Byzantium

57

Cadoc glared at me from beneath lowered brows. "I am disappointed in you, Aidan," he said tartly. "Disappointed in the extreme-and disgusted."

His round face warped in a scowl, the good bishop clicked his tongue in sharp vexation. "Have you any notion of the trouble your disobedience is causing? The pit yawns before you, boy. Wake up!"

"Bishop Cadoc," I said, annoyance melting in the strangeness of the meeting, "how do you come to be here? I saw you killed."

"Yes, a very great gift that-and just look what you have done with it," he growled, his frown dour and disapproving. "Think you I could stand aside and watch you obliterate all that has been accomplished on your behalf from the moment you were born to now?" He glared indignantly. "Well? What have you to say for yourself?"

Unable to frame a suitable reply, I simply stared at the apparition before me. It was Bishop Cadoc, without any doubt whatever. Yet, though his features were the same, he exuded health and vitality beyond any I had known him to possess; sure, he seemed more alive than many living men, and the eyes that regarded me with such disapproval held nothing otherworldly about them, but were keen as double-edged blades. His simple monk's mantle was not white, as I supposed, but a softly glimmering material which gave a faint illumination to his face and hands-something more than moongleam, though similar-which made him appear to be standing in reflected light.

Curious, I reached out a hand to touch him-to see if his form was as solid as it appeared. "No!" He flicked up a warning hand. "Such is not permitted." Indicating a nearby rock, he said, "Now sit you down and listen to me."

Stubbornly, I stood. "I am no-"

"Sit!" he commanded, and I sat. Placing fists on his hips, the bishop of Cennanus na Rig glowered. "Your stiff-necked pride has brought the pilgrimage dangerously close to failure."

"Me!" I cried, leaping up. "I have done nothing!"

"Sit down and listen!" the bishop commanded sternly. "Night is soon over, and I must return."

"Where?"

Ignoring the question, he said, "Lay aside your damnable pride, brother. Humble yourself before God, repent, and beg forgiveness while there is yet time." He paused and his features softened. We might have been two monks talking by moonlight, a senior churchman chastising his wayward junior.

"Look at you! Wallowing in arrogance and self-pity, drowning in doubt-and all because of a trifling disappointment and small vexations of uncertainty. What do you know of anything?"

"God abandoned me," I muttered, "not the other way."

"Oh, yes," he said snidely, "your precious dream. It was a great boon you were given, but you threw it away. I see now you treat all your gifts the same: with nothing but contempt."

"Gift!" I said. "I was meant to die in Byzantium-what manner of gift is that?"

The apparition rolled its eyes in exasperation. "You were not always so dull-witted, God save you. Many a man-a perceptive man, mind-would give much to know where he will die."

I could not believe what I was hearing. I stared incredulously at the bishop's softly glowing form.

"Oh, a very great boon, that," I muttered scornfully. "I went to Byzantium believing I would die, but willing to face martyrdom for Christ's sake. Indeed, I was prepared for death, but nothing happened-nothing."

"And so you were disappointed," the bishop's apparition mocked, adopting the tone of one well used to exhorting thickheaded pupils. I made no answer, but glowered sullenly back. Cadoc frowned and drew a deep breath. "Perhaps, if you had pondered the meaning of your dream more deeply-"

"What difference does it make now? It is over and done."

"I tell you the truth, Aidan mac Cainnech," he declared in solemn displeasure, "you are making me angry."

I am mad, I thought. Here was I, arguing with a dead man's apparition in the middle of the night. I must be losing my mind-first angels and now the spirits of the departed. What next?

"This is what you came to tell me?" I inquired sourly.

"No, son," he said, his voice gentling. "I came to warn you, and to encourage you." He leaned towards me earnestly. "Beware: great danger gathers about you. Forces in high places seek your destruction. Continue on the way you are going, and the abyss will claim you."

"That is encouraging," I muttered.

"That was the warning," snapped the dead bishop. "But I say to you, rejoice, brother; the race is soon run, and the prize awaits. Persevere!"

