Saint Leibowitz and the Wild Horse Woman

CHAPTER 15

BY THE TIME NEWS OF ABBOT JARAD’S DEATH reached Valana from the Texark telegraph terminal, the Holy See and most of the Curia had already departed in the direction of New Rome, while Cardinal Brownpony had taken the more northerly route to the sacred meeting place for the Weejus and Bear Spirit shamans. The message went first, of course, to the Sacred Congregation for Religious, whose presiding cardinal had gone with the Pope. His vicar promptly notified SEEC and the Secretariat of State. Cardinal Nauwhat at SEEC was one of the few cardinals who lingered in Valana, and he promptly sent messengers to chase after Brownpony and the Pope, but they had been gone for some days and would not be easy to find on trackless grasslands. Had Nauwhat sent the message with a Nomad skilled in distance signaling, it might have arrived before those to whom it was addressed, but Nauwhat had not inherited Brownpony’s Nomad connections with Brownpony’s office, and the messengers would have to wander for a time.

The 6th of September 3244 was a Tuesday. The moon was five days beyond first quarter, and arose well before sundown. The Wild-dog’s lookouts who watched from the boundaries of the settlement at the “Navel of the World,” the breeding pit of the Høngin Fujæ Vurn, saw at last a tiny plume of dust on the horizon. A lone rider waved his arms in a Nomad signal meaning “Church,” and repeated it until he knew he had been seen, and was therefore recognized as the expected guest from Valana. But alone?

Father Ombroz was astonished, for he had expected the cardinal to be accompanied by his young secretary and at least one familiar bodyguard. He immediately sent for Oxsho, his young acolyte and most recent student, a warrior who was remotely related to Chür Høngan, and who had served at the priest’s Masses for three years now.

“I can’t go to meet him, because of the funeral,” he told the young man. “I want you to stop him before he gets much closer, and warn him of the news. Treat him as you would treat a great uncle, with utmost respect. But you must tell him things he will not want to hear. Hurry, before he gets too close to camp. Try to stay on low ground, or behind a rise. Enemies will be watching. Remember to mention what is said of his mother, whether it is true or not.”

“Certainly, Father,” said Oxsho, and immediately rode out of the encampment. The youth was as surprised as his master to see that the new Vicar Apostolic had come alone, with a bedroll and a musket, wearing only a red skullcap—easily concealable—to distinguish himself from any other citizen trespassing on Nomad land. The young acolyte had too many things to say to give the cardinal an opening through an exchange of pleasantries. Still staring straight at Brownpony’s apostolic ring after kissing it, he began listing the items in the Wilddog news. He seemed ill at ease, and did not directly meet the cardinal’s curious gaze.

“Bearcub’s father died last night. The sharf is dead. The Mare here is a widow again. The funeral is tonight. It was a ritual death.” His glance flickered up to Brownpony’s face to make sure he understood the word “ritual” in this context. A slight wince from the cardinal revealed his comprehension. “But there was much argument among the Bear Spirit and the Weejus. The slaughtering festival would be on Friday, when the moon is full.”

“Would be? What does that mean?”

“They postponed it. It lasts several days, and it was about to begin. A postponement of so holy a celebration is without precedent, but it was inappropriate for the Great Uncle to be, uh, to die, while cattle are being slaughtered. And, uh, you know, the feast.”

“I see. Go on.”

“The funeral will be tonight. Much has happened, m’Lord. A representative from the Church in Texark is here: Monsignor Sanual. An observer from Benefez, but also a spokesman. He ordered Father Ombroz on behalf of the Archbishop to return to his order in New Rome ...”

Brownpony laughed. “I can imagine how the good father responded. Well, as his new Vicar Apostolic, I shall order him to stay. I am very sorry to know that Granduncle Brokenfoot is dead. Your teacher gave him the last sacrament, of course?”

Ombroz’s acolyte stared at him for a moment, as if not comprehending, and resumed his list. “The Lord Chür Høngan thinks he has located your mother. He said to tell you she is on her way to this place. He cannot be sure. For that and various other reasons, the desire of Kindly Light, the Grasshopper sharf, to see you spend the night in the devil-woman’s breeding pit is probably going to be frustrated. His arrogance does not sit well with the Weejus.”

