The Scourge of God

"No, it's not odd at all," Ignatius said. "It's only to be expected. Why do you think our pagan friends"-he nodded towards them-"speak of their god as dying and reborn, and renewing the land with his blood?"

"Well, that's just a pagan myth!"

"Exactly. But the Passion and Resurrection of Our Lord are also myths."

At her shocked look, he went on: "But they are true myths. Myths that have become history; not in some timeless land of legends, but in a particular place and a specific time."

"Then why should people like the Mackenzies or the Buddhists get the… the same answers as we do from something that was real?"

"Because those events are so real that they cast their shadow forward and backwards through all time, whenever men think of these matters at all. Even if they are mired in ignorance, they will see.. . fragments of the Truth, as men imprisoned in a cave see shadows cast by the sun. Likewise, all men derive their moral intuitions from God; how not? There is no other source, just as there is no other way to make a wheel than to make it round. In Scripture, He tells us directly what He wishes of us… but simply by being, by being His children in His world, we hear a whisper of the logos, the divine Word."

He saw her frown thoughtfully. "That makes sense," she said, then smiled; it made her strong-boned face beautiful for a second. "Thank you, Father."

"I can't take the credit for the thought, but if the words reach you, my child, then I'm doing my job."

He sighed. "I find this place both strange and familiar. It is interesting, and it makes me long for Mt. Angel. Marvelous are the works of God-"

"-but none so marvelous as humankind," Mathilda finished. "Thanks, Father. I'd better get back to Rudi now. He overdoes it if he's not watched."

"Thanks for the help, Fred. It's mad I'd go, gibbering and ru

Frederick Thurston nodded and took a sip of the chicory. He'd grown up calling it coffee, just like everyone else in the interior, though traders from the coast reached Boise a bit more often than they did this far into the Rockies, and the real bean wasn't to be had at Ford's Khyentse Cowboy Bar and Grill for any price.

Right now it was crowded here; Ranchers in from the long valley round about, farmers from the foothills, militiamen in from patrolling on skis, enough to combine with the big fieldstone fireplace to make it comfortably warm. The air was thick with the scents of frying potatoes and grilling meat, of rawhide boots drying by the fire and sheepskin coats steaming on their pegs by the door and beer and fruit-brandy, and someone had put a cup of it in front of an image in a niche he supposed must be Khyentse.

The owner paused by their table: "Everything OK?" he said.

"Mr. Ford, it's like a breath of home, so it is," Rudi said with that easy charm Fred envied. "The monastery is a splendid place, sure, but-"

The i

He was a lean gray man who must have been striking once, and the staff in stables and kitchen were mostly his children and grandchildren; Fred remembered someone saying the owner had built the place with his own hands.

It sort of reminds me of the time I managed to get away and do that bar crawl with that guard corporal, Jerry, he thought reminiscently-it had been just after his sixteenth birthday.

God, I thought Mom was going to have a cow! Particularly when she heard about the girls. I'm glad Dad didn't ream the guy out too badly.

His father had looked like he was halfway between being angry and laughing, fighting to keep the grin off his face as the course of the evening's dissipation was revealed, right down to the women's underwear found in their possession.

Not that his father had been one to coddle the children He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, almost gasping as he saw that final glimpse again, Martin bending over Dad and No! he thought. I can't go on reliving that! I'm headed the other way and Martin can keep.

Instead he reached for his cup. Something clinked, and he saw Rudi Mackenzie pouring from a silver flask into it; he upended the oblong shape and shook the last drops free.

"There, that's the last of the Dun Juniper brandy. My friend Terry Martins Mackenzie makes it, and well he learned the art from his father, who was a brewmaster and distiller of note."

"Hey, I can't take the last of it!" Fred said.

"It's Yule, or nearly, the which is close to my birthday. The season for gifts-and you look as if you need it more than I."

The brown-ski

"Yeah, you don't look like you're going to fold up and blow away anymore," he said.

Though you still look like shit, frankly, he added to himself. Or like a ghost of yourself.

He had trouble co

"I'm feeling much better," the Mackenzie tanist said, with a flash of white teeth. "Which is to say, as if I'm only at death's door, not halfway through the Gate, screaming as my fingernails tear out while I grip the posts, sure."

"How's the shoulder?" Fred asked.

He'd be most concerned with his sword arm, in the other's place. "I'm practicing more sword work with my left hand," Rudi said matter-of-factly.

Then he shrugged at Fred's wince. "It's not so bad; I'm ambidextrous anyway."

"Really?"

"Nearly. Slightly. It's important to keep a positive attitude, my mother always told me."

They shared a chuckle, and Rudi went on: "And the strength is coming back, slowly; I'll have enough in the right arm for shield work, and enough control. It's the range of motion I'm having problems with, though the exercises the monks have me doing help."

"They've certainly got some good weapons instructors here," Fred said. "I've been learning a lot… and I had the best trainers in Boise."

He shook his head. "Sort of odd to think of Buddhists having a military school."

"Well, a lot of the followers of the Old Religion also had qualms about war training back before the Change, from what the oldsters say at times. But the survivors didn't," Rudi said. "From what the Rimpoche 's told me, there were monks of half a dozen different schools here when the day came, and some of them had always walked the Warrior's Way."

Fred frowned. "You know, it's odd… but in a way, Abbot Dorje reminds me of my father. Which is odd because they're nothing at all alike-Dad went to church sometimes, but he was never religious, really."

A waitress turned up with their food; a loaf of brown bread, butter, a platter of plump aromatic sausages hot and steaming and sputtering juices from cracks in their skins, beets with herbs, cabbage, some strong-tasting boiled green that looked like spinach but wasn't, glistening slices of pan-fried potatoes. Weather like this gave you an appetite; he spooned some mustard onto the side of his plate, butter onto the cabbage, and dug in. Rudi did likewise, eating more slowly, as if he had to decide to take each mouthful.

"Well, they're both men who gave everything to what they did-and gave everything to their people," the clansman said after a moment. "Sure, and the Rimpoche reminds me of my mother, but that's a more obvious comparison."