Saint Francis

  "That will be the day!" the captain said with a laugh. "God is a bad risk. He owes me quite a lot already, and I've still to see Him open His purse."

  "Take us with you!" I repeated. "Think of the Inferno, think of Paradise. The two roads lie before you. Choose!"

  The captain scratched his beard nervously. "Listen, monk: I've been sitting here idle for three days and nights now waiting for a fair wind which doesn't come. You and your companion have constant dealings with God. Can you pray to Him to puff and swell out my sails? If you bring me a good wind I'll take you aboard, and you won't have to worry about any additional payment. Go back to your companion and start casting your spells!"

  I ran to Francis. He, if he was willing to offer up this prayer, would surely be heard by God.

  "Brother Francis, a boat from our land is anchored just in front of us. The captain says he'll take us aboard if we pray to God to send a favorable wind. Lift your arms to heaven and start praying!"

  "The only miracles I believe in are those of the heart, Brother Leo," he replied. "I'm unable to accomplish anything beyond that, so do not ask me."

  "Cry to heaven," I insisted. "God will hear you."

  Francis lashed out: this man who was tottering on the brink of the grave lashed out, sprang to his feet, and seized me by the nape of the neck.

  "Don't exasperate me, Brother Leo," he screamed. "Stop urging me every two minutes to shout, 'Give! Give! Give!' Do you think God has nothing better to do than to hand out loaves of bread, warm clothes, and favorable winds? He threw us down here in this desert, and if all our efforts have come to nothing, that's just what He wanted. He unfolded a black wing above me and dimmed my sight: that's just what He wanted. He brought a boat, placed it directly in front of us, and now refuses to send a favorable wind: that's just what He wanted--or perhaps it's your opinion that He owes us an explanation for His actions! And now Your Lordship comes along and tells me to call upon Him to alter His will! Keep your mouth closed, Brother Leo; cross your arms and accept God. Let Him descend upon us in any guise that pleases Him --as hunger, or as a fine wind, or as the plague!"

  Astonished to hear Francis speak so angrily, I bowed, kissed his hand, and said nothing. He realized then that his words had hurt me, and he regretted having uttered them.

  "Forgive me, Brother Leo. The new devils inside me have poisoned my heart and tongue."

  He continued to speak, but I was gazing tearfully at the sea and I don't remember what he said to me. Suddenly I saw the water begin ever so gradually to stir, to quiver. A warm breeze rose from the south. The ripples swelled slightly; then all at once, the moment Francis stopped talking, a fine wind blew and I saw the boat's sails flap and swell out.

  "Hey, monks!" came the captain's happy voice.

  I bent down and grabbed Francis under the arms. "A fair wind is blowing, Brother Francis. The captain is calling us. Let's go!"

  "You ask Him for something," murmured Francis, "and He doesn't give it; you don't ask Him, and He gives it. . . . Well, whether He gives or not, praised be His name! Let's go."

  After we had finally boarded the vessel, seated ourselves cross-legged at the stern, and begun to see the coast of Africa recede into the distance, Francis placed his hand on my knee. "Brother Leo," he said, "when we pray to God we must be seeking nothing--nothing. As time goes on, I begin to understand that He does not care at all for whining and begging. We have whined and begged far too much, I think, Brother Leo. A voice inside me--a voice which I heard today for the first time--calls out: 'You are not on the right road!' But which is the right road, Brother Leo? I still am unable to tell. We shall wait and see!"

  The sea smelled sweet; the boat glided along with all sails set. The route home was a beautiful one and the days and nights passed like rapidly alternating flashes of white and black. I sat in the stern with my back against the cables and gave myself up to thought. Yes, Francis was right: all our pains had gone for nothing. The Sultan had not become a Christian, and Francis' tearful words to the crusaders had been equally ineffective. Who could expect these armor- encased Christians to listen to him? They slaughtered, pillaged, looted shamelessly, forgetting why they had set out and where they were going. Was this God's will, in other words--and if so, why?

