Saint Francis (7 page)

He sprang up in bed, his face resplendent.

"And if nothing exists but the soul," he shouted happily, "if nothing exists but the soul, just think, Brother Leo, how far we can go! When the body is no longer here to hinder us, with one leap we shall be in heaven!"

I kept silent. My mind did not understand his words very well, but my heart understood them all. He continued:

"And I took this leap in my dreams--look, like this!" He thrust his arms vigorously up toward the sky as though they were wings. "When you dream, there is nothing simpler, nothing easier. But I shall also do it--you will see; yes, I've made the decision; inside me my mother's blood is crying out --I shall also do it now that I am awake. It will be difficult, very difficult. Brother Leo, I need your help!"

"I want to help you, Brother Francis, and I would with pleasure--but how? My schooling isn't worth mentioning, and my brain isn't very extensive either. The only thing I have is my heart, but what can you do with that? Poor thing, it's unhinged by nature, and proud as a cock, too, miserable beggar that it is! Better not place your trust in it. . . . So you see, how can I help you?"

"You can, you can--and quickly too. Listen: tomorrow I'll be able to get up. I want you to take my arm and support me so I don't fall. We're going to San Damiano's."

"San Damiano's!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "You know, today is Damiano's feast. Didn't you hear the bells?"

"Today!" exclaimed Francis, clapping his hands. "Then that's why . . ."

"What do you mean?"

"I had a dream; I saw him in my dream. Last night he came to me in my sleep. He was ragged, barefooted, leaning on crutches, weeping. I grew frightened and ran to help support him. 'Do not weep, Saint of God,' I said, kissing his hands. 'What has happened to you? You're in heaven, aren't you? Does this mean there is weeping even there?' He nodded his head. 'Yes, there is weeping even in heaven,' he answered me, 'but it is for those who are still crawling on earth. I saw you stretched out peacefully on your rich featherbed and felt sorry for you. Why do you sleep, Francis! Shame on you! The Church is in danger.'

" 'The Church in danger? But what can I do? What do you expect me to do?'

" 'Reach out your hands; place your shoulder against it. Do not let it fall!'

" 'I? I, Bernardone's son?'

" 'You, Francis of Assisi. The world is crumbling to ruins; Christ is in danger. Rise up, support the world on your back so that it does not fall. The Church has descended to the state of my little chapel: it is a tottering ruin. Build it up!'

"He grasped my shoulder and gave me a strong push. I awoke, terrified."

Francis bared his back.

"Look," he said. "You should still be able to see his fingermarks on my shoulder. Come close."

I went up to him, but immediately stepped back in terror and made the sign of the cross.

"Angels of God, defend us!" I murmured, trembling. On Francis' shoulder I could clearly discern several black and blue marks like fingerprints.

"They are Saint Damiano's fingers," said Francis. "Don't be afraid."

Then, a moment later: "Do you understand now why we are going to his church? It is ready to crumble. The two of us, Brother Leo, shall build it up with stones and cement; and we shall fill the extinguished sanctuary lamp with oil so that the saint's face may be illuminated once more."

"Was that all he wanted, Francis, all he instructed you to do? Or could it be that--"

"No, no, that was all!" said Francis, placing his hand over my mouth as though terrified I might go further. "Quiet! Let's begin with that."

I kept quiet, but my heart was throbbing. I sensed that this dream had been sent by God, that it contained a terrible hidden message. I knew that when the Almighty seizes a man He no longer has any mercy, but tosses the victim from peak to peak even if he break into a thousand pieces. That was why, seeing Francis rise joyfully from his bed, I was overcome by fear.

The next morning I found him already up. Leaning on his mother's arm, he was taking his first tentative steps throughout the house. With joyful, protruding eyes he had been viewing the spacious rooms as though for the first time --the carved trunks, the pictures of the saints on the triptych; and at this particular moment he was standing in the doorway which led to the courtyard and admiring the stone statue in the corner next to the street door, a representation of the Virgin of Avignon holding the infant God in her arms; also the well with its marble brim surrounded by the fragrant potted plants--basil, marjoram, and marigolds--which reminded Lady Pica of her beloved, sun-drenched homeland.

