Enchanted Pilgrimage by Clifford D. Simak Page A

asked of Cornwall.
    â€œYes, your grace. It is an ancient tool. There are those who say …”
    â€œYes, yes, I know. There are always those who say. There are always those who question. I wonder why the hermit had it, why he kept it so carefully and passed it on at death. It is not the sort of thing that a holy man would prize. It belongs to the Old Ones.”
    â€œThe Old Ones?” Cornwall asked.
    â€œYes, the Old Ones. You have never heard of them?”
    â€œBut I have,” said Cornwall. “They are the ones I seek. They are why I am going to the Wasteland. Can you tell if they do exist, or are they only myth?”
    â€œThey exist,” the bishop said, “and this ax should be returned to them. At sometime someone must have stolen it.…”
    â€œI can take it,” Cornwall said. “I’ll undertake to see that it is returned to them.”
    â€œNo,” said Gib. “The hermit entrusted it to me. If it should be returned, I am the one—”
    â€œBut it’s not necessary for you to go,” said Cornwall.
    â€œYes, it is,” said Gib. “You will let me travel with you?”
    â€œIf Gib is going, so am I,” said Hal. “We have been friends too long to let him go into danger without my being at his side.”
    â€œYou are all set, it seems,” the bishop said, “to go marching stoutly to your deaths. With the exception of milady …”
    â€œI am going, too,” she said.
    â€œAnd so am I,” said a voice from the doorway.
    At the sound of it Gib swung around. “Sniveley,” he yelled, “what are you doing here?”

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    The bishop, when he was alone, ate frugally—a bowl of cornmeal mush, or perhaps a bit of bacon. By feeding his body poorly, he felt that he fed his soul and at the same time set an example for his tiny flock. But, a trencherman by nature, he was glad of guests, who at once gave him an opportunity to gorge himself and uphold the good name of the Church for its hospitality.
    There had been a suckling pig, resting on a platter with an apple in its mouth, a haunch of venison, a ham, a saddle of mutton, a brace of geese, and a peacock pie. There had been sweet cakes and pies, hot breads, a huge dish of fruit and nuts, a plum pudding laced with brandy, and four wines.
    Now the bishop pushed back from the table and wiped his mouth with a napkin of fine linen.
    â€œAre you sure,” he asked his guests, “that there is nothing else you might require? I am certain that the cooks …”
    â€œYour grace,” said Sniveley, “you have all but foundered us. There is none of us accustomed to such rich food, nor in such quantities. In all my life I have never sat at so great a feast.”
    â€œAh, well,” the bishop said, “we have few visitors. It behooves us, when they do appear, to treat them as royally as our poor resources can afford.”
    He settled back in his chair and patted his belly. “Someday,” he said, “this great and unseemly appetite of mine will be the end of me. I have never been able to settle quite comfortably into the role of churchman, although I do my best. I mortify the flesh and discipline the spirit, but the hungers rage within me. Age does not seem to quench them. Much as I may frown upon the folly of what you intend to do, I find within myself the ache to go along with you. I suppose it may be this place, a place of warriors and brave deeds. Peaceful as it may seem now, for centuries it was the outpost of the empire against the peoples of the Wasteland. The tower now is half tumbled down, but once it was a great watch tower and before it ran a wall, close to the river, that has almost disappeared, its stones being carted off by the country people to construct ignoble fences, henhouses and stables. Once men manned the tower and wall, standing as a human wall of flesh against the encroachments and the depredations of that