Word Carrier 10: Havoc

by Heidi Kortman -

  

Bede turned his spoon over in the bowl of lukewarm chowder. Father Oaku wolfed down the curried seraph nymphs with no apparent inclination to share.  At least the huge tureen supplying this end of the refectory table obscured most of Bede’s view of Bishop Guash’s table manners.

Across the table, his mother crumbled slices of wolner-grain bread into a pile on her plate. He couldn’t go to her, now that he was under Oaku’s authority. Bede stifled a sigh.

Toward the bishop’s end of the long refectory table, one of the Manuscripts shrieked, but not louder than the bishop’s bellow, or the crash of an over-turning bench. All the way down the table, people craned their necks, then scrambled away.

Bede leaned back on the bench, to see past Father Oaku’s hunched shoulders. A glistening spider dangled on its line of silk above the bishop’s dinner plate.

“Douay Bede, where is that creature?” Bishop Guash cowered against the back of his chair. The spider climbed a foot higher, then dropped again. “Answer me!”

“Pangur Ban,” Bede whispered, and the quarr shifted— “there is a spider, the biggest I’ve seen, and you must hunt after all.” Douay Bede stood. “The quarr is here, Your Grace,” he said, pitching his voice above the commotion.  He snapped his fingers, and Pangur Ban leaped from the floor to the table top.

The quarr drew back his lips and thrummed a short, discordant sound. His tail twitched as he stepped over place settings and around serving bowls. Scales rose and flattened rhythmically along his spine. Down, down the table; nearer, nearer to the still-suspended spider.

Bede held his breath. Did the quarr have enough skill to take prey this large? The bishop’s face was pumice gray, and sweat-wet. He clutched the arms of his cathedra chair. The dinner guests Pangur Ban passed were goggle-eyed.

The spider stretched its forelegs, and dropped lower. Its other legs spraddled as it came to rest astride the bowl of striped korath pears. Its abdomen was half-again as long as the chowder tureen. The spider’s rear legs, long as Bede’s arms, stroked back along its spinnerets. Filaments of greenish silk appeared.

Bede stepped over the bench, and followed Pangur Ban down the table. The quarr’s progress was hindered by a tureen of chowder. Bede shifted it aside, and the quarr slipped through.

Belly scales almost brushing the table top, ears laced back, Pangur Ban advanced.

The spider continued to gather silk. Its rear legs spread, stretching out the webbing. Would it throw the silk over the bishop, or worse, over Pangur Ban?  Bede hesitated.

Clang! One swipe of the quarr’s left paw knocked the fruit bowl from under the spider. Soft pears bounced, bruised, and splattered their too sweet juice over the width of the table.

Bede gagged. Under Pangur Ban’s other paw was the spider’s abdomen, spraying ichor that hissed as the drops pitted the table where they landed. The rest of the spider had leaped forward, trailing more ichor, which mixed with the curry sauce on the bishop’s plate. The arachnid spun in a final threat dance, palps down and fangs extended. The quarr reached out its right paw, and flipped the bishop’s plate. It stepped onto the stoneware, then scratched a discarded napkin over the mess.

“He’s not… going… to eat it?” The bishop’s voice shook as he left his seat.

“Apparently not, Your Grace.” 

Pangur Ban flicked his right forepaw,  and the scales on his flank quivered. Bede snapped his fingers. The quarr jumped from the table, but refused to put weight on the forepaw.

“He needs tending, Your Grace.” Bede crouched. “No claws with me, Pangur Ban,” he said as he examined the quarr’s pads. Usually gray and smooth, they were blistered, and mustard gold. The quarr flinched back. “The spider’s ichor has scalded him.”

“Do it quickly, then meet me in the Gallery.” The bishop turned aside, but drew up short, as Brother Reita, in hazard gear, accosted him.

“Were you spattered, Your Grace? The ichor is caustic.” The assistant infirmarian reached out.

