Word Carrier 11: The Just Regardeth the Life of his Beast

by Heidi Kortman -

  

“Ouch,” Bede muttered as he hurried down the corridor toward the dispensary. “I’m sorry you hurt, Pangur Ban, but so does the back of my neck.” With each of the quarr’s rapid breaths, its scales rasped Bede’s skin.

He didn’t dare to leave the animal unattended, and holding it stable across his shoulders meant that he didn’t have a hand free to keep the hem of his robe from hindering his stride. Ahead was the last corner.

The dispensary door and shutters were closed. Bede rattled the shutters. Maybe the dispensarian was compounding a salve. No light escaped the slats. “Brother Wilfred, Brother Wilfred, are you there?” He set the quarr on the narrow counter ledge. “Stay.”

Bede grasped the door lever. Locked. He pounded, and raised his voice. “Brother Wilfred.”

Farther down the hall, a door opened. The bishop’s confessor poked his head through. “Be quiet! Meditation is hard enough in this place without your noise.”

“Father, is the dispensarian with you? I need medicine for my quarr.” He’d said it. My quarr.

“Bibles don’t own anything. No, he’s not with me. Be quiet or be gone.” With that, the confessor slammed the door.

“The two of them deserve each other,” Bede muttered, as he returned to the panting quarr. “Let me see, boy.” The blisters were taut with fluid.

“I wish this robe had a hood.” Bede bent again and took the quarr across his shoulders. If he’d caught the case of grooblies that had struck the dormitory in the spring, he might know which was the dispensarian’s cell. The bishop, however, was cautious of his health. Odds were good that the confessor could steer Bede in the right direction.

He trudged to the man’s cell door, and gave it three solid thumps. When it opened, Bede stared into the confessor’s flushed face. “This quarr saved the bishop’s life. Now it needs tending. Where will I find Brother Wilfred at this hour?”

Pangur Ban flattened his ears and showed fangs. Bede tapped the quarr’s nose, but not before the confessor’s face went pasty.

“T-two levels down, across from Water Purification.”

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: Domestication

by Heidi Kortman -

Douay Bede sat in the corner of his cell, facing the box with the quarr his mother had brought him.

“Your name is Pangur Ban,” he said in a firm voice. He had to speak loudly enough to keep the kit’s attention, but without such force that someone could overhear and interrupt. That would be disaster.

“Pangur Ban, I am Douay Bede, and you are mine.” Scratching noises came from the box. He raised his voice. “You are mine, Pangur Ban. I am Douay Bede, who will shelter you from storms and bring you to food-filled places.”

The kit’s scratching grated on his ears, but he might not need to endure it long. “Pangur Ban, the box is small around you. I am Douay Bede, your domesticator. It is I who open lids. Pangur Ban, you are mine.” The kit tried again to widen the ventilation hole with its serrated claw. Once, twice, the claw extended to its full, increasing length. The last quarr he domesticated before coming to the Abbey grew to be over five feet from nose to tail tip, and weighed seventy five pounds.

Now. “Pangur Ban, I am Douay Bede, and you are mine. There is a spider here for you to hunt.” He’d spoken the name seven times. It should be enough. Douay Bede reached out and opened the lid.

The quarr leaped up. It pushed off his left shoulder, then twisted in mid air to spring off the wall. Its claws found purchase on the textured stone, and the hunt was on. Bouncing from wall to wall Pangur Ban climbed the corner. He reached out his right front paw with claws retracted, and batted at the thick web near the ceiling.

The trencher-sized orange legged spider emerged. Pangur Ban sang his hunt call, a long tone deep and resonant like the bass notes played on a cello. The spider raised its front legs and displayed its fangs. Pangur Ban’s ears went back, and he swatted the arachnid down.

Douay Bede climbed on top of his cot.

Pangur Ban dropped from his perch, and slapped his paw, claws out, on the spider. Internal fluids spurted. The quarr shook the carcass from its claws, then cleaned its paw, before crunching down the prey.

Douay Bede unknotted his belt. It was almost time for step two. He began to re-shape the belt end.

Pangur Ban stretched. He lifted his head, scanning the web at the ceiling. His ears flicked. The quarr scampered toward the ceiling again. Supporting himself on his rear paws, he reached out both forefeet and scored through the tough web, exposing a glistening mass of nearly mature eggs.

Douay Bede shivered. He’d been living and sleeping this close to that? Pangur Ban sang as he ate, the tone rising and falling in a rhythm that somehow conveyed satisfaction. The quarr dropped to the floor with a solid thump, and prowled. Into dark corners, under the table, and finally beneath the cot. Time for step two.

Douay Bede let the end of his belt brush the floor. The raveled ply spread out like spider’s legs. If he could get Pangur Ban to play, his domestication would be almost complete.