“I may very well spend a night there anyway, whether Hultor Bråm wants it or not.”

The young Nomad seemed alarmed. “It is a terrible place, m’Lord. Many have died there.”

“Men do die, everywhere.”

“She slays anyone she rejects.”

“Are you not a Christian?”

“Yes, but she is not!”

“Perhaps I can convert her.”

Oxsho showed great consternation. “The Høngin Fujæ Vurn—”

Brownpony cut him off. “Of course I would not try. But how else would I prove my right to rule over your Churches? Monsignor Sanual may join me, if he pleases.”

The young Nomad giggled. “I think he would wet his cassock.”

“Tell me, what makes Holy Madness think my mother is alive?”

“I know only what Father Ombroz said—that the Sisters who raised you spoke only the Jackrabbit dialect, and wrongly translated her family name.”

“So I am perhaps not a brown pony?”

“There is a Wilddog family name that means a ‘sorrel colt.’ But in Jackrabbit—” He shrugged.

“What do you know about her?”

“Only gossip, m’Lord. She has royal blood, but her small family is neither wealthy nor distinguished. She is old enough to be your mother, but she has never married. She lives with another woman as husband, and is said to hate men. Perhaps I should not tell you this. But it is not an uncommon thing among us.”

Ombroz met them at the edge of camp, his shaved pate shining in the sun. It was dotted with scars where skin tumors had been removed. Looking at him, the cardinal realized that his name in Wild-dog sounded a lot like “shaved bear,” although the priest claimed he used the razor to mark himself as different from the typical shaman. When the cardinal told him that Amen Specklebird had canceled his suspension from the Order of Saint Ignatz, and was considering his appointment as Father General of the Order, Ombroz laughed sadly.

“That will carry as much weight in New Rome as your recent promotion, m’Lord.”

“Well, yes, but the Pope must assert all of his rights and prerogatives as if no one doubted the legitimacy of his election. He must act the Pope in every way.”

“I understand that, but of course the Order will ignore my reinstatement. What about you, Eminence?”

“Well, at the very least, I shall invest you as a pastor of a Church in my Vicariate.”

Ombroz laughed again. “My Church is in my saddlebags. Your couriers bring my wafers and my wine along with my mail.”

“Even in saddlebags, a wandering Church needs a name.”

“It has a name. Our Lady of the Desert.”

Brownpony smiled. “The same name as the Pope’s old Order? Ordo Dominae Desertarum. Very well, and you would no doubt be happier if you changed orders?”

“If His Holiness consents. The Order of Saint Ignatz has been disloyal to the popes of the exile, and they haven’t made a move to recognize Pope Amen. I am on their list of their God’s enemies. So if His Holiness permits it?”

“Why not? He’ll agree, I’m sure.” The cardinal looked toward the crowded area. “Now, what’s going on? Where is Holy Madness?”

“He is in mourning. As you know, Your Eminence has arrived just in time for his father’s funeral.”

“His death was expected, was it not?”

“Yes, even planned.”

“Human sacrifice again?”

“It was a ritual killing, yes, but I prefer to think of it as euthanasia in his case. Still forbidden to Catholics, of course.”

“Did Chür Høngan assent to this?”

“No, he was excluded by the Bear Spirit shamans, because of his religion.”

“A religion his father shared.”

“Brokenfoot was out of his mind. He did not understand.”

“They are not going to—”

“Honor him? I’m afraid so. Tonight.”

“I wish I had come a day later.”

“I am amazed that you came alone! Where is Brother Blacktooth? Where is Wooshin and the Yellow Guard?”

“In New Jerusalem.”

“With the guns?”

“With the guns. You must know that the Pope is crossing the Plains to the south of us, probably camped for the night by now.”

“I know. I hope they let him pass. Eminence, there is a legate from Texark here. From Benefez. I would say you have arrived just in time.”

“Your young man told me. Who is Monsignor Sanual, and what does he want?”