Guash slapped his hand aside. “No. Leave me alone.”

Bede took a deep breath. “Brother Reita, could I have some irqaq sap? Pangur Ban has been scalded.”

Brother Reita nodded. “Tell the dispensarian I said you could have his entire supply. We have other medicines humans tolerate better than that.”

“Thank you, Brother.” Bede scooped up the quarr, draping the creature over his shoulders. “Your Grace, I’ll return soon.”

Word Carrier 9: Thou Hast Prepared a Table

by Heidi Kortman -

Douay Bede took two deep breaths, as Pangur Ban stretched. When the quarr turned its head and flicked its ears, Bede swallowed hard then followed the bishop and Brother Charles. He trailed three strides behind, which did nothing to avert his being the center of attention when he reached the refectory doorway. “Pangur Ban,” he whispered, as the bishop spoke the first syllables of the blessing, “do not hunt here.”

The table and its benches never seemed so long. Pangur Ban paced beside him, tail twitching. The scaled length struck Bede’s calf through his robe, as he walked behind the brothers, the manuscripts, and the other Bibles all seated beside their newly-assigned priests. Murmuring and indrawn breaths, audible beneath the bishop’s prayer, followed his steps.

Bede passed his parents, seated on the opposite side of the great table. After another eight paces, he reached the only open place. Bede hiked up his robe before stepping over the bench. When he settled on the seat, he felt the pressure of Pangur Ban’s weight on the backs of his ankles.

“Stay there,” Bede whispered. That earned him a bump from the elbow of the priest on his right.

The man to his left, his partner for this life’s mission, was shorter than Bede. The man kept his head bowed until the blessing concluded. When he reached out with his chopsticks for a curried seraph nymph, he handled them deftly despite the missing first joint of his right index finger.

“Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, because he has visited and wrought salvation for his people.” Douay Bede said, as he reached for some wolner-grain bread.

The priest swallowed his mouthful. “To shine on those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace,” he said.

“Douay Bede.”

“Father Oaku. The cook here is good.”

Bede ladled himself a serving of the chowder, and poured aniila oil into the communal plate between them. Wolner-grain bread was tasteless without it. He dipped his bread in the oil.

“When the banquet is finished, I’ll begin work on my first homily for the mission. Be ready with Acts 13, verses four through twelve.”

About to take his first bite of the meal, Bede was forced to pause. “Yes, Father Oaku. But—” A large chunk of the oil-soaked bread fell from the slice and plopped into the thick chowder. The splash spattered the sleeve of the priest at Bede’s right, earning him another poke with the man’s sharp elbow.

“What? You are Published, are you not?” Father Oaku glared at Bede.

“Yes, Father. This morning. I know the passage you need, but Bishop Guash has ordered me to speak with him after the banquet.”

The priest with sharp elbows snorted. “They’ve saddled you with a trouble maker, Oaku.”

Father Oaku Mary, his lips contracted like the top of a closed drawstring pouch, leaned away from the table. His back made a crackling sound. He sighed. “I’ll keep him too busy for much.”

Under the bench, Pangur Ban shifted his weight. Bede ducked his head. He didn’t dare whisper to the quarr again. Instead, he poked his spoon at the oil slick in his chowder. Across the table, the other priests and Bibles were enjoying their food. Bede dredged the sodden bread from the soup, and ate it.

Maybe, if he focused on the food, the others would ignore him. The clack of serving spoons and utensils echoed in the ceiling vault. Bede took another spoonful. Lukewarm now, the chowder lacked appeal. “Father Oaku,” he whispered.

The priest crunched another mouthful of curried seraph nymphs. “What is it?”

“After the bishop has finished, may I please take a few minutes to speak with my parents?” Bede glanced down the table, and caught sight of his father doubling over. The explosive coughing fit made other diners lean away. Brother Reita, the assistant infirmarian, rose from his place to help Silas leave the table.

Father Oaku laid his chopsticks across the dish. “Douay Bede, speak St. Matthew 8:22, the Word of the Lord.”