"Welcome, lion of God," he said with a laugh as soon as he saw me. "This is the lion that goes to the lambs and instead of eating them, asks for alms."

He turned to his mother.

"Mother, which of the Evangelists had the lion as his companion? Luke?"

"No, my child, it was Mark," answered Lady Pica with a sigh. "You go to church so seldom, how could you be expected to know!"

"Well then, I am Mark and here is my lion," said Francis, coming to my side and leaning on me. "Let's go!"

"Where are you going, my child?" the mother cried. "Don't you realize you're still hardly able to stand on your feet?"

"You need have no fears, Mother. I have the lion with me, don't you see?"

He took me by the arm. "In God's name!" he said, crossing himself and proceeding as far as the street door.

"Mother, what day is it today?"

"Sunday, my child."

"But what month, what date?"

"September twenty-fourth, my child. Why do you ask?"

"Go inside, Mother, take the triptych, and write on back of the painting of the Crucified: 'On Sunday the twenty-fourth day of September in the year 1206 after the birth of our Lord, my son Francis was reborn.' "

WHAT A DEPARTURE that morning! What were the wings that brought us through the narrow lanes of Assisi! We reached the Piazza San Giorgio, passed through the fortress gate and started along the road which leads down to the plain.

It was a perfect autumn morning. A light mist hovered above the olive trees and vineyards. The grapes hung down awaiting the vintagers, some clusters even touching the ground. The last figs were ripening to the consistency of honey upon the fig trees, above which the golden orioles circled hungrily. The olive trees were heavy with fruit, and a drop of light quivered on each tiny leaf. Below, the plain was still asleep: the tender morning fog had not yet risen. The fields were gilded with mown wheat, and between the stalks the last poppies glistened, dressed in purple like queens, each with a black cross at its heart.

What joy! How our hearts leapt! And not only our hearts, but those of the whole world.

Francis was unrecognizable. Where had he found such strength, such glee! He had no further need of my support, but led the way himself, singing troubadour songs in his mother's native tongue. As lithe and buoyant as an angel, he was viewing the world about him for the very first time.

Two sacred oxen passed, swinging their gleaming necks coyly to the left and right and licking their moist nostrils with rough tongues. They were spotlessly white, had fat, powerful necks, and were crowned with ears of grain. Francis was astonished; he halted to admire them, and held out his hand in greeting.

"What nobility!" he murmured. "What great warriors they are, these fellow workers of God's!"

Approaching them, he patted their wide, snow-white rumps. The oxen turned and gazed at him gently, benevolently, like humans.

"If I were the Almighty," he said to me with a laugh, "I would install oxen in heaven along with the saints. Can you imagine heaven without donkeys, oxen, and birds, Brother Leo? I can't. Angels and saints aren't enough. No, heaven must also have donkeys, oxen, and birds!"

I laughed.

"And a lion: you, Brother Leo!"

"And a troubadour: you, Francis," I said, and I stroked the long hair that flowed over his shoulders.

We started walking again. The downward slope aided us, and we began to run. Suddenly Francis stopped. "Where are we going?" he asked with surprise. "Why are we running?"

"But my young lord, aren't we going to San Damiano's? Have you forgotten?"

Francis shook his head. His voice now was bitter, melancholy:

"And I thought we were running because we had set out to deliver the Holy Sepulcher."

"Just the two of us?" I asked waggishly.

"We are not two," Francis objected, his face suddenly catching fire. "We are not two, we are three."

I shuddered. It was true: we were three. That explained why we felt so much joy and assurance. And it also explained the assault--because, so help me God, this expedition was not a peaceful one; instead, it seemed that war had broken out, that we were an army--the rich young lord and the beggar--and that with God in the lead we were running to the assault.

How many years have passed since then! Francis has risen to heaven, but I still have not been deemed worthy of quitting this life. I have grown old. My hair and teeth have fallen out, my knees have swelled, my arteries are as hard as wood. At this moment my hand trembles as it holds the quill; the paper is already smudged and covered with the tears that have been flowing from my eyes. But even so, now that I recall the departure that morning I feel like springing to my feet, taking my staff, and climbing up the hill to ring the bells and rouse the world. . . . Truly, Father Francis, you are right: there is no such thing as the body. The only thing that exists is the soul --it is in command. Rise up, my soul, recall that morning when we flew toward San Damiano's, and relate everything. Everything, without being afraid of cowardly unbelievers!