“He is simply here to meet with the Bear Spirit, the Weejus, and the sharfs. Benefez has never condescended to this before. I wonder if he’ll be fool enough to proselytize. I dare say the Grasshopper sharf would have killed him as a spy, if he had tried to attend a meeting in the Grasshopper realm. But he is a guest of Chür Høngan’s bereaved family. I counseled Bearcub to play host to the fellow, because otherwise the Jackrabbit delegates would have been forced to accommodate him.”

“And thus either make him seem their protector or their ally. Very good, my friend. This will work out better than you could have known.”

“No, I knew that all the Jackrabbit Churches in the Province have been made subject to you. If you can win them over.”

“I cannot take the Churches or their pastors by force, but perhaps I can take their congregations away from them—with the help of enough priests loyal to the Pope. Of course, the priests have to speak Jackrabbit.”

“There are many in the Province already, m’Lord, and they are just the ones who will be loyal to the Holy Father, even though they were taught by the Archbishop of Texark. The Nomadic-speaking priests are mostly converted Nomads. They embraced the Mayor’s uncle’s religion, but not the Mayor or his uncle.”

“I’m glad to hear you affirm what I thought was true.”

“I also know about Kindly Light’s threat to have you atone to the Wild Mare Woman by spending the night in the Navel of the World, as they call it. Hultor Bråm will never be nominated, and he can’t make you do it. However, the Bearcub and I have hatched a plan. May I tell you now, or later?”

“Later, please. We are being observed, are we not?”

“Yes, and it’s a mistake not to be seen laughing together more than speaking seriously like this. Let me take you to the leading grandmothers and their spouses. Or do you need rest first?”

“Rest, please. And a bath, if that is possible.”

The cardinal slept for a few hours. When he awoke, it was dark except for the flicker of many fires. The Nomads were already celebrating the royal funeral, and there was chanting and dancing. He could smell the cooked sacrament even from inside his tent. When he came out into the firelight he was immediately joined by Oxsho, who pointed and said, “There’s your Father Ombroz.”

“Mine?” Brownpony eyed him curiously. “Holy Madness told me you were baptized. Is he not your pastor?”

Sheepish, the warrior shrugged. “Sometimes, but he shaves.”

“It sets him apart. It saves wearing his collar backward.”

“Bear Spirit men do not shave, but sometimes he acts as a Bear Spirit man, as right now. I like him, as we all do, but I do not understand him very well. You want to talk to him now?”

“I should, but I hesitate to interrupt his, uh, meal. He seems to be, if you know the word, zonked.”

“He has been smoking Nebraska keneb with the others.” Brownpony approached him. The unfrocked old priest of the Ignatz Order, whom Amen wanted to be its Father General, sat there on a heap of dried cow hides and gnawed with his good front teeth at the well-roasted remains of a human hand. He dropped the hand back in the bowl as Brownpony approached, but looked up at the cardinal brightly and without shame. Oxsho hung behind. Brownpony could see that he was not drunk but in an extraordinary state of mind from the Nomad sacramental mixture of potions he had consumed. After participating in tribal rites, he seemed a changed man to the cardinal, but Ombroz smiled at him lovingly. Brownpony met his smile with a gaze that seemed to come from a thousand miles away. I do not know this man, this old friend.

Ombroz was first to break the silence. “The old sharf willed me his right hand—an honor!—and an insult to refuse.”

The Vicar Apostolic remained silent, watching him.

“Sometimes,” Ombroz said, picking up the gristly hand of Granduncle Brokenfoot, “I take a piece of bread and consecrate it as the true body of Christ. And sometimes I take the true body of Christ and consecrate it as a piece of bread. Do you understand?”

“Ahh!” It was a surprised grunt from Oxsho. Brownpony looked at him curiously. Oxsho was smiling slightly, as if he did suddenly understand.

The cardinal, still from a thousand miles away, said, “You really do wish to join the Pope’s old Order, Father?”

Ombroz e’Laiden, not so far gone as to miss the hint of sarcasm, answered, “Tell His Holiness that illness forces me to remain as I am, m’Lord. I cannot return to my Order, but I am too old to change.”

“Very well. I’ll tell him.” Brownpony turned and walked away. Oxsho hesitated, and patted the old priest’s shoulder before following. Ombroz grinned at the young man, and resumed his sacramental meal. Oxsho followed Brownpony.

