Jack McDevitt: A Talent for War

"Back there." Mikel pointed toward a section shaded by ancient trees. Scott walked down the rows of plain white markers, and it struck him that this was probably the first time in his adult life that he’d visited a graveyard and not succumbed to gloomy imaginings about his own mortality. Something more important today.

"Here, sir." The novice stopped by a marker utterly undistinguishable from the others. Scott approached it, and read the inscription:

Jerome Courtney

Died 11, 108 A.D.

Scott checked his commlink. The date equated to 1249 on the Rimway calendar. Forty years after the war! Tears filled his eyes, and he went down on one knee.

The grass rippled in the warm afternoon breeze. Water was moving somewhere, and voices floated in the sunlight. He was overwhelmed by the timelessness of the place.

When he recovered himself, and got back to his feet, Mikel was gone. A man stood in his place, bearded, stocky, wearing the flowing white cassock of the Disciples. "I am Father Thasangales," he said, offering his hand. It was large and bony, roughened by labor.

"Do you know who he was?" Scott asked.

"Yes. The abbots have always known. I’m afraid the bishop knows too. But that was necessary."

"He was here forty years," Scott said, astonished.

"He was here periodically for forty years," said Thasangales. "He wasn’t a member of the Order. Nor even of the Faith, for that matter; although there is evidence that he sympathized strongly with the Church." The Abbot gazed wistfully at the far hills. "According to the accounts we have, he came and went quite frequently. But we are pleased to know that St. Anthony’s was his home."

"Do you have any documents? Did he make any statements? Did he explain what happened?"

"Yes." The Abbot drew his arms together, and looked pleasantly up at the taller man. "Yes, we have several documents of his, manuscripts really. One in particular appears to be an attempt to systematize the rise and fall of civilizations. He has, I believe, gone considerably further in the matter than anyone else. There are also several histories, a series of philosophical essays, and a memoir."

Scott’s breath caught in his throat. "You have all this? And you never let the world know?"

"It was his request. Do not give any of it to them, he said, until they come and ask. " He peered intently into Scott’s eyes. "I presume that hour has arrived."

Scott drew his fingers across the gravestone. Despite the coolness of the afternoon, it felt warm. "I believe I’ll take that room you offered. And, yes, I’d be interested in seeing what he has to say."