The quarr’s thick foreleg and broad paw shot out from beneath the cot. Douay Bede flipped the belt up, moving it. The thin mattress rose under his foot as the quarr tried to crouch in a space almost too small.

“Pangur Ban, come out.” He moved the belt again. “Come out to me, Douay Bede, and play.”

With a fluid rush, Pangur Ban emerged. Silvery white, his scales caught the light coming from beneath the door. His tufted ears flicked forward and back as he stalked the improvised toy.

Douay Bede snapped the rope upward, to settle on the table. Pangur Ban sprang. Crouching on the table top, Pangur Ban slitted his pupils narrow. Douay Bede moved the rope to land beside him on the cot. Pangur Ban extended himself in a leap, landing heavy. He sat tall, making soft pizzicato sounds.

Douay Bede reached out. The quarr’s eyes followed his movement, and he yawned but did not bite as Douay Bede stroked him between the ears. “Pangur Ban,” he said. “I am Douay Bede, and you are mine.”

Pangur Ban stepped into Douay Bede’s lap. “Maybe seventeen pounds, and this young.” The quarr rolled onto its side and blinked at him. “Left eye green, right eye purple.” The scales along its body bore swirling spirals that coiled to the right. His parents had given him one of the best, quickest, longest lived, and protective. The quarr reached out. “No claws with me. I am Douay Bede, and you are mine, Pangur Ban.” Domestication complete.

Douay Bede lifted the quarr, and stood. “Mother, Mother—what a publication gift.” She’d want her box back. He set the well-fed animal into it, and retied his belt rope before he gripped the box handles. “Ride, Pangur Ban.” He took three steps, then paused before the door. How would he open it with his hands full?

Pangur Ban slashed out, shifting the weighty sliding door to create a narrow gap. Douay Bede wedged his foot into it. Then, he twisted and pushed with his left elbow until he could sidle through. “You’re almost too heavy to be carried like this.”

Pangur Ban twanged at him, then bumped the underside of Douay Bede’s chin with the top of his head. The hallway was empty, and Douay Bede settled into the stride he’d have to substitute for a run. If he hurried, he could still have time with his parents.

He emerged from the tunnel. Off to his right, his mother and father were standing with Brother Charles. “Pangur Ban, come out.”

Instead of leaping down, as Douay Bede expected, the quarr reached up, and pulled itself to his shoulders. “You’re really heavy.” Douay Bede closed the lid of the box as he walked forward. “Father, Mother, thank you for the publication gift. This is Pangur Ban.”

“Well done,” she said, and leaned, smiling, against his father’s shoulder. His father wrapped an arm around her, while adjusting his hat with his other hand.

“That’s my boy.”

It was the most praise Douay Bede could expect. He shifted his weight to face Brother Charles. “These, Brother, are my parents, and this is Pangur Ban, their publication gift to the Order.”

Go, Therefore

by Heidi Kortman -

Another three steps, and the pacing corps of graduates left the confines of the tunnel, scattering across the great gallery to greet those who had come. Douay Bede blinked. A cluster of chatting people dispersed, and there she stood with her all-weather at her feet.

He wanted to run, but one fruit of the Spirit was self-control. Douay Bede compromised by taking the longest steps his black robe would allow. She wore the coppery headdress of folded thoric leaves that she always saved for special occasions. Perspiration dripped from her chin.

“Mother,” Douay Bede called as he drew closer. She didn’t give him the smile he expected. “What’s the matter?”

“Take him now, son. Quickly.” She moved her all-weather, which covered a large, perforated metal box, their quarr carrier. “Your father trapped him on the west range two days ago. The kit has already tasted spider eggs, and he’s about to have his growth spurt.”

“Oh, Mother.” No wonder she was tense. Depending on how many eggs the quarr kit had eaten, the growth spurt could be astonishingly quick. He’d witnessed it on the last day of a summer in his fifth Founding, while his name was still Ruben.

Wandering along a trail on the east range his family worked for the Palmer Corporation, he had heard a musical sound, and wanted to know its source. Rounding an outcrop of basalt, he found his way blocked by the gray-streaked hindquarters of a scaled beast whose forequarters were busy displacing ash and pumice.

“Striper,” he’d said, “what are you quarrying for?” The beast continued to work. He’d stayed, watching and repeating the name.

Down in the valley, the buz herd had sent up ticks of contentment as the buzy grazed. A six-winged seraph locust flew past, taking his attention from the scaled beast. When he focused on Striper again, the beast’s haunches were more than twice as large. The layered ash above the creature’s head was cracking, tumbling down.

It backed out of the hole and shook ashy webs from its tufted ears. Eight vividly ringed legs protruded between its jaws. One swipe of its tongue took them in.