As we were running we suddenly heard the squeals and laughter of young girls. We quickened our pace and arrived at the ruins of San Damiano's. The walls were leaning outward; the yellow starwort had already embraced the stones, shifting them; the tiny bell tower had collapsed and its blocks still lay in the courtyard, the small, mute bell next to them. We heard laughter and shrill voices on all sides, but saw no trace of a human being. Francis turned and cast a look of surprise at me.

"The whole ruin is laughing. There must be angels here."

"And what if they're devils?" I asked. I had begun to grow uneasy. "Come, let's go back."

"Devils don't laugh like that, Brother Leo. They're angels. You wait here. I'll enter the church by myself if you're afraid."

"No, I'll come with you," I said, ashamed. "Brother Leo is not afraid!"

The door was hanging off its hinges. We crossed the grass- covered threshold and entered. Two pigeons darted out through the tiny windows and disappeared. At first we could see nothing in the half-light, but soon we made out a huge, ancient cross hanging above the altar, and on it we divined, we did not see, a pale body, floating buoyantly--like a ghost. At its feet stood the image of San Damiano, and a glass lamp, unlit.

We advanced slowly, with difficulty. The air seemed to be filled with wings.

"San Damiano is going to appear now on his crutches," Francis said softly. He wanted to display his hardihood, but his voice was shaking.

We advanced further. Through the narrow transom of the sanctuary we were able to perceive greenery: evidently the church's tiny garden. We smelled rosemary and woodbine.

"Let's go out into the garden," said Francis. "We'll suffocate if we stay here."

But the moment we were about to cross the threshold we heard panting behind the altar, and the rustle of silk clothes, or--as it seemed--of wings. Francis clutched my arm.

"Did you hear? Did you hear? It seemed to me like--"

But before he was able to finish his thought, three young girls dressed in white sprang out from the rear of the sanctuary, where they had been hiding, darted in front of us like three lightning flashes, leapt through the doorway, and flew into the courtyard, screeching.

There all three began to laugh. It seemed they realized how afraid we were, and wanted to tease us.

This disturbed Francis. Suddenly he too flew out into the courtyard. I ran behind him.

The girls saw us, but were not frightened. Apparently they knew Francis, because the oldest of the three blushed. As for Francis, he leaned against the doorpost and started to wipe the sweat from his face.

The girl kept coming closer to him. She was gay, ebullient; an olive branch laden with fruit crowned her hair.

Francis took a step backward: he seemed afraid.

"Do you know her?" I asked in a whisper.

"Quiet!" he answered. He was livid.

The girl gathered up courage. "Welcome to our humble home, Sior Francis," she said tauntingly.

Francis looked at her without answering, but his lower jaw began to tremble.

"This is San Damiano's house, missy," I replied in order to cover Francis' silence. "How long ago did you take possession?"

The other two girls approached slowly, their palms over their mouths in order to smother their giggles. They were a little younger--about thirteen or fourteen years old.

"This morning," answered the oldest. "We're going to spend the whole day here. This is my sister Agnes, and this is our neighbor Ermelinda. We've brought a basket of food with us, and also some fruit." She turned to Francis once more:

"If Sior Francis will be kind enough to eat with us, we welcome him to do so. He has come to our house; we shall offer hospitality."

"I'm glad to see you, Clara," Francis said softly. His voice was not playful, not laughing. It issued from deep within his heart of hearts, and troubled the young girl.

"We came to play," she said reproachfully, as though scolding him for having arrived just to spoil their pleasure.

"I didn't come to play; I came because I had a dream."

"Were you ill?" the girl asked. This time her voice was filled with hidden tenderness.

"I was ill before I fell ill," answered Francis.

"I don't understand."

"May God grant that one day you shall."

"Once I heard you singing; it was at night," continued the girl, not knowing what to say any more, or how to find a pretext to prolong their chance encounter.