage from all over the world!"

"Hold him! Don't let him go! He's ours! Ours! Ours!"

I turned to Captain Wolf.

"My brother, I'm frightened. They want to take him from us. Help me!"

Francis had concealed his bloody hand beneath his frock again. He was waiting with bowed head, the sweat pouring from his brow. His eyes had once more become two running wounds.

"Have pity on him," I cried. "Don't you see him? He's bleeding!"

But the sight of additional blood only provoked the crowd that much more.

"He's ours! Ours! Ours!"

"We never had a saint in our village before. Now that God has sent us one, are we going to let him escape?"

"Bring some rope! Tie him up!"

This was too much for Captain Wolf. He seized a club from one of the old men and stepped forward, clutching the donkey's bridle.

"Make way, make way," he bellowed, "make way or I'll crack open your skulls! Don't forget, I'm Captain Wolf! Step aside!"

The men lost courage and backed out of his path, but the women pounced on Francis. Foaming with rage, they started to drag him by his frock, which ripped, exposing his bruised, skeleton-like body.

"My children, my children," murmured Francis, weeping.

The tiny donkey put forward its trembling front legs and began to kneel. Just as it was about to fall, Captain Wolf gave it a smack which made it stand up straight again. The crowd charged him, but he swung the club: there was the sound of a skull cracking.

"Back, back, sacrilegious thieves!" he cried, and he made his way forward, swinging the club up and down.

As soon as the sick and infirm beheld the saint leaving them, they began to shout and weep.

"How can you abandon us like this, Saint of God? Have you no pity? You cry, 'Love! Love!' Where is this love? Touch us, heal us!"

Francis kept his head turned toward them. He was gazing at them, blood and tears flowing from his eye's. "God . . . God . . ." he kept murmuring, unable to utter anything else.

At last it pleased the Lord that we should escape them. We reached the plain and began to breathe freely again.

"They wanted to gobble you up alive, Brother Francis," said Captain Wolf laughingly. "But they didn't, thanks to this holy cudgel. Bless it. With your permission, I'm going to take it along with the other things when I go to heaven."

Eventually we reached a village where we stopped to rest. It was necessary for me to wash Francis' wounds and to find some clean strips of cloth with which to bind them. There was a fountain in the center of the village. I began to attend to Francis while Captain Wolf went out to beg. Soon he returned with a piece of cloth. I tore it and bound the wounds in Francis' hands, feet, and right side.

"Are you in pain, Father Francis?"

He gave me a look of surprise. "In pain?" he asked. "Who is in pain? What is pain? I don't understand what you mean, Brother Leo."

And truly--I noticed it then for the first time--his face had become completely transformed. It was radiant with calmness, beatitude. A nimbus of light crowned his hair, and his hands and feet were sparkling.