We set out, marching in silence. His lips bolted shut, Francis gazed at the ground, plunged in thought. As for me, I stared goggle-eyed all around me. The world seemed so unbelievably large! Here, thousands of miles from Assisi, countless souls lived in sin, never even having heard of the name of Christ. How were we going to be able to preach God's word to all these souls? Life was short; we would never have the time. With the world so limitless, where were we to begin?
The sand stretched out before us. Strange birds, red, with white bellies, passed overhead. At our backs was the tumult of the Moslem city, ahead of us, behind the sand dune, trumpets and the whinnying of horses. At last we were nearing the Christian host that for months and months had encircled the infidel city.
Suddenly Francis halted. "Brother Leo," he said to me, "when (and if) we return to our homeland, I am going to beg each poor man I meet to give me one patch to use for my robe. The Sultan was right."
"We had a narrow escape, Brother Francis."
"We lost one opportunity to enter Paradise," was his reply. By this time we had climbed to the top of the dune. Stretched out beneath us, multicolored and tumultuous, were the myriad forces of Christ.
I prefer not to remember those days, those months. The din still haunts my mind, making me giddy. And the filth, the brazen songs, the cursing we heard when we reached the plain where the crusaders had pitched their tents! Poor Francis had to block his ears. Was this, then, what the soldiers of Christ were like? They spoke of nothing but the looting they were going to do, the women they were going to enslave, the Saracens they were going to slaughter. The name of Christ never crossed their lips. It is impossible for me to remember how many weeks we remained with them. Every day Francis stepped up onto a stone and preached about the Holy Sepulcher and God's mercy. The crusaders went by, some not even bothering to turn and look, while others stopped, but only to laugh or to throw a handful of sand at him.
The battle recommenced. The Christians charged the battlements and towers, scaled them, vaulted into the city-- and the pillage and slaughter began! Francis ran among the soldiers of Christ and exhorted them with tearful eyes to be merciful, but they drove him away, jeered him, and continued to break down the doors of the houses. How can I ever forget the cries of the women and the groans of the men they slaughtered! The blood ran in rivers; wherever you turned you stumbled over a severed head. The air was thick with moans and wailing.
The face of the sky had filled with smoke from the houses and human bodies that were burning. The heat was stifling, the earth seething. Christ's labarum fluttered above the Sultan's palace, but the Sultan himself had leapt onto a fast horse and managed to escape, leaving behind him his women and possessions. Francis knelt in the palace doorway and implored God to avert His eyes from Damietta so that He would not see what His soldiers were doing below on earth.
"Lord," he shouted, the tears streaming down his cheeks, "man becomes a beast amid the blood of war, a bloodthirsty beast. He loses the faces Thou gavest him and becomes a wolf, a filthy pig. Take pity on him, Lord; restore to him the face of man--Thy face!"
The old and infirm had been crowded into a mosque. Francis remained among them, uttering words of comfort. Disease had blinded many of them; blood and pus oozed from their eyes. Bending down, Francis placed his hands over their eyelids and besought God to heal them. "They too are men, Thy children," he murmured. "Have pity on them!" He blew on their eyes and whispered words of comfort and love--until finally one day he caught the disease himself and his eyes became inflamed and started to burn. His sight grew dim; he could no longer see well enough to walk, and I had to hold his hand and lead him.
One day I said to him: "I told you the disease would attack you if you went near them, Brother Francis!"
"You are extraordinarily prudent, Brother Leo," he answered me. "What you say is sensible, but to a fault. In other words, you still cannot take the leap, can you? Are you going to continue to walk on the ground forever?"
"What leap, Brother Francis?"
"The leap above your own head, into the air!"
No, I was unable to take this leap, nor would I be able to ever. I had taken only one leap in my life, and that was when I had decided to follow Francis. Another was too much for me. . . . Every time I think of this leap I rejoice that I took it, and yet at the same time I constantly regret it. Alas, I never was the type for sainthood. . . .
"The world is terribly large, Brother Leo," Francis said to me on another occasion. "Behind the Saracens are the Negroes, behind the Negroes the savage cannibal tribes, and behind them a limitless ocean, one that you can walk on because it is frozen. How will we ever succeed, ever have time to preach the good news everywhere, the news that Christ came to the world?"
"Do not fret, Brother Francis: Time itself will succeed; Time will have time for all."
"Time . . . Time . . ." murmured Francis. "But we won't be here."
"You'll be watching from up in heaven, Brother Francis; you'll be working, seated astride Time." Francis sighed. "Brother Leo," he said, "there was once an ascetic who died, mounted to heaven, and fell deep into God's embrace. He had found the perfect beatitude. One day, however, he leaned out so that he could see the earth below him, and when he did this, he spied a green leaf. 'Lord,' he cried, 'Lord, let me leave, let me touch the green leaf once again!' Do you understand, Brother Leo?"
His words frightened me, and I did not answer. Alas! it was true: the power of the green leaf was as great as that!
Summer went by; autumn arrived.
