Enchanted Pilgrimage by Clifford D. Simak

very old.…”
    â€œYes, old,” said the bishop. “I remember him from the time I was a boy. He was grown then. Thirty, perhaps, although I don’t remember, if I ever knew. Perhaps I never knew. Even then he walked in the footsteps of the Lord. I, myself, at his age was a man of war, the captain of the garrison that stood on this very spot and watched against the Wasteland hordes. It was not until I was much older and the garrison had been withdrawn, there having been many years of peace, that I became a man of God. You say my old friend lived in the love of the people?”
    â€œThere was no one who knew him who did not love him,” said Gib. “He was a friend to all. To the People of the Marsh, the People of the Hills, the gnomes …”
    â€œAnd none of you,” said the bishop, “of his faith. Perhaps of no faith at all.”
    â€œThat, your worship, is right. Mostly of no faith at all. If I understand rightly what you mean by faith.”
    The bishop shook his head. “That would be so like him. So entirely like him. He never asked a man what his faith might be. I distrust that he ever really cared. He may have erred in this way, but, if so, it was erring beautifully. And I am impressed. Such a crowd of you to bring me what he sent. Not that you aren’t welcome. Visitors to this lonely place are always welcome. Here we have no commerce with the world.”
    â€œYour grace,” said Cornwall, “Gib of the Marshes is the only one of us who is here concerned with bringing you the items from the hermit. Hal of the Hollow Tree agreed to guide us here.”
    â€œAnd milady?” asked the bishop.
    Cornwall said stiffly, “She is under our protection.”
    â€œYou, most carefully, it seems to me, say nothing of yourself.”
    â€œMyself and the goblin,” Cornwall told him, “are on a mission to the Wasteland. And if you wonder about Coon, he is a friend of Hal’s.”
    â€œI had not wondered about the coon,” said the bishop, rather testily, “although I have no objection to him. He seems a cunning creature. A most seemly pet.”
    â€œHe is no pet, your grace,” said Hal. “He is a friend.”
    The bishop chose to disregard the correction, but spoke to Cornwall, “The Wasteland, did you say? Not many men go these days into the Wasteland. Take my word for it, it is not entirely safe. Your motivation must be strong.”
    â€œHe is a scholar,” said Oliver. “He seeks truth. He goes to make a study.”
    â€œThat is good,” the bishop said. “No chasing after worldly treasure. To seek knowledge is better for the soul, although I fear it holds no charm against the dangers you will meet.”
    â€œYour grace,” said Cornwall, “you have looked at the book …”
    â€œYes,” the bishop said. “A goodly book. And most valuable. A lifetime’s work. Hundreds of recipes for medicines that can cure the ills of mankind. Many of them, I have no doubt, known to no one but the hermit. But now that you have brought me the book, in time known to everyone.”
    â€œThere is another item,” Cornwall reminded him, “that the hermit sent you.”
    The bishop looked flustered. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I quite forgot. These days I find it easy to forget. Age does nothing for one’s memory.”
    He reached out and took up the ax, wrapped in cloth. Carefully he unwrapped it, stared at it transfixed once he had revealed it. He said nothing but turned it over and over, examining it, then laid it gently in front of him.
    He raised his head and stared at them, one by one, then fixed his gaze on Gib. “Do you know what you have here?” he asked. “Did the hermit tell you?”
    â€œHe told me it was a fist ax.”
    â€œDo you know what a fist ax is?”
    â€œNo, your grace, I don’t.”
    â€œAnd you?” the bishop