Bede closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. “‘But Jesus said to him,’” he quoted, ‘Follow me, and leave the dead to bury their own dead.’” When he opened his eyes again, his lashes were wet, and he needed to blink. His mother was still at the table, and she was dabbing her eyes with the coarsely woven napkin.

Had she heard his voice through all the other sounds in the room? Did she think him cold-hearted? Bede prepared to stand, but Pangur Ban leaned more heavily against his calves, then wrapped his tail around Bede’s ankles.

Bede subsided on the bench. The quarr’s tail weighed heavier across his insteps than such a thing should do. Brother Reita returned, pausing for a moment beside Bede’s mother before continuing around the table to his former place. “Please, Father Oaku—how else will I get word about my father?”

The priest shook his head. “The man has ash lung. You know there’s no cure.” He laid aside his chopsticks again. “You have word from the Lord, Douay Bede. Speak St. John 10:28. That’s the only thing you need to know about your father.”

Bede stared down into the bowl of chowder. It had reached the stage where it coated the spoon. “And I give them everlasting life; and they shall never perish, neither shall anyone snatch them out of my hand.”  It was true, but to spend the rest of his days with a man who could cast a chill on such a promise? Bede shuddered.

Word Carrier 8: Two by Two

by Heidi Kortman - 

Bede waited. He had yet to meet anyone who took the presence of a quarr as something ordinary. His teacher’s eyes widened slightly, and his adam’s apple bobbed.

“A most unusual creature,” Brother Charles said. He lifted one hand, then let it drop, and took a half-step away. “I’m not sure I like the way it’s looking at me.” He shook his head. “Come this way,” he gestured across the gallery. “There’s a banquet in the refectory tonight.”

“Always up for a bit of tucker, I am,” said Douay Bede’s father. “The quarr won’t hurt ye, he’s been tamed. Ruben’s been good at that since he was a little ’un.”

“Silas, it’s Douay Bede now.”

“Yes, Myrna. Come along.” He reached back, to wrap his arm around her waist and steer her along as they walked.

Just inside an arch, a stocky figure waited—Bishop Guash. The bishop’s crucifix glittered in the gallery lights as he rushed toward them.

“Brother Charles. What is that creature, and how did it get here?”

The bishop’s tone so matched his habitual bulldog scowl that if he weren’t a dangerous man to cross, Brother Charles would have broken out in laughter. Instead he made a quick gesture. Douay Bede stopped beside him. “We might as well get this out of the way.”

On the Bible’s shoulder, the quarr crouched and flattened his ears. Douay Bede reached up and tapped its muzzle. “No,” he whispered. The creature shifted, then yawned.

Ordinarily, Bishop Guash started his arguments nearly nose-to-nose with his targets, but this time he halted sooner. “What is that?”

Brother Charles drew breath. He opened his mouth, but the honorific stuck. “Your Grace,”—he forced the words out—“this is a quarr, Douay Bede’s publication gift to the Order.”

The bishop snorted. “Outrageous. Who thought that would be appropriate?”

Douay Bede’s father stepped forward, his face flushed. Instead of speaking, the man began a fit of the distinctive ash lung coughing. Douay Bede went pale, but squared his shoulders.

“Bishop Guash—Your Grace—my father is a bugherd. This quarr is the most valuable thing he could find to give. My father trapped him on the west range of the property he works.”

“Why should the Order value such a beast?”

“Pangur Ban eats spiders and their eggs. All quarr do.”

“Broken your vows already, Bede.” The bishop turned his left palm up, then clenched his fist. “You had no right to name what belongs to the Order, as though it was your possession. Bibles own nothing.”

“You don’t understand,” Myrna said, as she struggled to support her sagging husband. Brother Charles moved behind Douay Bede to help her.

Guash glared at her. “Quiet, woman.”