"When are we going to leave, Brother Francis?" I asked. "It's autumn; I'm anxious to return to the cradle where we were born. This is another world; perhaps there is even another God here. Come, let's go away."
"Brother Leo," he answered me, "when two roads lie before you and you want to choose, do you know which is the best, which is the one that leads to God?"
"No, Brother Francis. Tell me."
"The most difficult, the steepest. Our life here is hard; therefore, let's stay."
He went about all day preaching, but no one bothered to listen. The mind and thoughts of all were on the prospect of looting Jerusalem.
"And Christ, don't you think of Christ, my brothers?" Francis shouted in desperation. "It was to deliver His tomb that you journeyed from the ends of the earth; it was for His tomb, the Holy Sepulcher!"
But they had long ago begun to treat him as a laughingstock. They would drag him by his robe, throw stones at him, die laughing whenever he appeared on the streets ringing his ram's bell; and he in turn, overjoyed that he was being humiliated by men, would laugh along with them and commence to dance and preach in the middle of the streets.
"I am God's buffoon, men's buffoon. Come to laugh, my brothers, come to laugh!"
One day at noontime we lay down beneath the shelter of a doorway. The sun was out in full force; we were tired, and we quickly fell asleep. Suddenly, while I was sleeping, I heard Francis jump up and begin to shriek. When I opened my eyes I screamed as well, for two crusaders had laid a naked prostitute down at Francis' side in order to amuse themselves. The moment the brazen woman threw her arms around his neck he had sprung to his feet, quaking. Now the hussy was holding her arms out to him invitingly.
"Come, come," she cooed in a sweet voice. "Come, I am Paradise. Enter!"
Francis placed his hands over his eyes so that he would not see her. But suddenly his soul took pity on the woman.
"My sister," he said, "Sister Prostitute, why don't you want to save your soul? Do you feel no pity for it? And your body that has been surrendered to men for so many years: do you feel no pity for that? Allow me to place my hands upon your head and pray God to have mercy on you!"
"All right, place your hands on my head and start your incantation," she said amid paroxysms of laughter. "Call your God to come down and perform his miracle."
Francis placed his palms on the black unbraided hair, and raised his eyes to heaven. "Christ," he whispered, "Thou who descendest to the world for the poor, for sinners, for prostitutes, take pity on this woman, this naked woman. Her heart, deep within her, is good, but she has chosen the evil road. Extend Thy hand and guide her to the path of salvation."
The woman had shut her eyes. Little by little her face began to sweeten: surely she must have felt Francis' holiness descend from his hands into her brain, and thence to her heart, her bowels, her very heels. Suddenly, abruptly, she began to weep. Francis drew his hands away and traced the sign of the cross above her naked body.
"Do not weep, my sister," he said to her. "God is good; He forgives. Remember what He said to the prostitute when He was here on earth: 'Your sins are forgiven, for you have loved much.' "
The two soldiers had been standing off to one side all the while, guffawing. Now they began to whistle at the woman and taunt her. But she quickly gathered up her garment from the ground, wrapped it tightly around her body, and fell at Francis' feet.
"Forgive me, for I have sinned," she cried. "Don't you have a convent for me somewhere? Take me with you!"
"My sister, the whole world is a convent. You can live chastely in the world as well as out of it. Go, lock yourself in your house and have no fears. The Lord is with you!"
Winter bore down upon us. The army broke camp and departed for Jerusalem. Scattered clouds were visible in the sky. Flocks of crows followed God's host by day, packs of hyenas by night, and we ran behind as well. I held Francis by the hand: his eyes had grown smaller and smaller until they were but two narrow violently inflamed slits. A mist had settled over them, and the world had become dark.
On the morning of the third day he collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.
"I can't continue, Brother Leo. I want to go right to the limit, but I can't. . . . Look!"
He showed me his feet. Blood was flowing from them, and also a yellow fluid.
He sighed. "And as though these wounds weren't enough, Brother Leo, new devils have entered me!"
I dared not question him. I had a premonition which these new devils might be, and I held my tongue.
We were surrounded by endless sand. The army had disappeared. At the edge of the desert the clouds had thickened and the sun grown dim. The sea was to our left, glittering in the distance. Bending down, I raised Francis onto my shoulders--he had fainted--and began to stagger with panting breaths toward the sea. It was midday when we finally reached the coast. A boat with a black cross painted on the stern had cast anchor, its becalmed sails hanging limp and useless. Two or three fishermen were drawing their nets onto the shore; there were a few huts built of cow dung or bricks and straw; and beyond, blue-green, the limitless sea. I laid Francis down on the beach and sprinkled him with sea water. He raised his eyelids.
"The sea?" he asked longingly. "The sea?"
"Yes, Brother Francis, the sea. We're going home."
He did not speak, did not object. Leaving him, I ran near the boat and called for the captain. As soon as he came I fell at his feet and implored him, hugging his knees:
"If you're returning to our country take us with you! We have nothing to pay our fare with, but God shall repay you."
"When?"
"In the next world, the real world."
"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!"