But I have my doubts. After all, Demosthenes persuaded his countrymen to fight a pointless and suicidal war against Alexander the Great!
If we have not understood the remark, I think Tarien would have.
We’ve always wondered about Tanner and Sim, why she searched so relentlessly for so many years. Somehow, there seems to have been more than simple compassion or loyalty in that quest. Chase would inject a romantic note: She loved him, she has told me on occasion, when the wind blows hard outside, and the fire leaps high. And she found him. I am sure of that. She would not have given up—
Maybe.
I’ve always suspected that Tanner was part of the original plot. That it was she, and not a nameless staff officer or crewman, who saw the Wheel. And that it was guilt, rather than love, that drove her.
And anyhow, we know he didn’t come back. Christopher Sim was never heard of again, after Rigel. Sometimes I think about him on that rock, and I want more than anything else in my life to believe that she came down out of the clear blue sky. And that she took him away.
I like to think it. But I don’t believe it.
And finally, Gabe.
Today, the logs of the Corsarius, and a personal notebook in the hand of Christopher Sim, are on display at the Center for Accadian Studies. In the Gabriel Benedict Wing.
EPILOGUE
THE SKIMMER ARCED in over the rim of St. Anthony’s Valley, circled the abbey, and set down on the visitors' pad near the statue of the Virgin in front of the administration building. A tall, dark-skinned man climbed out of the cockpit, blinked in the sunlight, and glanced round at the cluster of dormitories, the library, and the chapel, which seemed to have been scattered over the landscape in no very orderly fashion.
A young man in red robes had been standing off to one side, near the Virgin, watching. Now he walked swiftly toward the visitor. "Mr. Scott?" he inquired.
"Yes."
"Welcome to St. Anthony’s. I’m Mikel Dubay, the Abbot’s representative." Usually, Mikel broke the formality of the announcement with the additional observation that he was a novice. But Scott’s manner did not encourage spontaneity.
"Ah." He was looking past Mikel’s shoulder.
"We’ve prepared a room for you."
"Thank you. But I won’t be staying overnight."
"Oh." That was puzzling. "I understood you had intended a retreat here."
"That’s true," Scott said, suddenly aware of the novice. "In a way. But it will take only a half hour or so."
Mikel’s jaw tightened, but he did not reply until he was sure he could keep the ice out of his voice. "The Abbot wished me to see that you receive whatever assistance you require."
With his heart hammering, Hugh Scott followed his guide behind the residence halls and past the recreation area. Shouts from a group of young ballplayers drifted on the late afternoon air. A couple of white-clad priests came from the other direction, greeted Mikel and his charge cheerfully, and continued on. The portion of their conversation that Scott had caught seemed to have something to do with high energy physics.
The chapel bell tolled. A large avian flapped wildly in one of the trees, and fell out. It hit the ground with a shriek, got up, and galloped away on enormous wedge-shaped feet. "It followed one of the fathers home from a mountain novena a few weeks ago," the novice explained. "We’ve been trying to catch it so that we can take it back."
"I’ve never seen anything quite like it," Scott said reflexively, looking uphill, perhaps not thinking of the creature at all. Indeed, he might not even have been aware of its existence.
"It’s a mowry bird," continued Mikel, falling into silence thereafter.
The walkway curved past groves of flowering bushes and dwarf trees. They turned uphill. On the ridge, behind an iron fence, Scott could see rows of white markers.
He slowed his pace. It was a lovely day, an afternoon to enjoy a moment to savor! And the blood rushed in his veins!
Marble benches were set near the entrance, intended obviously as places where one might with profit contemplate the brevity of a lifetime. His glance swept past them to the arch, beneath which the fathers pass on their final journey. A cross stood at its apex, and it was inscribed: He that would teach others how to die, must know how to live. Yes, Scott thought. Sim had known!
"Back there." Mikel pointed toward a section shaded by ancient trees. Scott walked down the rows of plain white markers, and it struck him that this was probably the first time in his adult life that he’d visited a graveyard and not succumbed to gloomy imaginings about his own mortality. Something more important today.
"Here, sir." The novice stopped by a marker utterly undistinguishable from the others. Scott approached it, and read the inscription:
Jerome Courtney
Died 11, 108 A.D.
Scott checked his commlink. The date equated to 1249 on the Rimway calendar. Forty years after the war! Tears filled his eyes, and he went down on one knee.
The grass rippled in the warm afternoon breeze. Water was moving somewhere, and voices floated in the sunlight. He was overwhelmed by the timelessness of the place.
When he recovered himself, and got back to his feet, Mikel was gone. A man stood in his place, bearded, stocky, wearing the flowing white cassock of the Disciples. "I am Father Thasangales," he said, offering his hand. It was large and bony, roughened by labor.
"Do you know who he was?" Scott asked.
"Yes. The abbots have always known. I’m afraid the bishop knows too. But that was necessary."
"He was here forty years," Scott said, astonished.
"He was here periodically for forty years," said Thasangales. "He wasn’t a member of the Order. Nor even of the Faith, for that matter; although there is evidence that he sympathized strongly with the Church." The Abbot gazed wistfully at the far hills. "According to the accounts we have, he came and went quite frequently. But we are pleased to know that St. Anthony’s was his home."
"Do you have any documents? Did he make any statements? Did he explain what happened?"
"Yes." The Abbot drew his arms together, and looked pleasantly up at the taller man. "Yes, we have several documents of his, manuscripts really. One in particular appears to be an attempt to systematize the rise and fall of civilizations. He has, I believe, gone considerably further in the matter than anyone else. There are also several histories, a series of philosophical essays, and a memoir."
Scott’s breath caught in his throat. "You have all this? And you never let the world know?"
"It was his request. Do not give any of it to them, he said, until they come and ask." He peered intently into Scott’s eyes. "I presume that hour has arrived."
Scott drew his fingers across the gravestone. Despite the coolness of the afternoon, it felt warm. "I believe I’ll take that room you offered. And, yes, I’d be interested in seeing what he has to say."