“Striper, you’re eating a tunnel spider.” So that was why his father’s herds were doing so well on this range. The beast made a strumming sound, and pounced on prey Ruben hadn’t seen. He heard a carapace crack. Then the beast brought an oozing carcass and dropped it at his feet.

He fled. The beast followed at his heels, in a steady pumice-crunching trot. When the drop-off to his right made his heart pound, he expected to be knocked from the trail into thin air.

A bump on his right hip drove him up against the cliffside. Striper had walked the very edge, keeping pace with his increasingly wobbly steps. The beast’s squarish body and muscular legs blocked him from the precipice.

“Remember how you screamed the day Striper followed me home?” Douay Bede looked into his mother’s face. That brought a smile.

“Not for long, not after he pounced on that pink stripe spider so near to little Tabitha, but go, son, go.”

His cousin hadn’t been able to say quarrier, so Striper was soon dubbed a quarr. Douay Bede grabbed the handles of the box and jogged against the general pattern of traffic flow. He had to be alone in a closed room with the kit. If the quarr wasn’t domesticated before the growth spurt hit, it would be a menace. The nearest hope of private, secure space was his former cell.

“You do remember,” she panted as she followed him toward the tunnel.

“Yes, Mother.” Before he came to the Abbey, he’d taught her to domesticate. She could have kept this kit herself. “Please, wait out here.” The box in his hands wasn’t any heavier; now if only the path ahead stayed clear. He picked up his pace, hindered by the skirts of his robe. Lord, let me get there, he prayed, as his sandals skidded on the floor. The kit poked one serrated center claw through a ventilation hole.

Douay Bede ducked into his old cell. He set the box down, then slid the door panel closed. Time for the first step in domestication.

Word Carrier: Mission

by Walt Staples -

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.

High Country: Bugherd

by Walt Staples -

The ancient woman moved her stethoscope to the lower right of Silas’ chest. She sat back with a grunt and a thoughtful look.

Silas coughed and asked, “So?”

Granny Gillman turned and stirred the scrubby brush fire under the pot. “Two lobes fully involved. Spot on a third.”

The old bugherd began to pull on his shirt. “When?”

She looked at him. “Candlemas, maybe Feast of Notker. I’m sorry, Silas.”

He smiled at her. “You’re doing what you can.”

“You could try the medicos at First Port.”

He shook his head. They had been through this before. “No, too expensive. Besides, what could they do that you can’t? I mean, Ash Lung? They can’t even save the rich people with that.”

She lifted the pot and poured reddish-brown liquid into a chipped cup. She held it out to him. “Here.”

He looked at it. “Medicine?”

The granny lady smiled. “Tea.”

As they sipped the tea, he considered. “Let’s see…tomorrow is Holy Innocents. All the eggs are laid. So I guess we can drive to market. Martha’s brother, Japheth, can take over with the grubs when they hatch.” He coughed some more. When he got his breath again, he continued, “The boy’s taken care of. Don’t know what to do about Martha, though.”

Granny Gillman brightened. “Oh, that reminds me. About Martha. Father was asking after her. See, my Beatrice is a good child and a hard worker, but truth to tell, she couldn’t cook her way out of a chrysalis to save her life. Anyway, Father was asking me to ask you, next time I saw you, if you thought Martha might be willing to cook at the Rectory.”

Silas’ forehead furrowed. “Don’t see why she shouldn’t be. She loves to cook and she likes Father Mack.” He shot the healer a look. “What about Beatrice?”

Granny Gillman laughed. “The child is always going on about how it keeps her hopping just trying to keep up with the ash in the church and rectory. ‘Sides, I ‘spect she’d like to eat something edible herself once in a while. And, she’s the one who carried word to me from Father.”

The bugherd smiled. “Yep, that would likely do for Martha.” He took another sip of his tea.

The granny lady poured herself another cup. “By the way, how’s Ruben doing?”

Silas broke into a wide grin. “He doing tolerable. We just got back from his Publication on Sheba. You know, they take a new name when they enter holy orders. His is 'Bede,' after Saint Bede the Venerable.”

The other raised her eyebrows. “Which one was he?”

“Oh, he was a writer or something.” Silas’ brows knitted. “History? Well, some such anyway. Way back before settlement sometime.” He launched into a coughing fit. He wiped his eyes with a piece of rag after it ended and drained his cup. “Well, I guess I’d better be getting down the road. I’ll ask Japheth to have one of his youngins bring you over a nice dermestid. One of the gentle ones.” He rose to his feet and, before putting his mask in place, smiled. “You know, it makes a body feel good when things are lined up straight.”

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.

Word Carrier: Anticipation

by Walt Staples -

“Okay, Bede, what’s the problem?”

The young manuscript looked up from the potato he was peeling. “Pardon?”

Brother Trout, the abbey’s cook, stood hands on hips, one of which still held a ladle. “You’re paying far too much attention to your duties. Normally you’d be bored out of your mind stuck here on kitchen duty. Now, what’s eating you, my son?”

