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t　or　flank。　The　women　they　carried　were　not　always　lucky　in　these　encounters。　Though　no　doubt　their　rescuers　intended　to　free　them；　it　was　often　the　case　that　they　perished　beneath　the　weight　of　their　violators；　as　the　dying　centaurs　rolled　over；　crushing　them。　Perhaps　there　was　some　moral　here…some　lesson　about　the　vulnerability　of　the　innocent　women　when　two　tribes　of　males　were　set　against　one　another；　but　the　artists　seemed　to　take　too　much　grisly　pleasure　in　their　depictions　for　this　to　be　the　case。　Rather；　it　appeared　to　be　done　for　the　pleasure　of　the　doing；　of　the　imagining；　and　of　the　rendering。　There　was　no　moral　from　one　end　of　this　world　to　the　other。
　
　
　 It　would　be　possible　to　go　on　listing　at　great　length　the　horrors　and　the　spectacles　of　the　scenes　laid　out　on　the　tile：　the　fields　of　dancing　demons；　the　fairy　races；　the　succubi　squatting　on　roofs；　the　holy　fools　draped　in　coats　of　cow…dung；　the　satyrs；　the　spirits　of　graveside；　roadside　and　hearth…side；　the　weasel…kings　and　the　bloated　toads；　and　so　on；　and　so　on；　behind　every　tree　and　on　every　cloud；　sliding　down　every　waterfall　and　lingering　beneath　every　rock：　a　world　haunted　by　the　shapes　of　lust　and　animal　lust　and　all　that　humanity　called　to　its　bosom　in　the　long　nights　of　its　despair。
　 Though　Hollywood…even　in　its　fledgling　years…was　presenting　itself　to　the　world　as　the　very　soul　of　the　imagination；　there　was　nothing　going　on　before　the　cameras　there　（nor　would　there　be；　ever）　that　could　pete　with　what　the　master　tile…painters　and　their　apprentices　had　created。
　 It　was；　as　Sandru　has　said；　the　Devil's　Country。
　
　 Zeffer　went　to　Brascov　to　hire　men；　at　prices　five　or　six　times　what　he　would　have　paid　locally；　because　he　wanted　hands　that　could　do　the　job　with　some　finesse；　and　minds　that　could　count　to　a　higher　number　than　their　fingers。　He　devised　the　means　by　which　the　masterpiece　could　be　removed　himself。　The　tiles　were　meticulously　numbered　on　the　reverse　sides　and　a　huge　legend　made　of　the　room　by　three　cartographers　he　had　also　hired　in　the　city；　so　that　there　would　be　a　meticulous　record　of　the　way　the　design　had　been　laid　out；　and　an　obsessive　accounting　of　how　the　tiles　were　numbered；　stacked　and　packed　away；　including　a　detailed　description　of　which　tiles　were　cracked　or　damaged　before　they　were　packed；　which　had　been　mislaid　by　the　original　tilers　（there　were　a　hundred　and　sixteen　such　tiles；　most　turned　ninety　or　a　hundred　and　eighty　degrees　by　an　artisan　too　tired；　too　bewildered　or　perhaps　too　drunk　to　realize　his　error）；　all　so　that　when　the　tiles　were　unpacked　at　the　house　in　Coldheart　Canyon　there　would　be　no　difficulty　reordering　them　into　the　original　design。
　 It　was　a　long　process；　a　total　of　eleven　weeks　were　to　pass　before　the　crated　tiles　were　finally　transported　from　the　Fortress。