  I asked myself this question, asked it in desperation, but could find no answer. Nor did I dare turn to ask Francis, who was at my side, because I remembered one night when we had heard a nightingale's song in the moonlight. We stopped and listened, holding our breath.

  "God is inside the bird's throat and is singing, Brother Leo," Francis said to me in a whisper. And just as he said this, the bird tumbled out of the branches and fell to the ground. Francis bent down and picked the nightingale up in his hand. Its beak was all bloody. "It died from an excess of song," said Francis, kissing the tiny gullet, which was still warm.

  But I became angry. "Why should it die, why should the tiny warm throat of the nightingale die?" I shouted. "Why should human eyes be turned to mud? Why? Why?"

  Francis knit his brows. "And why," he shouted, "is man so impudent, always asking questions? Perhaps you require God to outline His reasons--is that it? Shut your brazen mouth!"

  Now, in the boat, I remembered Francis' words and although my mind had revolted once more and begun to ask questions, I decided not to voice them.

  One morning, when the coast of our country had finally become visible, Francis approached me, troubled. "I had a dream, Brother Leo, a bad dream. God grant that it does not come true!"

  "Not all dreams are from God," I answered. "Don't be afraid, Brother Francis."

  "I dreamt I was a hen, a brood hen, just like the other time. I had covered my chicks with my wings when suddenly a hawk darted out of the sky. I jumped up from fear and left my chicks uncovered. The hawk seized them in its talons and disappeared."

  I did not utter a word. But I shuddered, and to myself I said: Elias! The hawk was Elias!

  Francis sighed. "I shouldn't have gone away. It was wrong to abandon my children and leave them unprotected. . . . Who could the hawk be, Brother Leo?"

  "We'll reach the Portiuncula in a few days, Brother Francis. Then we'll find out."

  The coast was near at last. Leaning over the bow railing, we gazed longingly at the shore. Houses began to appear, as did olive trees, fig trees, vineyards. It was the beginning of spring. The meadows had turned green; the ground was fragrant--the savory and thyme must already have blossomed.

  "I can't see our homeland very clearly," said Francis, "but I feel it in my arms as though it were my own daughter."

  We jumped ashore. What joy it is to return to your homeland in the springtime when all the trees are blossoming! Francis stooped, as did I, and we kissed the soil. Then, crossing ourselves, we set out hastily, Francis clinging to my hand so that he would not stumble. We were both deeply engrossed in thought. From time to time Francis stopped, lifted his hand toward the north, toward the Portiuncula, and traced the sign of the cross in the air. He seemed to be blessing the tiny church, and also attempting to cast out the demons that inhabited it.

  One day he woke me at the crack of dawn. We had spent the night in a hayloft.

  "I had another dream, Brother Leo," he shouted in a frightened voice. "No, it wasn't a dream: I saw the Portiuncula between the trees, saw it with my eyes open. Three demons had attacked it. Their wings were like bats' wings, they had claws and horns, and their sinuous tails girdled our sweet little church and our cells. But I made the sign of the cross, cried, 'Begone, unclean spirits, in Christ's name!'--and they vanished."

  "Your dream was a good omen, Brother Francis," I said to soothe him. "God was victorious."

  Overjoyed, Francis sprang to his feet and began to dance in the hay. But all of a sudden terror spread over his features. He fell down on his face, palpitating; apparently he had seen some horrible vision in the half-darkness.

  "What's the matter, Brother Francis?" I shouted, overcome with fright. "Did you see something in the air
?"

  Still trembling, he seized my hand. "Have pity on me, Brother Leo," he murmured. "Help me find my way out of the Inferno. Come, let us climb to the top of a high snow- capped mountain, to pray. Before I see the friars I must see God and be purified." The thought terrified me. "But we'll freeze to death, Brother Francis," I said. "Winter isn't entirely finished yet, and the snow on top of the mountain will be up to our necks."