Bede looked back down at the potato and peeler. “I’m sorry, Brother. I was just thinking about what it’ll be like out there.”

The Corpulent friar set the ladle back in the stock pot and wiped his large scarred hands. “Nothing wrong with that, boy. Every manuscript wonders about that.”

Bede began peeling again. “I just wish I knew where I’m headed. Which church I’ll be the Bible for.”

Brother Trout chuckled. “Yes, and there’s a seminarian on Assisi wondering the very same thing. Which church he’ll be pastor of, once he’s ordained, and what his Bible is going to be like.”

“Where is Assisi at the moment, Brother?”

The friar was silent as he did the calculations in his head. He pointed upward and just to the right of the hanging rack of pots. “About there, Bede. They’ll be transiting the plane of the ecliptic sometime around Michaelmas.”

The manuscript gestured in the direction of the asteroid with the peeler. “You were at the Abbey of Francis; what’s it like?”

The cook leaned against the counter and folded his hands within the sleeves of his brown habit. “Not all that different from here actually. Gravity’s a bit less because of the slower spin. That‘s why retired religious are sent there when they’re unable to get around.”

“What else?”

“Well, the Jesuits have their observatory there because it gets them up out of the dust and gunk down on the plane.” He thought a moment. “I was there the same time Father Patrice was there. Me a novice and him a seminarian—“

He was interrupted by the arrival of Hubert, chief of the abbey’s cats. The tiger tabby walked over and laid a deceased rat at Brother Trout’s feet and sat back in expectation. The human beamed at him. “Very good, Hubert! Thou art truly the master of the hunt.” He leaned over rubbed the cat’s head and back. The resulting purr was diesel-like. As he straightened, he spoke to Bede, “Would you please dispose of the spoiler of grain while I give Hubert his reward? And mind you, wash those hands when you’re finished, young sir.”

Bede grinned and went for the cleaning equipment. As he used the tongs to drop the rat in the recycler, he thought about what it would be like to be a Bible out on his own. Probably a mining camp somewhere on the backside of beyond. Or one of the underwater habitats. Or—he paused as he washed his hands—space! He and his priest on a roving mission, going from spacecraft to spacecraft as requested.

“Someone looks like the kitten who got into the cream pitcher.” Brother Trout broke his train of thought.

“Sorry, Brother. Woolgathering.”

The cook smiled at him. “As long as it wasn’t a near occasion of sin, I shan’t worry about it. Now.” He pointed at the stool on which Bede had been perched. “Potatoes.”

The manuscript grinned and sat down. Picking up a potato and the peeler, he said, “Yes, Brother.”

Byblos

by Walt Staples -

The man in the brown habit wore the battered face of a former boxer. As he shuffled, long experience caused him not to notice the tremor running through the walls and floor of the abandoned mine shaft. Sheba was just being Sheba.

The Abbot halted his silent progress down the hall of the scriptorium. He eased open the Judas slot on the door marked “Ignatius” so as not to disturb those on the door’s other side. From within came a newly cracked voice, “…In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the…” The tall, stooped man slid the slot closed.

He continued to the next cell. Its name was “Jerusalem.” This time, he heard, “…and the word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Though Him all things…” He smiled and went on to “Douay.”

He listened and began to frown as he heard, “…The same was in God—” A much older voice cut the younger off, “No.” It continued more gently, “No, Bede, it goes this way; now listen carefully. ‘The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by Him, and without Him was made nothing that was made.’ There you see?”

The Abbot’s forehead cleared as the first voice said, “Sorry, Brother Eustis,” and began again, “The same was in the beginning…”

He thought about Brother Eustis as he walked toward “James.” The old friar had earned a proper retirement years ago, but continued to teach the young Douay Bibles. The Abbot shook his head and smiled, old men and old hunting dogs.

As if conjured by the thought, Fezik, the oldest ratting dog, trotted by. He wagged at the human and went about his business. He and the chief cat seemed to have a competition as to who could bring Brother Trout, the abbey cook, the most rats.

At “James,” the ancient heard, “…All things were made by Him, and without Him was not anything made that was made. In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in…”

He went on greatly cheered. The new crop of Bibles were coming along well. Even young Bede showed promise. By Advent, all six of the present class would be ready to go out to their respective churches. The Abbey of Francis might produce priests, but they were crippled without his Bibles. He caught himself. No! In that direction lay Pride. He whispered an Act of Contrition.

He turned his thoughts back to their original path. Yes, he thought, six new Bibles by Advent. His face broke into a toothless grin of pure happiness. His expression sobered somewhat as he was reminded of the problem of Brother Eustis. Which of the older Douays should he pick to replace the old friar when the sad time came? He padded on through the halls of the Abbey of Jerome.