So saying, he began to move away from me-I say "move away" because while he did not so much as lift a foot, I sensed motion and he began to fade from my sight, growing rapidly smaller as if retreating across a vast distance. "Remember this: all flesh is grass!" he called, his voice dwindling away. "Keep your eyes on the prize!"

"Wait!" I cried, jumping up again.

His words drifted back to me, now very faint and far away: "All flesh is grass, Brother Aidan. The race is soon run. Farewell…"

Cadoc disappeared from sight, and I came to myself with a shudder and looked around. The camp was quiet and still, the men asleep. Low in the west, the moon shone brightly, but pink dawn marbled the sky in the east. I stood for a time, trying to understand what had happened to me. It had been a dream, I decided. What else could it have been? Unlike my other dreams, however, this one had caused me to get up and walk in my sleep; I had never done that before.

I felt foolish standing alone in the dark, talking to myself, so I crept back to my place beneath the tree and wrapped my robe around me and tried to go to sleep. Daylight roused the others a short time later. We broke fast on the remains of the previous night's meal, then saddled the horses and rode on.

The strange events of the previous day had cast me into a pensive humour. I rode beside Faysal, as before, but my mind was far away and preoccupied with all I had seen and heard. Time and again I kept returning to the same words: All flesh is grass. That is what the angel had told me, and Bishop Cadoc had said it, too. I found this curiously comforting: at least my spectral visitors agreed with one another.

The words themselves were from the Holy Scriptures; I had copied out enough psalms to recognize that much at least. And the prophets often likened man and his span of days to the ephemeral grass that blushed green in the dawnlight only to be blasted by the sun's all-consuming fire and blown away on the desert wind.

I thought about this as I rode along, and thought, too, how long it had been since I had contemplated anything of Holy Writ. Once it had been all my life, and now such thoughts were few and exceedingly far between. Melancholy settled over me, and I gave myself to wondering what else I could recall.

My efforts were rewarded at once: All men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field. That was from one of the prophets-Isaiah, I think. And then there was one from the Psalms: You, Lord God, sweep away men in the sleep of death; they are like the grass of the morning-though in the morning it springs up new, by evening it is dry and withered.

Once begun, other fragments of scripture surfaced. I found the mental exercise mildly diverting-at least it relieved the monotony of the ride. They wither more quickly than grass-such is the destiny of those who forget the Lord. Sure, I had copied that once or twice, but though I wrung my poor brain for trying, I could in no wise remember the source. The message was clear enough, however; it made me wonder whether I had forgotten the Lord. No, I maintained, God had forgotten me.

Another versicle floated up from the hidden depths of memory: Who are you that fear mortal men, who are but grass, that you forget the Lord, your Maker, who has stretched out the heavens and laid the Earth's foundations?

The question spoke to me with such directness and force that I turned in the saddle to see if Faysal had spoken. But he rode with his head bent beneath the sun, and his eyes were closed; some of the others were dozing in the saddle, too. Clearly, no one paid any attention to me.

Again, the question resounded in my mind, and with an insistence that seemed to require an answer: Who was I to fear mortal men and forget my Maker? Was it fear that led to forgetting? Perhaps, but it seemed more likely that forgetting? Perhaps, but it seemed more likely that forgetting led to fear. Further, the question implied the foolishness of fearing mere mortals when the Maker of Heaven and Earth alone held power over the soul. Obviously, if fear were coinage, then God was the treasurer who demanded payment.

Oh, but it was not fear that so beset me: I was not afraid, I was angry! I had given my all to God, and he had rejected the gift. He had abandoned me, withdrawn his guiding hand and cast me adrift in a world that knew neither mercy nor justice.

As if in response to this observation, another scriptural shred floated to my attention: Do not fret because of evil men, or be envious of those who do wrong; for like the grass they soon wither and die away. That one I knew; it was from Psalms. Thus, I had worked myself around to the same place once more. But what did it mean, this talk of flesh and grass and fear and forgetting-what did any of it mean?