  Francis shook his head. "If you have no faith, Brother Leo, yes, you will freeze, without a doubt. If you have faith, however, the sweat will flow from you, and the hair on your head will steam. It's daylight. Cross yourself and let's be on our way."

  We began the ascent. As we rose higher the air grew icier and icier. I was shivering. Soon we reached the snow. Our bare legs sank in, at first up to the ankles, then to the shins. It was evening when we finally reached the summit.

  "Are you cold, Brother Leo?" Francis asked me.

  My lips were blue; I was frozen stiff, and could not speak. Francis stroked my shoulder compassionately.

  "Think of God, poor wretched Brother Leo, think of God, and you'll feel warm."

  I thought of Him, thought of Him--but there was little likelihood of my feeling warm: I was frozen solid! On top of this I was sleepy and hungry. Oh, I said to myself, if I could only lie down here in the snow and fall asleep and never wake up again--if I could only escape all this! I've had enough! I wasn't made out to be either a hero or a saint. How I deceived myself when I decided to follow this man who is both! I was suited to poking around lazily with ordinary men, knocking on doors, stopping awhile at the taverns: pursuing God, but leisurely. . . .

  Francis had knelt down on the snow and begun to pray. Night fell; the sky filled with stars. I had never seen stars that were so huge, so sparkling, so near to man. Suddenly I heard Francis' voice:

  "Where are you, Brother Leo? I don't see you."

  "Here by your side, Brother Francis. I'm at your command."

  "It's said that the saintly ascetics who live high up in the mountains take off all their clothes and then lower themselves into deep holes they dig in the snow. And when they do this, the sweat flows from their armpits."

  "I'm no ascetic," I replied with irritation. "If you feel like getting undressed, no one is stopping you."

  He took off his clothes and rolled in the snow, chanting in a strong voice the hymn sung by the three children in the fiery furnace. Then he wrapped himself in his robe, made a round pillow out of some snow, and lay down to go to sleep.

  "Many new demons are tormenting me, Brother Leo. I roll in the snow in order to frighten them and make them leave."

  I was about to reply: And by what rights should I have to freeze as well! but I restrained myself. Then, suddenly, Francis' eyes left their sockets. Quaking, he jumped to his feet, stretched out his arms as though trying to defend himself, and began to stagger backwards.

  "There he is!" he whispered, horrified. "He's come again!" I looked. No one was there. The air was empty.

  "Who do you see, Brother Francis?" I cried.

  "The beggar, the beggar with the hood, with the holes in his hands and feet. Look--the wound on his forehead, the cross: it's bleeding. . . . There he is! There he is!"

  His entire body was shaking. I hugged him, spoke to him softly, sweetly, trying to quiet him.

  "There he is! There he is!" he shouted again. "He's eying me scornfully and shaking his head. . . ."

  He was trembling--not from the cold, but from fear. His still-protruding eyes were riveted upon the empty air in front of him. Suddenly he shuddered from head to toe.

  "Help! He's coming!" he screamed, his teeth clattering.

  I took him in my arms to prevent him from falling. "Call on God, Brother Francis, call on God to make him go away."

  But Francis shook his head. "What if God is the one who sent him?" he murmured. Stooping, he grasped a fistful of snow to throw at the apparition, but then changed his mind. "Command me, my brother!" he said, taking a step forward. Then, after remaining silent for a moment, waiting in vain for a reply; "Why don't you speak? Who are you? Who sent you? Why are you shaking your head?"

  He listened intently. Someone seemed to be talking to him.

  "Go away and leave me alone," he cried a moment later. "Aren't I free to wrestle with devils if I want to? I like it! I'm not an archangel, I'm a man; every demon is inside me, and I wrestle. God is on my side, so I have no need of you. Go away! There's no use your showing me your pierced hands! Go away, I tell you! I'm not an angel and have no desire to be an angel. I want to win with my own strength, unaided."

  He lifted his arm and flung the snowball he was holding, then burst into frenzied laughter. "I hit him square in the face. He's gone, destroyed!"