“So much for the Order of Saint Ignatz,” said the cardinal.

“Does it disappoint you that he is one of us now?” asked the warrior.

“No, I’m sorry for Ombroz e’Laiden, the man.”

“Because he has become a Nomad himself?”

“No, but outside the Church there is no salvation,” murmured the cardinal, quoting an ancient claim. The answer seemed to puzzle Oxsho; he had heard of the cardinal from Ombroz, who admired and called him liberal. It was an uncharacteristic remark for such a man to make. But he was a priest now, and a bishop too.

“M’Lord, who is to say who stands outside the Church?”

“Why, the Pope says, and the law itself says, Oxsho.”

“Does not God decide?”

“Father Ombroz is an enlightened man,” said Holy Madness, who had overtaken them. Both of them looked at him strangely, waiting for Høngan to continue, but he only yawned, shook his head. “The woman who may be your mother has come, m’Lord.”

Brownpony looked at the moon and changed the subject. “The Pope is taking a walk tonight. He always walks under a bright moon and sings to the Virgin, her sister. The Pope that would give the Church away to the poor, if Nauwhat and I would let him.” My God, what are we going to do?

“Your Eminence, do you not want to see the woman? She is of royal blood, a distant cousin of mine. Which would make you my cousin too.” He laughed, perhaps with a trace of bitterness.

“The family name is Urdon Go, not Avdek Gole,” he said, after the cardinal’s silence. “Not a brown pony, but a sorrel colt.”

“Oxsho told me. But my God!” Brownpony whispered, his face draining. “After all these years. The Sisters spoke Jackrabbit, of course.”

“Your mother, if that’s what she is, is there. She is that old woman sitting on the blankets by the door of the hogan there. I would be very careful. She can be as violent as the Nunshån.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Brownpony walked quickly toward her, then stopped a few paces away. The woman’s eyes were white with cataracts. But she had perceived his approach with her ears, her wrinkled mask facing him. “You are Texark?” she asked suspiciously.

“Only half,” he said in Wilddog. “Only half, Mother.” Calling her “mother” was a polite form of address; she did not need to take it literally.

But she stood. She spat on his face and his cassock. She was chewing a quid of herbs. Perhaps her aim was bad. She was nearly blind. Surely it was unintentional? But they had told him about her. Had they told her nothing about him?

The cardinal retreated. It was no good. He could not tell her that the man she faced without eyes was what had been planted in her by force and ripped unwelcome from her thighs, and that his hair was red. He knew she would not want to know him. She was a simple woman, but bitter. He could see the family, while royal, was not wealthy. But now that it was known to Chür Høngan and the chieftains that he was her son, the news would come back to her that he was here, if she did not already know. Surely she was expecting it. There was nothing he could do about that but tell the Nomad sharfs that he was willing to come to her if she called. He felt certain she would never call. Though depressed, he was glad he had seen her, and glad to think she did not know for certain.

“Your Eminence, please!” The voice calling to him from the doorway of a tent was that of Monsignor Sanual, the Texark Archbishop’s legate. The chubby diplomat seemed distraught. “Come in, please, Eminence, come in a moment.”

Although Sanual had nearly snubbed him earlier in the day, Brownpony silently complied, stooping to enter a lantern-lighted space, stuffy with earth odors and the smell of spilled sacramental wine. The wine too was on Sanual’s breath as he grasped the cardinal’s arm.

“They’re eating the old chief! I thought you would be staying in your tent tonight!”

“And miss the show?” He carefully recovered his arm from Sanual’s grasp. “The Archbishop’s legate may sulk in his tent if he chooses. The Pope’s legate may not.”

Sanual drew back. Both knew they were vying for the favor of the wild tribes and the new Christian chief who might soon unite the Three Hordes.

“You’d do anything!” said Sanual. “If His Holiness knew…”

“Look at it this way. My mother was a Nomad. The dead chief was a cousin of mine. The new chief is also a cousin. Remote, of course. But I’m not going to shun the last rites of my own people. Now what did you want to see me about?”

“Just that. Your relationship.” Sanual was sneering. “Ombroz told me you’ve been chosen to be in the kingship ritual!”

