Читать книгу John o' the Green - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 7

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Some hours' travel brought him into the Debatable Land, this grim solitude the which lay between the three powers,--High Morven, the rocky fastness of Fulk Fitz-Urse to the southwest, Pelynt to the southeast and the wide kingdom of Gerance to the north. A stretch of dreary country this, that had too often echoed to the shock and din of furious battle, glowed with the flame of burning town and village, rung with screams of death and wailings of forlorn misery; a desolation and very wilderness, yet where sudden death was all too frequent, even now.

And here the highway, no longer trimmed wide for the better safety of travellers, ran crooked and narrow between dense, intrusive underbrush, whence lurking Roguery might spring or smite unseen.

Here and there as he rode John espied the blackened ruin of some poor hovel or goodly farmstead and once he passed, stooping, beneath the out-jutting branch of a tree wherefrom dangled four, twisted, ghastly shapes that had once been human. And, as he rode through this cruel waste, John hated war more bitterly than ever.

Now turning a bend in this evil road, he reined up suddenly since athwart his path lay an ass very recently dead, for its blood yet flowed; a plump, well-cared-for beast, though poorly harnessed, and dead of a dagger that stood yet buried in its throat. Even as he gazed wondering upon this animal, rose sudden fury of clashing steel at no great distance, and therewith screams and groans with deep, melodious voice that chanted prayers for the dying, albeit somewhat gaspingly.

John drew sword and, spurring thitherward, beheld a very tall, grey friar who battled with four men, a marvellous active friar who leapt and thrust, sang and smote, blow on blow, so mightily that the four, seeing John's great, bony steed rearing hard upon them, incontinent turned and fled. The gigantic friar made as to pursue them, but checked and, looking on John, reached forth his hand to bless, but--this hand was splotched with blood and grasped a notched sword that ran red from point to cross guard; and the friar beholding this, cried out and let it fall, and stood gazing down with eyes wide in horrified stare, for this bloody sword now lay across the huddled form of a man.

"Sweet Mother ... o' mercy ... dead!" gasped the friar.

"Indeed, reverend sir!" nodded John, pointing. "And yonder lieth another, very completely dead also. Dost wield potent blade, holy brother."

The tall friar groaned and falling to knees, threw wide his mighty arms and lifted agonized face to the blue heaven.

"Oh, pitiful Jesu!" he exclaimed. "Thou knowest I meant not this! Mother of Mercies--forgive! Two, Holy Mother, two dead by my hand, two souls sped to judgment all unshriven and ... for one small ass! So, Holy Mother, intercede! God of Forgiveness, judge them not hardly, these twain.... But as for me--alas, alas, my sin is grievous and my guilty tongue faltereth; therefore look Thou within my heart and know ... Mea culpa--"

His deep voice broke and he beat his breast with knotted, bloodstained fist. Now John saw him for comely man, albeit something past his first youth, whose face, though bowed in reverent meekness, wore a high and noble look; and presently, meeting John's friendly gaze, the friar reached forth hands in supplication.

"Oh, man," cried he, "pray for me! Oh, brother, implore the gentle saints' intercession for me a sinner!... I ... I that go up and down, preaching peace and brotherly love, am become once more a slayer of men."

"I pray thee, good friar, how chanced this?"

"Alack, 'twas for no more than an ass, a poor, silly beast that must needs fall a-braying, whereat out on me from the leafage started yon poor robbers ... they spat upon and beat me and this endured I in all humility; then one slew my poor beast with cruel steel, whereat I smote the slayer with my foot, the saints pity me! Then the Old Adam leapt within me and plucking sword from one of these poor rogues I, God forgive me--did so lay about me that, being woefully strong, I--" here, pointing to the dead, he covered his face, while John watched him, chin betwixt finger and thumb.