“Your Grace.” Douay Bede swallowed hard. “I had to name the quarr to domesticate him. If I had not, he would be uncontrollable.”

 “Domesticated, eh?” The bishop stretched his short neck, and stared at the quarr’s head. “Can’t say I like looking at those mismatched eyes. Eats spiders?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Douay Bede shifted his weight to his other foot as his stomach rumbled. Pangur Ban bumped Bede’s left ear, then leaped down, and stalked into the darkness under one of the stone benches.

He thrummed. After some scrabbling and one solid thump, Pangur Ban emerged head and tail high, to drop a dead metallic blue spider almost on top of Douay Bede’s sandal.

Bishop Guash staggered back. Bede sighed. “Pangur Ban, I’m not that hungry. Eat it yourself.”

The quarr blinked once before disposing of the carcass in three bites.

“Let us not forget the banquet,” Brother Charles said. Well-prepared food tended to distract Bishop Guash from his arguments. “Silas, the refectory is down the corridor and to the right. If I help, do you think you can make it?”

Silas nodded, trembling as he fought to repress the cough.

Brother Charles and Douay Bede’s parents passed the bishop, who continued to scowl and stand in Bede’s path.

“Bibles own nothing,” Guash repeated. “Tomorrow you embark for Avenir. You must leave the creature behind with me.” He shuddered.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but it won’t work that way. Pangur Ban won’t obey you.” If this confrontation lasted much longer, he wouldn’t have another chance to speak with his parents. He wouldn’t be seated near them at the banquet. How much time did Da have?

“You said the beast was domesticated.” The bishop’s scowl deepened.

“He obeys me because during domestication, he heard my voice alone. The process only works before the first growth spurt, Your Grace.”

Brother Charles returned. “Bishop Guash, the brothers are waiting for you to bless the meal.”

The bishop made a shooing gesture. “Douay Bede and I are not finished.”

“Your Grace, the dermestid chowder will congeal if you delay much longer. Brother Trout has also prepared a dish of curried seraph nymphs. Please—” Brother Charles reached out to tug the bishop’s sleeve.

“Douay Bede, I expect to see you, and that creature, here in the Gallery after the banquet.” The bishop turned on his heel, toward the corridor and refectory.

Word Carrier: Publication

by Walt Staples -

In the silence of the chapel, the muted roar of the blowers was noticeable as they ran on “high” to handle the smoke and soot from the unusually large number of candles burning to either side of the altar. The Rite of Publication was one of the few times Brother Marius, the abbey’s life support engineer, allowed such abuse of his air-handlers.

Bede and the other Manuscripts stood shoulder to shoulder as they faced the main celebrant, Bishop Guash. The usually dyspeptic prelate actually seemed to be in fine fettle and to be greatly enjoying himself, as the occasional smile escaped his Excellency’s bulldog-jowled continence. As an acolyte on his right handed him a lit candle, he sobered. “My sons, you have been called to one of the highest callings in Mother Church—that of Bible. Know you that you carry God’s Word to and among his children—all of his children. You may not force yourself on others, but you must be ever ready to open yourself to any who wish to hear God’s Word. It is not an easy calling that you follow. The evil one has used fire in the past to try the destruction of God’s Word. This flame is to remind you of what you may be called upon to face…and what you may save souls from by your efforts.”

Each Manuscript held out his left hand. From left to right, the bishop passed the flame under the outstretched palm. Bede sucked in a breath as the flame reached Antonio, the Ignatius Manuscript on his left. His stomach muscles tightened as readied himself. He would not show a sign! Not before his parents, up from Eclectia. Not before Brother Charles Maria, his second teacher. Nor before Brother Eustis, his first teacher, who, Bede was convinced, watched from a higher plane. There was an instant of burning pain, and the flame passed on to Tommy, the James Manuscript, to his right.

Bishop Guash handed the candle to the acolyte on his left. His face broke into a huge smile. “My sons, today you are no longer Manuscripts, but are Published Bibles. From this point on, you will be known to all by your personal name, and that of your version.” He made the sign of the Cross in blessing over each of them in turn. “Go you hence and serve all.”