　 All　the　work　had　drawn　much　attention　of　course；　from　the　brothers　themselves；　who　knew　what　was　going　on　because　Father　Sandru　had　told　them；　and　from　the　villagers；　who　had　only　the　vaguest　of　ideas　of　what　all　this　was　about。　There　were　rumors　flying　around　that　the　removal　was　being　undertaken　because　the　tiles　had　put　the　souls　of　the　Fathers　in　spiritual　jeopardy；　but　precise　details　of　this　jeopardy　changed　from　account　to　account。
　 The　vast　sum　of　money　that　was　now　in　the　possession　of　the　Order　did　very　little　to　transform　the　lives　of　the　priests；　apart　from　inspiring　some　of　the　most　embittered　exchanges　in　the　history　of　the　brotherhood。　Several　of　the　priests　were　of　the　opinion　that　the　tiles　should　not　have　been　sold　（not　because　of　their　merit；　but　because　it　was　not　wise　to　loose　such　unholy　images　on　the　secular　world）。　To　this；　Father　Sandru…who　was　more　often；　and　more　publicly；　drunk　by　the　day…offered　only　a　sneering　dismissal。
　 What　does　it　matter？；　he　said　to　the　plainers：　they　are　only　tiles；　for　God's　sake。
　 There　were　a　good　number　of　shaken　heads　by　the　way　of　response；　and　a　very　eloquent　riposte　from　one　of　the　older　Fathers；　who　said　that　God　had　put　the　tiles　into　their　protection；　and　it　was　cynical　and　careless　of　him　to　let　them　go。　What　damage　might　they　not　do；　out　there　in　the　world；　he　said；　what　hurt　to　innocent　souls？
　 Sandru　was　unmoved　by　all　this。　There　were　no　innocent　souls　in　Hollywood；　he　had　learned；　nor　was　there　any　sin　or　excess　painted　in　the　tiles　that　the　people　of　that　city　were　not　intimately　familiar　with。　He　spoke　with　an　authority　which　he　didn't　in　truth　possess；　but　it　sufficiently　impressed　the　brothers…or　at　least　a　greater　number　of　them…so　that　the　nay…sayers　were　finally　silenced。
　 There　was　much　debate　about　what　should　happen　to　the　money。　One　faction；　led　by　the　older　men；　believed　it　had　been　acquired　by　dubious　means；　and　the　only　uncorrupted　way　to　dispose　of　it　was　to　distribute　it　amongst　the　poor。　Surprisingly；　very　few　voices　supported　this　solution；　some　part　of　the　money　might　be　given　to　the　needy　in　the　village；　the　priests　agreed；　but　there　were　other　causes　that　should　be　attended　to。　There　was　some　lobbying　for　a　plete　removal　of　the　Order　to　some　other　place　than　the　Fortress；　a　more　fortable　place；　where　they　could　find　their　way　to　God　without　the　Devil's　shadow　falling　across　their　path。　It　was　Sandru　who　was　the　most　eloquent　advocate　of　their　staying　in　the　Fortress。　His　tongue　well　lubricated　with　wine；　he　explained　that　he　felt　no　sense　of　regret　that　he'd　sold　the　tiles；　it　was　a　once…in…a…lifetime　opportunity；　and　he　was　glad　he'd　taken　it。　Now；　he　said；　they　should　use　the　money　to　rejuvenate　the　place。　Get　the　hospital　up　and　running；　as　had　always　been　the　plan；　see　what　they　could　do　about　refertilizing　the　land；　so　that　the　vineyard　would　prosper　as　they　had　in　the　old　days。
　 〃Our　path　is　perfectly　dear！〃　he　said　to　the　brothers。　〃Whether　our　faith　in　the　Lord　is　secure　or　not；　we　can　heal　here；　and　we　can　grow　the　grape；　and　pass　our　lives　with　purpose。〃
　 He　smiled　as　he　spoke。　That　word…purpose…had　not　been　on　his　lips　for　many　years；　and　it　gave　him　pleasure　to　speak　it。　But　even　as　he　spoke　the　smile　started　to　die　away；　and　the　color　shrank　from　his　ruddy　face。