“I just saw Ombroz. He said nothing to me about it. Besides, you always turn your back on the man. I don’t believe you, Father. You’ve been drinking.”

“He shouted it at me! And that cackling laugh of his. Of course, he’s senile and quite mad, but I believe him. It’s so, isn’t it?”

“I have only been informed that, as a son of the royal mother-line, I am entitled to be honored during the celebration. The honor is personal, and has nothing to do with my office or my mission.”

“Then for the honor of God, Your Eminence, take off the vestments of your office when the time comes.”

“Are you here to express Texark’s disapproval of the Nomads’ pagan ritual, or are you here to honor the inauguration by them of a Christian chief?”

“I was hoping to do both, but I hadn’t counted on your willingness to take the Devil to your bosom. We ought to be together on this. For the love of God, Cardinal, tolerance has to stop someplace.”

“I was never a priest, Father, until just recently. I’m just a lawyer to whom my late lord the Pope Linus Sixth gave a red hat, and Pope Amen just made a bishop. Fine points of theology are not in my repertory.”

“Cannibalism is a fine point, Your Eminence?”

“I take note of your objections, Messér. I’ll mention them in my report to the Pope, as I am sure you’ll mention them in your report to your Archbishop. Is that all you wanted to see me about?”

“Not quite. There is a rumor that you were sent to assert a pretended episcopal authority over Churches in our missionary territory. Is this true?”

“Your missionary territory is not your missionary territory except by right of conquest, and no right of conquest exists except when a war is a just and defensive war. Pope Amen has made me Vicar Apostolic to the Three Hordes, if that’s what you mean, and it has nothing to do with your masters, either of them.”

“Damn! There is no pope! We agree on nothing! Not on common decency. Not even on saving the Church from schism!” Sanual turned his back. Brownpony left the legate’s tent at once, strode toward the main bonfires, briefly observed the orgy, and then retired.

But that night the blind old woman came and tried to kill him in his sleep. At his outcry, Oxsho leaped from his sleeping bag, grappled with her briefly, forced the knife from her hand, and led her away.

“She cannot be your mother,” the warrior said upon returning.

“She is. She just proved it.”

Cardinal Brownpony spent the rest of the night staring at the drifting patch of stars framed by the smoke hole in the top of the tent. He thought of Seruna, his wife. He thought of the Sisters who raised him, of the Church and the Virgin, and the Høngin Fujæ Vurn to whom the nearby pit was sacred. He knew now that he must indeed accept the ordeal of courting the Wild Horse Woman in her place of ancient fire. If he was to become the highest Christian shaman in the eyes of the People, he must become a Nomad as fully as Father Ombroz. The drunken words came back to him: Sometimes I take a piece of bread and consecrate it as the true body of Christ. Sometimes I take the true body of Christ and consecrate it as…

Somehow it sounded like a thing Amen Specklebird might say.

The moon had almost set when a dark shadow filled the doorway. Not his mother again! Oxsho was snoring. But it was Holy Madness who called softly to him: “Dress quickly, m’Lord. I want to show you the pit.”

Brownpony obeyed, but when they were outside, he asked, “Couldn’t we see it better by day?”

“No. If you must face the test, you must face it at night. Even full moonlight obscures the glow of the poison.”

They mounted the two horses Høngan had brought and rode quietly out of camp. The orange moon was just touching the horizon and there was little light, but the horses knew the terrain. The rim of the crater was a half hour’s ride from the camp. A sentry gave them a sleepy challenge as they passed the outskirts, but he recognized a grunt from his sharf and sat down.

When they came near the edge of the pit, the moon was down and there was scarcely a hint of morning twilight in the east. The pit was a lake of blackness, and they approached cautiously on foot. Holy Madness grasped the cardinal’s arm.

“Damn!” he said after a moment.

“What’s wrong?”

“The fire comes and goes. Tonight I can’t even see it.”

“I don’t even know where to look.”

“Look at the sky. Find the brightest star in the Thief and then bring your eyes straight down. There should be a tiny red spot near the center.”

“The Thief is a Nomad constellation.”