  He collapsed to the ground and, grasping my arm, pulled me down next to him. For some time he did not speak. Taking a handful of snow, he rubbed his fiery temples. At last he turned and looked at me. "Brother Leo, I want to say something to you, to ask you something. I implore you not to be frightened: I'm not the one who is speaking; it's the demons inside me."

  "I'm listening, Brother Francis." My jaws were clacking.

  "Can you tell me why God created woman, why He detached a rib from man and created her, why every man spends his entire life seeking to become reunited with this detached rib? Is this God's voice speaking through me, or the devil's? What do you think, Brother Leo: marriage, childbirth, the begetting of sons--are they holy sacraments or not?"

  His words made me shudder. He trembled as he spoke, and I actually saw the sweat flowing from his forehead. Who could ever have believed that such demons would be in him, tormenting his loins? "Speak, Brother Leo," he continued in an anguished voice. "Do not remain silent. Is it possible that we have taken an evil road, a road which opposes God's will? Wasn't it the Lord Himself who said, 'Increase and multiply and be like the sand of the sea'?"

  "Brother Francis," I replied, "I fall at your feet and ask forgiveness for saying this to you--but it is the devil, the devil of the flesh, who is talking at this moment through your mouth: the devil with the huge breasts!"

  He uttered a heart-rending cry and sprawled out on top of the snow. Then he undid the cord which was around his waist. The whole night long I heard him groaning and beating his loins and thighs maniacally. At the break of dawn he jumped up, naked, his flesh blue with cold and discolored by the welts he had inflicted upon himself. He began to shape the snow into balls which he placed in piles arranged in a line in front of him.

  "What are you doing that for, Brother Francis?" I cried, trembling with the fear that he had gone out of his mind.

  "You'll see in a moment," he answered as he toiled with his hands and feet to give human shape to each of the seven mounds of snow that he had now packed in front of him. "You'll see in a moment, Brother Leo, in a moment!"

  And indeed, in a moment I clearly saw seven snow-statues lined up one next to the other: a fat woman with huge pendulous breasts, on her right two boys, on her left two girls, and behind her a man and woman with bowed heads. Francis gazed at them and was suddenly overcome with laughter. "Look, Sior Francis, son of Bernardone," he cried, "that is your wife, those your children, and behind them are your two servants. The whole family had gone out for a stroll, and you--husband, father, master--are walking in the lead."

  But suddenly his laughter gave way to ferocity. He lifted his hand toward heaven. At the instant he did so the sun appeared, the mountain began to gleam; below, far in the distance, Assisi hovered weightlessly in the air, uncertainly, as though composed of fancy and morning frost.

  "Lord, Lord," Francis cried in a heart-rending voice, "command the sun to beat down upon my family and melt them! I want to escape!"

  He sank to the ground and began to weep. I went to him, wrapped his robe around him, then picked up the knotted cord, which was all covered with blood, and tied it about his waist.

  "Come, Brother Francis," I said, taking him by the hand and lifting him up, "we'll go
to the Portiuncula and let the brothers light a fire to warm you--to warm both of us. If we stay here we'll die of cold. Besides, as you undoubtedly see for yourself, we still are not ready to appear before God."

  Francis stumbled forward, his knees constantly giving way beneath him, his hand trembling in my grasp. We did not talk. The sun grew continually stronger; it embraced us, warmed us compassionately, as though it were God's eye and had seen us and decided to take pity upon us. As I gazed at it I forgot myself for a moment and allowed Francis' hand to slip out of my own. He took two steps, three, then stumbled and fell on his face. I ran to lift him up. Blood was flowing from his head. Two sharp stones had incised a deep wound on his forehead--in the shape of a cross. Raising his hand to investigate the wound, he suddenly quivered with fright.

  "What's the matter, Brother Francis? Why are you shaking?"

  "What shape is the mark on my forehead?"

  "A cross."