Quoth he:

"And yet, good brother, this was in clean fight. And these were doubtless rogues ingrain, viler they than any beasts so ever--"

"Verily, verily!" answered the friar. "Murderers were they, ravishers, men very bloody and without mercy, as I do know--nathless, have I sped them unassoiled of their so many and deadly sins! So, fellow-man, pray God ha' mercy on me."

"Nay," answered John, "rather will I thank God for thee that can withstand six. The world, this woeful world I guess is the better for thy doing. Thus would I praise God for the might o' thee--"

"Not so," sighed the friar woefully, "for the strength of a man is a vain thing! And, moreover, the gentle Lord Christ preacheth ever meekness--"

"And yet, good friar, once in a while betook Him to whip o' small cords!"

Now at this the friar looked up at John eager-eyed, viewing him with new interest.

"Hast read the Scriptures--thou?" he questioned.

"Even so," nodded John, "and have learned therein that our Lord Christ came 'not to bring peace but a sword.' So be thou comforted."

"A sword!" murmured the friar and rising, stood a while in troublous thought; quoth he at last:

"Messire, I am a very humble brother of Saint Francis, a begging preacher, Hilarion hight. Pray now who and what manner of man art thou?"

"In sooth, Brother Hilarion," answered John, smiling, "here is riddle none shall truly answer, methinks, save God. For I am a man in the making, each day, each hour something better or worse, stumbling ever on in darkness, yet guided by the stars of Hope and Faith and Charity, and they call me John."

"Alas, friend John," sighed the friar, "I likewise walk in this darkness--nay 'tis a red mist wherein my stars do shine very dim--in especial the star of Hope!"

"Then follow star o' Faith, Brother Hilarion, faith in God, His good will towards this sorrowful world, towards thee and thine own high destiny, since no creature liveth but to some purpose, I wot. So grieve not over this dead roguery; leave their souls to God and their rank carcasses to the wolves and seek ye how to aid and comfort the living--"

"Nay," cried Friar Hilarion, "how may I leave them thus shaming the very day, their dead eyes outstaring the sun? They shall be hid for that I may not bury them." So saying, he laid the slain side by side, composing them decently, the hands of each crossed upon his breast; then taking the sword, began cutting bracken wherewith to hide them from the bright sun glare.

"Smoke!" exclaimed John suddenly, snuffing the air and glancing keenly about. "I smell smoke!" The friar, bending to his labour, nodded:

"Scarce a bowshot hence was goodly village once, my son, but 'twas ravaged and burned ... folk do live amid its ruins even yet, such as be left of them ... in dens, holes in the ground ... like brute beasts, these that be children of God--"

Even as he spake a woman appeared, a fierce-eyed, ragged creature who, espying the two dead men, uttered shrill scream of hateful joy and came running and belaboured them with the staff she carried until Friar Hilarion leapt thither, taking her furious blows on his own body.

"Woman," said he gently, long arms outstretched, "harm not the dead; their souls be gone suddenly to God his judgment, so--hurt not their poor bodies!"

Now at this, the woman dropped her staff and wringing shrivelled hands, brake forth into bitter weeping:

"Oh, Friar Hilary ... good Friar Hilary," she sobbed, "we ha' prayed the saints for thy coming these many days.... And my little Wenna lieth direly sick and cries for thee, a doth.... But ha--for these dead beasts 'twas they and their like slew my goodman! 'Twas Rolf there dragged my Fenella screaming into the forest--"

"And I," groaned Friar Hilarion, shuddering, "I have sped them to God's judgment thus weighted by their black sins!"

"And my little Wenna wails for thee," pleaded the anxious mother, "my child needeth thee ... and there be others o' the folk sick and ailing ..."

"Ay," cried the friar, kindling eyes uplift, "I may yet serve the living, God be thanked! So, my sister, go thou and say I come with stores of herbs and medicaments to their comfort. Let them make a fire and boil water aplenty for my herbial infusions ... thy little Wenna shall be better anon, please God."