Høngan pointed. Brownpony sighted along his arm. “I think we call that Perseus. Yes, and that star must be Mirfak.”

They both sat at the rim of the crater and watched in silence. The only sound was the wind and the distant howling of the wilddogs. Occasionally Chür Høngan swore under his breath.

“Does it really matter?” the cardinal asked. “Can’t you show me by daylight?” He glanced east. The sky was brightening.

“It does matter. You should see it glow. You must take note of the wind, and stay out of its lee. Some nights you can see a trail of vapor, as well as the hole it comes from.”

“Isn’t it better if the fire is inactive?”

“Yes, but the whole pit is somewhat contaminated. The only vegetation in it is on the weather side of the average wind here. You should stay where the weeds grow, except when the wind is wrong. You can see what I mean in a few minutes.”

Their vigil lasted until the sun cleared the hill. The pit did seem lifeless, except for a little vegetation at the foot of a cliff. At the moment, the breeze was blowing away from it.

On the following day, the leaders of the Bear Spirit and Weejus met to consider Brownpony’s wish to pay court to the Høngin Fujæ Vurn in the Navel of the World and face the hidden fires of Meldown. The cardinal himself was excluded, but twice Chür Høngan emerged from the council lodge to ask a question.

The first question: “Will you treat the Great Mare with the same reverence as the Holy Virgin?”

“Yes, if I may say my usual prayers to her.”

An hour later came the second question: “You realize that if she rejects you, you will not be accepted as having any authority over Christian Nomads of any horde. Will you resign the office the Pope gave you?”

“If I live long enough to resign, yes.”

Høngan gave him a hard look and returned to the meeting. When it was over, the Wilddog sharf announced that the cardinal would spend Thursday night in the pit. Friday the Wilddog sharf Holy Madness would pay court to the Wild Horse Woman, and the Saturday’s vigil was for the Grasshopper sharf Kindly Light. The Grasshopper’s complaint was that of the three of them, only Høngan would have a full moon from dusk to dawn, but Holy Madness explained to him privately: “If you are familiar with the pit, so that you do not stumble into trouble in the dark, the moon is not your friend. You cannot see the hellfire by bright moonlight, and as you know, sometimes not even by dark. Clouds may cover the moon. Spend the day studying her breeding pit from every angle. When the wind changes, you will have to move.”

The following night he spent in the pit. Oxsho led him to the place of descent. The moon, nearly full, was in the east at sundown. He carried a blanket but no bedroll. Sleep would be dangerous, but a chill would settle over the area after midnight.

“My teacher wishes me to spend the night on the clifftop and keep a fire burning,” the young warrior told him. “I’ll hold up a torch when the wind is changing. Watch for the torch. Sometimes a light breeze may be hard to feel down there.”

“Is this permitted?”

Oxsho paused. “I won’t start it until everyone’s asleep, and behind this rock nobody’ll see it. And only Sharf Bråm might object. God and the Mare keep you, m’Lord.”

A wind that swooped down from the lip of the crater carried wisps of dust that dimmed the stars, but it was the dust of the prairie, not the pit. He chose aresting place in the sparse clump of vegetation where the dust of the devil’s hole would blow away from him. He was still very sad because of the encounter with the bitter woman whose womb had borne him against her will. He had been a son of violence and hate before his adoption by the Sisters, but his memory of the Sisters was tinged with resentment, except for Sister Magdalen (“Cries-a-River”), a former Jackrabbit Nomad who told him stories and made his education her special concern. Seruna, when he married, had reminded him of Magdalen. Now both were dead. When he passed through Jackrabbit territory to visit some of his Churches, would he visit the orphanage? And was it nostalgia or resentment that made him think of it? Better not, he decided. Neither emotion would benefit his ecclesiastical and political project.

After a while the cardinal began to pray, saying his rosary at first, and letting his eyes linger around the patch of darkness that marked the cave entrance under the moonlit ledge of rock. He spoke softly to the patch of darkness, but he still felt the sting of his real mother’s spit like acid in his face. He spoke now to that other mother of myriad names: Regina Mundi, Domina Rerum, Mater Dei, Høngin Fujæ Vurn, even the War Buzzard. Her manifestations were always associated with a place: Bethlehem, Lourdes, Guadalupe, and here at the Navel of the World.

