Saint Francis Read Free Page B

Have no fear of them! Take up your quill and write! But I immediately grew fainthearted once again. The Gospels, to be sure, were written by Holy Apostles. One had his angel, the other his lion, the other his ox, and the last his eagle. These dictated, and the Apostles wrote. But I. . . ?

    I had remained hesitant in this way for many years, carrying about your sayings faithfully transcribed one by one on skins, scraps of paper, the bark of trees. I kept repeating to myself, Oh, when shall I grow old? When, unable to walk any more, shall I settle down in a monastery and in the calm of my cell receive from God the power, Father Francis, to arrange your words and deeds on paper as a Saint's Legend, for the salvation of the world!

    I was in a hurry because I felt the words coming to life and jostling each other on the bits of skin, the scraps of paper, the bark of the trees. They were being smothered, and had begun to revolt in an effort to escape. I felt Francis too, felt him prowling outside my monastery, homeless and exhausted, his hand outstretched like a beggar's; felt him slip into the cloister, unperceived by anyone but me, and enter my cell. Just the other evening, as I was bent over an ancient parchment reading the lives of the saints, I felt someone in back of me. The north wind was blowing; it was cold, and I had lighted my earthenware brazier, the Holy Superior having given me permission to keep a bit of fire in my cell because I had grown old, and lost my endurance. The saints' miracles had encircled me, were licking me as though they were flames. I no longer touched the earth; I was hanging in the air. It was then that I felt someone in back of me. Turning, I saw Francis huddled over the brazier.

    "Father Francis, have you abandoned Paradise?" I cried, jumping to my feet.

    "I am cold, I am hungry," he answered. "I have nowhere to lay my head."

    There was bread and honey in the cell. I ran quickly in order to give him some and calm his hunger. But when I turned, I saw no one.

    It was a sign from God, a visible message: Francis roams homeless over the earth; build him a home! But once again I was carried away by fear. I struggled within myself for a long time and then, having grown weary, leaned my head against the parchment and fell asleep. I had a dream. It seemed I was lying under a blossoming tree with God blowing over me like a fragrant breeze. The tree was the tree of Paradise, and it had blossomed! As I gazed at the sky through the flowering branches suddenly a group of minute birds, just like letters of the alphabet, came and perched in the tree, one on each branch. They began to chirp, at first singly, one by one, then in pairs, then three together. Afterwards, hopping from branch to branch, they formed groups of two or three or five and twittered away ecstatically. The whole tree had become a song, a sweet tender song full of passion, desire, and great affliction. It seemed as though I were already deeply buried beneath the springtime soil, my arms crossed upon my breast, and that this flowering tree were issuing from my bowels, the roots invading my entire body and suckling it. And all the joys and sorrows of my life had become birds, and were singing.

    I awoke. I still felt the chirping within my bowels; God was still blowing over me.

    It was dawn. I had slept the entire night with my head on the parchment. Rising, I washed and changed to clean clothes. The bell was ringing for matins. I made the sign of the cross and went to the chapel, where I glued my forehead, mouth, breast to the floor, and received the sacrament. When Mass was over I scampered back to my cell, not speaking to anyone lest I soil my breath. I flew: angels were holding me up. I did not see them, but I could hear the rustle of their wings to my right and left. I took up my quill, crossed myself --

    And began, Father Francis, to record your Life and Times.

    May the Lord help me and be my guide! I SWEAR I shall tell the truth.