#

In the infirmary, Brother Kadfell, the abbey’s medico, asked, “With or without, Douay Bede?”

The Bible smiled at him. “Without, Brother.”

The other nodded. “As you wish.” He set the hypo to dispense the first-aid spray without its anesthetic component and sprayed Bede’s blistered palm. The choice of each newly Published Bible was a secret Brother Kadfell would keep. It was a choice that by tradition was not discussed with anyone.

Outside the infirmary, Brother Charles waited for Bede with a frown. Bede took in his erstwhile teacher’s expression and his heart sank. His assignment had been decided. He had hoped to be assigned to a mission among spacers with the priest he would be paired with. From Brother Charles’ face, he knew it was bad. Probably a mining settlement on either Sheba or Quatermain. He consoled himself with the thought that if it did turn out to be Sheba, at least he could visit the abbey on occasion. He took a deep breath. “I take it that my assignment has been decided?”

Brother Charles nodded grimly. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Bede braced himself. “Where?”

Brother Charles answered in a voice of doom, “Thou art assigned to the Spacers’ Mission.”

Bede blinked. Had he heard right?

Brother Charles leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “You know, you might want to close your mouth before Hubert or one of the other cats decides to go rat hunting in there.”

It took Bede a couple of tries to get enough air to ask, “Why didn’t you just say so?”

His teacher grinned at him. “Because I was afraid you’d try to swarm up me and slobber all over me.” Putting the lie to his fears, Brother Charles threw his arms around the Bible in a bear-hug. “Congratulations, boy. You worked hard for it and you’ve earned it.” He held Bede at arms’ length. “You’ll do us proud.” He raised an admonishing finger. “But only in a proper non-Seven Deadly Sins meaning of the word. Understand?”

Bede beamed back at the big man. “Yes, Brother. I’ll remember. When and where do I go?”

Brother Charles dropped his hands and folded them within his sleeves. “The where is the Spacers’ Mission Mother House on Avenir, sort of neutral ground, as it were. The when is a couple of days from now; after all, it would be a bit rude to skip dinner with his Excellency and the rest of the abbey tonight.” He cocked his head and squinted one eye. “Besides, you left off the most important part of the question as far as your future success goes.”

The Bible raised his eyebrows. “What’s that, Brother?”

“The who. You’ve been matched with Father Oaku Mary, T.O.R.”

“What’s he like?”

His teacher shook his head. “Don’t know, really. His records look okay and he’s fresh-caught like you. His Ordination was day before yesterday. I guess you’re going to find out first-hand in a few days.” He changed the subject. “Let’s go find your folks. I suspect your mother probably wants to maul you some. I hear their parish priest sprung for their fare?”

“Yes, bugherds don’t make a lot, so Father Mack came up with it. Said only that it had to do with a penance.” They turned the corner.

Academic Question: Rising Expectation

by Walt Staples -

“Pomphee, one would begin to think you like me.” Doctor Professor Erschreckendmann—aka: “Doctor E”—smiled his special smile at the department head.

The other shuddered. “Perish the thought. I only associate with you when I must.”

The little man almost purred as he preened the huge mustache that hid most of his lower face. “Excellent. Good, honest hatred I can work with. Now, to what do I owe your rather dubious attentions?”

The department head placed the tips of his fingers together on the large desk he kept between himself and the alchemy instructor. “We have a small problem.”

“You mean you have a small problem,” Doctor E cut in.

“No, we. The matter in question is an embarrassment to the school—you, me, and especially the instructor involved.”

“And which instructor might this be?”

“Hortel.”

Doctor E furrowed his brow. “Hortel? That tall broom straw in Advanced Conjurment?”

“The same.”

The little man drew his abundant eyebrows down. A glint of green played in their shadows. “And what, pray tell, could anyone that innocent do that would embarrass so august a body as this?”