“I was born in the south end of your realm, Mother, and I know your paths. Even there, where the People are servants of those who took your land, I have seen your ways. Miriam, mother of Jesus, pray for me.”

Oxsho held up his torch when a cloud covered the moon near the zenith. He could at last see a kind of luminosity above and about the hole at the center of the pit, and he moved a hundred paces away from the direction pointed out by the flame.

“Lord, have mercy. Kyrie eleison.”

Fortunately, the wind was at his back again.

“My mother was a woman of the Wilddog tribes, Mother; my father did evil to her, and to your people. Let him be dead, as she is now dead for me. Let me not find him, lest I kill him. Long ago, before I knew she was dead to me, her spirit told me to come here. I have not done as she wished. I have left the People. I have taken the religion the Sisters taught me. But at last I am before you, Mother.”

The wind was shifting a lot that night. He kept moving.

“Christ, have mercy. Christe eleison.”

He moved again to keep the wind at his back, taking his cue from the occasional torchlight, but he went on talking softly in the direction of the cave.

“My hair is red. His was red, she told them. The Sisters who took her in. The Sisters raised me. Miriam, Mother of Jesus, pray for me. If he were living, I would kill him. Ora pro me, Wild Horse Woman. Kyrie eleison.”

Once during the night, he actually saw her: a woman’s figure, black against the glow from the fire pit. Her arms were raised like wings. The Nunshån? No, the figure was young; the Night Hag was old. Because of the wings, she had to be the Burregun, the War Buzzard. But when he stood, she vanished.

Amen Specklebird spoke of her as if she were a fourth member of the Holy Trinity, and that was one of the excuses of the Benefez faction for refusing him recognition. A pope who could utter heresy was no pope. But he had not been pope when he said it. Would he say it still? No. Surprising to Brownpony was the ease with which the old man shifted into his papal role. A doubter would call it hypocrisy. A believer would call it the work of the Holy Ghost, protecting the flock against error.

How many popes were in Hell? he wondered. Dante had named a few, but the list was incomplete. The last pope before the Flame Deluge was surely one of them.

On that thought, he lapsed into slumber, for the moon had sunk below the rim of the pit. It was the brightness of the sky and the shouting of Oxsho that woke him. The wind had gone wrong. He grabbed the blanket and trotted as fast as he could toward the path leading upward. For better or worse, his trial was over.

“If you are sick within the week, you will die,” was the matter-of-fact first prognosis of the Weejus who talked to him. “If you do not die soon, you can expect a shorter lifetime. They told you this beforehand?”

“Of course, Grandmother.”

She questioned him closely. He told her about seeing the woman with upraised arms he had seen against the glow of the hellfire. She stared at him. After a long pause, she asked, “Do you know of the Buzzard of Battle?”

“I have heard of the Burregun.”

“The Buzzard of Battle is red in the sky.”

“She was not in the sky.”

The old woman nodded, and that was the end of the interview. She took her opinions with her into the council lodge. Later that day, Chür Høngan came to tell him that the Bear Spirit accepted him conditionally as Christian shaman. The condition was that he not fall ill anytime soon.

Brownpony saw little cause to celebrate. A messenger came from Valana to report that Jarad Cardinal Kendemin, Abbot of Saint Leibowitz, had gone to meet the Judge. A report also came that the Pope and his party were encamped in the no-man’s-land between Wilddog and Grasshopper domains. Holy Madness graciously offered to swap his appointment with the Høngin Fujæ Vurn for Kindly Light’s, so that Hultor Bråm could leave with his escort party of warriors on Saturday morning to meet Amen Specklebird and lead him to the frontiers of the Empire.

Brownpony decided to ride south with the warriors. Bråm, fresh from his encounter with the Mare, offered no objection.

Early Saturday morning, an hour before their departure, Cardinal Brownpony borrowed bread, wine, a missal, and a portable altar from Father Ombroz. It was his wish to celebrate a pontifical High Mass; it would be good politics and showmanship, but he could not sing well, and had said no more than a dozen Masses since his ordination. Monsignor Sanual stiffly declined his request to serve either as co-celebrant or acolyte. The Red Deacon looked at Ombroz.