　 〃I　beg　you　to　excuse　me；〃　he　said；　putting　his　hand　to　his　belly；　〃I　am　sickened　by　too　much　brandy。〃
　 With　that　he　pulled　out　of　his　robes　the　bottle　from　which　he　had　been　drinking　since　early　morning；　and　set　it　clumsily　down　on　the　table　in　front　of　him。　Then　he　turned　and　stumbled　out　to　get　a　breath　of　fresh　air。　Nobody　went　after　him；　he　had　no　friends　left　in　the　Fortress。　His　old　allies　were　too　embarrassed　by　his　excesses　to　publicly　share　his　opinions；　fearful　that　his　behavior　might　reflect　poorly　on　them；　and　keep　them　from　advancement。　So　he　was　alone　as　he　wandered　giddily　through　the　ruins　of　the　dead　vines。　It　was　evening；　and　now　that　the　summer　was　past；　the　air　was　beginning　to　get　chilly。　But　the　sky　overhead　was　a　perfect　blue；　and　there　was　a　new　moon；　its　pallid　crescent　just　clearing　the　mountains。
　 Sandru　tried　to　let　the　sight　of　the　sky　and　moon　calm　him；　have　them　placate　the　pain　of　his　heart；　give　life　back　to　his　numbed　fingers。　But　the　trick　was　beyond　them。　He　realized　suddenly　that　this　was　not　a　spasm　brought　on　by　too　much　brandy。　He　was　dying。
　 The　Brothers　had　medicines　for　weakness　of　the　heart；　he　knew；　it　would　not　be　the　end　of　him　if　he　got　back　to　them　quickly　enough。　He　turned　on　his　heel；　attempting　to　voice　a　shout　of　alarm。　But　his　panicked　chest　would　provide　no　breath　for　him　to　cry　for　help。　His　legs　began　to　fail　him；　and　down　he　went；　face　first；　into　the　dirt。　He　tasted　the　soil　in　his　mouth；　bitter　and　unappetizing。　He　spat　it　out；　and　with　the　last　of　his　strength　he　pushed　himself　up　out　of　the　filth　and　let　gravity　roll　him　over。　He　could　not　move；　but　it　didn't　matter。　The　darkening　sky　overhead　was　spectacle　enough。　He　lay　there　for　six　or　seven　shortening　gasps；　while　a　star；　lonely　in　its　solitude；　brightened　at　his　zenith。　Then　he　let　life　go。
　
　 The　Brothers　did　not　find　him　until　the　middle　of　the　night；　by　which　time　a　frost　had　settled　on　the　old　vineyard；　the　first　frost　of　that　autumn。　It　glittered　on　the　bulk　of　the　dead　Father；　on　his　bulbous　nose　and　in　the　knots　of　his　beard。　It　had　even　inscribed　its　filigrees　on　his　unblinking　eyes。
　
　
　FOUR
　 There　was　no　hospital　established　at　the　Fortress；　then　or　ever。　Nor　was　there　any　attempt　to　replant　the　vineyard；　or　make　the　grounds　around　the　Fortress　in　any　way　flourish。　With　Father　Sandru's　passing　（at　the　relatively　tender　age　of　sixty…two）；　what　little　enthusiasm　there　had　been　for　change　withered。　The　younger　men　decided　to　leave　the　Fortress；　three　of　them　left　the　Order　entirely　and　became　members　of　the　secular　munity。　Of　the　three；　one…a　young　man　by　the　name　of　Jan　Valek　took　his　own　life　less　than　a　year　later；　leaving　a　long　suicide　note；　a　kind　of　epistle　to　his　sometime　brothers；　in　which　he　wrote　of　how　he'd　had　a　dream　after　the　death　of　Father　Sandru；　in　which　〃I　met　the　Father　in　the　vineyards；　which　were　all　burning。　It　was　a　terrible　place　to　be。　Black　smoke　was　filling　the　sky；　blotting　out　the　sun。　He　said　to　me　that　this　was　Hell；　this　world；　and　there　was　only　one　way　to　escape　it；　and　that