Then, while the woman sped away eager and joyful, Friar Hilarion covered the dead with pall of bracken, set the sword upright in the sod, like a cross above them and having prayed over them silently a while, came to his dead ass and began loosing off the two heavy panniers it had borne; whereupon down leapt John to aid him and together they hove and lifted, freeing the dead ass of the burden she was to bear no more; and the panniers proving heavy and cumbersome, John had them hoist to the back of his tall horse.

Now as they walked side by side, his steed's hammer head above John's broad shoulder, they talked together on this wise:

Friar: Sir, in this evil, most woeful world that yet, as I do think, the beneficent God meant for good and joyous world, 'tis right heartsome to meet with such clement sympathy, for the which may God requite thee, my son.

John: Holy Friar, in this good world that is evil but as we, poor, blind Humanity, so make it, 'tis right joyous thing to see Evil smitten hence and sin-blind eyes opened--e'en though it be by the bony fingers o' Death--

Friar: Nay prithee, peace--peace, here's small comfort to me, Jesu aid, to me that have slain my fellows two--

John: And yet these twain, mayhap, are by way o' being angels long ere we.

Friar: How? And they such ill livers, their sins un-confessed ... unshriven! So have I sent them through Purgatory headlong to hell--the saints pity me!

John: Ay, but what matter for this, good brother, if by the hard road of a harsh purgatory and deepest hell they attain paradise somewhen?

Friar: Alas, alas, for such unshriven is the fire everlasting.

John: Art thou more merciful than God?

Friar: Ha, such thought were blasphemy.

John: Yet thou wouldst save these from the torment of God's vengeance, whereto--for a few years' sinning--thy God would damn them for ever and ever.

Friar: Nay, God's ways are ... the ways of God.

John: And God being Spirit o' mercy, so are all His ways merciful. The which is, methinks, but reason.

Friar: God is above all human reason.

John: Nay, God, being omnipotent, is Reason! And man's deathless soul is of God, and no soul coming of God, though it be foul of a thousand sins and lost 'neath a very mountain of iniquity, but shall some day win back to God, sinful or no, since of God and from God man's soul cometh.

Friar: Alas, alas, here is blackest heresy--

John: Yet mighty comfort to despairing sinner!

Friar: Nay, but, the Holy Fathers, Saint Chrysostom himself teacheth--

John: Nay, brother, nay! These were but fellows finite, homuncules, sufferers and sinners, e'en as thou and I ... And yonder is thy woeful flock,--God pity them!

For they had come forth of the woods, out upon a level that had once been a pleasant village green, but was now a desolation surrounded by the charred ruin of croft and hutment, dismal ruins and ashy mounds whence crept voiceless children, women and aged men in misery of want, sickness and rags, a timorous, silent company that started and peered at every step with eyes haggard by memory of past terrors, but who now, beholding them, cried out:

"Friar Hilary! Friar Hilary! Oh, good Friar Hilary, the saints bless thee!"

"Aha, Friar Hilarion, good brother," quoth John, "think ye a merciful God hath no comfort in store for such as these, be they sinners or no? Yea, verily, I trow. Somewhere, somewhen, the woes and pains, the griefs and wrongs endured shall all be made up to them a thousandfold ... for God is just, I guess, and merciful. Meanwhile, to their present comfort here be monies,--nay, take them, man! And now, Brother Hilary, an we meet nevermore, I am the better, having met thee. So, fare ye well!"

"Alas, son John," sighed the friar, "thou art, I fear me, a heretic damned ... and yet ... God made thee my fellow and so ...grand merci for this rich alms ... the kind saints plead for thee, and--fare thee well! And, in mine heart, friend John, is small prayer that we may meet again."

Then John sprang lightly to saddle and, glancing back, saw the gigantic friar, a little child clasped to the comfort of his bosom, gazing after him very wistfully, the while, above those kneeling suppliants of his miserable flock, he raised one great, bloodstained hand in benediction.