“Will you hear my confession first?” asked the old Ignatzian.

“You have something recent to confess?”

Ombroz took his meaning, and shook his head in annoyance. He called instead for Oxsho, his own altar boy. Between them, they rounded up all Christians and invited all the Weejus and Bear Spirit people who wished to attend. The Vicar Apostolic to the Three Hordes offered a simple Mass there on the high prairie with the smoke of dung fires in the breeze and a congregation of wild Nomads circling the altar at a safe distance. Probably more people came forward to receive the Eucharist than there were Christians in the encampment, but he questioned no one. Those who looked surprised at the bland flavor of the Body of Christ were probably pagan shamans. Neither Sanual nor Ombroz came forward to receive. After the Ite, missa est, a cheer arose from the crowd, but he could not be sure who incited it. Obviously, he was accepted as the Christian high shaman of the People.

Monsignor Sanual was drinking again. He came out to watch them ride away, and called out to the cardinal that he was following a loser, that the false Pope would never enter New Rome, and that grief for the whole Church would follow.

“Thanks for your blessings, Messér,” the cardinal answered.

Hultor Bråm was not yet prepared to be a friend to a friend of his rival, but he had suffered a bad Friday night in the pit, and he knew that his report to the Bear Spirit council afterward had not been well received. Plainly, the Weejus had already made up their minds. He conceded to his warriors that unless Holy Madness experienced an even worse Saturday night in the Navel of the World, the office of Qæsach dri Vørdar would fall to the Wilddog sharf. At least the ancient office would be restored, reuniting the Three Hordes.

He noticed that Cardinal Brownpony had heard his remarks, and he gruffly asked the cardinal about his experience with the Mare.

“Were you accepted as her stallion the other night?” he wanted to know. “Did you see her at all?”

The cardinal hesitated. “I’m not sure what I saw. You spend hours staring at patches of darkness, you begin to see, but it isn’t there.”

“What is it that wasn’t there?”

“There seemed to be a woman between me and the patch of dim light. I can’t describe her. She faced me, and her arms were raised. Then she disappeared.”

“Like the Buzzard of Battle?”

“They told you that’s what I saw. I never said it.”

Bråm nodded. “If I had seen it, I would be Qæsach dri Vørdar now. But I am going to die soon.”

“Are you ill?”

“You saw the Buzzard of Battle. That is your future. They say I saw mine.” Bråm laughed and rode away. Later one of the warriors told the cardinal that the Weejus had decided that the Grasshopper sharf had met the Night Hag in the pit, although, the man said, the Weejus had prejudged the contest in favor of Holy Madness, provided he survived the pit, and that he personally did not believe that Bråm would die as a result of the pit.

The warriors were feeling playful. Bråm had promised them they would be well paid by the Church for performing this escort duty. Brownpony grew more uneasy about the promise each time it was mentioned. He had not spoken of money to the Grasshopper sharf. Perhaps someone else in the Curia had made the offer, or even Papa Specklebird.

He watched the warriors gamboling on the grasslands under the September sun. A man stood up on horseback. Another stood up, and chased the first rider so closely that he had to sit down fast or fall. There was whooping laughter. One warrior could slide down his stallion’s flank and crawl under his belly and up the other side. After he had done this three times, the horse began to have an erection. He crawled down a fourth time, took a look, and crawled back up. Somebody yelled a merry insult at him, and in a moment both were on the ground in a knife fight. Hultor Bråm came riding back, watched the deadly dance for a moment, then adjusted his tall leather helmet with his grandmother’s crest and the badge of a war sharf..

There was a splatter of blood, not a deep cut, but it brought an order to drop the weapons. “Finish it with your hands and feet,” Sharf Hultor barked, “or stop it right now. Hear me well! No killing! Not among ourselves. If you have a grudge against a comrade, save it until this war party gets back home.”

“Why does he call it a war party?” Brownpony asked the man who rode beside him. “It was meant to be an honor guard.”

“The Grasshopper is always at war,” declared the rider, and spurred his horse to distance himself from this farmer and red-hat Christian.