As the blistering sun reached the summit of its upward climb, we stopped to rest. I took a little water and lay down under a thornbush-the last of the trees was far behind us now, and all that gave shade or shelter in the rough, dry hills was a tough low bush with small leathery leaves and short, sharp thorns. I tried to sleep, but the ground was hard and uneven, and my mind kept returning to the questions that had occupied me during the morning.

The implication suggested by the fragments tossed up by my agitated spirit, was that I had allowed my disappointment to turn to bitterness and doubt, which had in turn corroded my faith. Perhaps that was true. But I had every right to be bitter! God had abandoned me, after all. How long was I obliged to remain faithful to a god who no longer cared?

I did my best to put the issue behind me, but the questions gnawed at me through the day. As I could get no peace, I engaged Faysal in discussion. "Which do you think the greater boon," I asked as we rode along, climbing the ragged track up into the hills, "knowing your death, or remaining ignorant of it?"

After pondering the question for a time, he had answered, "Both positions have much to commend them."

"That is no answer-"

"Allow me to finish," he replied. "It seems to me that it is the lot of man to remain ignorant of his demise until the unhappy event overtakes him. Therefore, I am persuaded that Allah has ordained it thus for our benefit."

"Even so," I allowed, "if the choice were yours to make, which would you choose?"

He thought for a moment, then asked, "Is it likely that this should happen to me?"

"I suppose not, but-"

"Then an answer is not required."

"Your evasion of the question suggests you would deem such knowledge a curse, not a boon."

"I did not say that," Faysal objected. "You misconstrue my words."

"You did not say anything," I pointed out. "How could I misconstrue it?"

We talked in this way for a time, eventually losing interest in the pointless exchange. Later, as the men were making camp for the night, I found myself sitting next to Sadiq as he scanned the valley through which we had passed that day. The setting sun flamed the rocks and tinted the shadows violet; away to the south the sky was rose-coloured in the dusk. "There is a storm coming," Sadiq said, observing the southern sky.

"Good-a little rain will be most welcome."

"No rain this time of the year," the amir replied. "Wind."

"A sandstorm then." My heart fell at the thought.

"Yes, a sandstorm. As God wills, it may pass to the east." He turned from his inspection of the sky, and eyed me with the same severe scrutiny. "Faysal tells me you are talking about death."

"True," I conceded, and told him what we had discussed. He seemed interested in the question so I asked him whether he would consider knowledge of his death a boon?

"Of course," he replied without hesitation.

This intrigued me. "Why?" I asked, and confessed that I could see no benefit whatsoever.

"That is where you are wrong. A man armed with such knowledge would be free to accomplish mighty things."

"Free?" I wondered at the use of this word. "Why do you say free? It seems to me that such knowledge is a terrible burden."

"Terrible for some, perhaps," allowed the amir. "For others it would be liberation. If a man had foreknowledge of his death, it would follow that he would also know all the places where death could not claim him. Thus, he would be free from all fear, and could do whatever he pleased." A quickened intensity charged his speech. "Just think! This man would be a hero in battle, braving every danger, fighting with exquisite courage because he knew in his heart he could not be killed."

"What would happen," I pressed, "when this man came at last to the place appointed for his meeting with death?"

"Ah," replied Sadiq, turning his eyes to the valley once more, "when he came to that place he would also have no fear because he would have prepared himself properly for this meeting. Fear arises from uncertainty. Where there is perfect certainty, there is no fear."

As one who had lived with such knowledge, I found this line of reasoning unconvincing. Certainty, in my experience, only made the thing more difficult, not less.

I was still contemplating what Sadiq had said, when he rose abruptly. "Ya'Allah!" he said softly.

Glancing up, I saw that he was gazing down into the valley, his eyes fixed on the place where the trail began its long torturous climb up to the promontory on which we now sat. "What do you see?" I asked, following his gaze.

But Sadiq was already hastening away. From over his shoulder he called, "We are being followed!"