“No, child, no!” he said. “It is not to frighten you. This is the voice of God. Take one step after another and follow me into the church.” His arm was warm and strong around me, nudging me forward, and once again he kissed me in a soft, tingling manner on the cheek.
“Yes, Father,” I said. This was like the milk to me, as I have said, this affection.
The Cathedral was deserted; and I could hear the bell more distantly now, for it was high in the tower and made to echo off the mountains and not inside the church.
He kissed my face warmly again and pulled me into the chapel of the saint. It was cold, for there were not thousands of warm bodies within the Cathedral, and the dark winter was right against the glass.
“You are Ashlar, my son. There is no doubt of it. Now tell me what you remember of your birth.”
I didn’t want to answer. A horrid shame came over me when I thought of my mother crying in fear, when I thought of her hands pushing at me trying to make me go away from her, and my lips closing on the nipple and drinking the milk.
I didn’t answer him.
“Father, tell me who is Ashlar, tell me what I am meant to do.”
“Very well, my son, I will tell you. You are to be sent to Italy, you are to be sent to the house of our Order in the town of Assisi, and there to study to be a priest.”
I considered this but in truth it meant nothing to me.
“Now in this land good priests are persecuted,” he said. “Outside this valley are rebellious followers of the King and others, the rabid Lutherians and countless other rabble that would destroy us and destroy our great cathedral if they could. You have been sent to save us, but you must be educated and you must be ordained. And above all, you must consecrate yourself to the Virgin. You must never touch the flesh of a woman; you must forgo that pleasure for the glory of God. And mark my word, and never forget it, the sin with women is not for you. Do what you would with other friars. As long as God is served, so what? But never touch the flesh of a woman.
“Now this night, there are men ready to take you away by sea. They will see that you reach Italy. And then—when God gives us a sign that the time is right; or when God reveals His purpose to you directly—then you will come home.”
“And what then shall I do?”
“Lead the people, lead them in prayer, say the Mass for them, lay hands upon them and heal as you did before. Reclaim the people from the Lutherian devils! Be the saint!”
It seemed a lie, an utter lie. Or rather an impossible task. What was Italy? Why should I go?
“Can I do this?” I asked.
“Yes, my son, you can do it.” And then under his breath he said, with a wicked little smile: “You are the Taltos. The Taltos is a miracle. The Taltos can do miraculous things!”
“Then both tales are true!” I said. “I am the saint; I am the monster with the strange name.”
“When you are in Italy,” said the priest, “when you stand in the Basilica of St. Francis, the saint will give you his blessings and all will be in God’s hands. The people fear the Taltos—they tell the old tales—but the Taltos comes only once in several centuries, and it is always a good omen! St. Ashlar was a Taltos, and that is why we, who know, say that he comes again.”
“Then I am some being other than mortal man,” I said. “And you are wanting me to declare that I will imitate this saint.”
“Ah, you are very clever for a Taltos,” he said. “Yet you have the divine simplicity, the goodness. But let me put it this way to your heart which is so pure. It’s your choice, don’t you see? You can be the evil Taltos or you can be the saint! Would that I had such a choice! Would that I were not this feeble priest in an age when priests are burnt alive by the King of England, or drawn and quartered, or worse. In Germany this very day Luther receives his revelations from God while seated upon a privy and hurls excrement in the Devil’s face! Yes, that is religion.