“He rises.”

One eyebrow rose slightly. “So? You are afraid he will supplant you? I don’t buy it. You have your very own form of fecklessness. Pomphee, you’re irreplaceable.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” the department head replied drily. “No, the problem is that young Hortel actually rises. He levitates. And at the wrong time.”

“And there is a ‘right’ time?”

Pomphee sighed. “Must you?” He continued, “If he could control it, fine and good. But he tends to cause a distraction. There we are at the interfaith breakfast this morning and he just lifts-off.”

Doctor E leaned back in his chair. “So what’s your real interest? He’s not in the Materials Department.”

The other was silent for a moment, looking down at his interlaced fingers. Continuing to look down, he spoke haltingly, “I like him. He has no ax to grind, he takes no sides, stabs no one in the back, and is interested only in training the students. I don’t want to see him destroyed.”

The little man across the table gazed off into space. “His nickname through the wards was ‘Little Friend of all the World…’”

“What?”

“Hmm? Oh. Kipling. Before your time.” He leaned forward, the green lights glowing beneath his eyebrows. “What precisely has set the cat among your pigeons, Pomphee?”

“Bishop Guash is coming for the dedication of the chapel annex and I’m afraid Hortel will cause a scene.”

The alchemy instructor nodded. “A large and rather fat cat indeed—or perhaps tiger would be closer. All right, I’ll see to it.”

Pomphee looked at him suspiciously. “That’s all? No stalk to the door? No cutting remark? Why?”

Doctor E grunted as he rose to his feet. “Because cats protect their hunting territories.” The guard gnome opened the office door at his approach. “And I allow no one to abuse you but me,” he cast over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

#

Professor Hortel, all two meters and 30 kilos of him, perched upon a tall stool beside a caldron, a screwdriver hanging in his hand. He regarded the caldron sadly. “I’ve torn that heating element down three times so far, and I can’t find the glitch.” He blew out his cheeks. “I suppose I’ll have to call maintenance. Who knows, someone may show up before the end of the term.” He turned back to Doctor E. “I’m sorry; that’s not what you’re here for, is it?”

“No,“ he rumbled. “More the matter of your little fantasy of flights.”

Hortel blushed and looked sadder. “Yes, that has been a problem. Unfortunately, I have no control of them. I hear a piece of liturgical music and I’m aloft. The Archbishop found it very disconcerting back when I was at Whales’ View.”

The other nodded. “Yes, I’ve noticed that the higher the clergyman, the more likely the startlement at the manifestation of something whose existence he preaches on.” He fingered his mustache thoughtfully. “No other music sets you off then? Say, classical, for instance?”

The Conjurment instructor shook his head. “No, Doctor E, only when it was written with a religious purpose in mind.”

Doctor E abruptly began to whistle “A Mighty Fortress.” Hortel rose into the air. The whistler quickly switched to “Die Gedanken Sind Frei” and he settled back on the stool. “Hail Holy Queen” and into the air. Doctor E brought him is for a landing with “My Old Man’s a Dustman.”

“You see what I mean,” the stork-like man said.

His erstwhile flight controller smiled. “I think this might be a matter for the Athletics Department.”

#

Sunday, noon, all were present at the dedication, including Professor Hortel seated between two burly members of the mootsball team. Bishop Guash sprinkled holy water over the altar of the new side chapel, the choir broke into Mozart’s “Hallelujah” chorus, and the tall, thin Conjurment instructor appeared lifted into the air by the mootsball player on each side grasping an ankle. After a moment, they drew him back to earth.

After the ceremony, his Excellency took Axgrinnder, the Chancellor, aside. “Frederick, I really must compliment you on the turnout and spirit. Though some of the latter was a bit irregular. I mean the athletes picking up that one instructor and lifting him up. I don’t think I have ever seen the like.” He smiled. “But I do appreciate the spirit. Now, where is the luncheon to be served?”