Rescue Dog of the High Pass

by Jim Kjelgaard

  6: FATHER BENJAMIN

  Swinging the pack on his shoulders with an ease born of long practice,Franz turned to look down the slope he had just climbed. Bearing asimilar pack, Caesar turned with him.

  Only the memory of his mother's tears when they exchanged theirfarewells kept Franz from shouting with joy. This was far and away themost fascinating experience of his life.

  The route, as explained by Father Paul, had proven absurdly simple.Franz must go to Bourg and follow the Valley of the River Drance. Afterthat, he couldn't possibly get lost, for the only path he'd find musttake him over St. Bernard Pass. But the way had proven anything exceptroutine or monotonous to Franz.

  Leaving the hardwoods, the forest with which he was most familiar, hehad entered, and was still in, a belt of evergreens. He laughed happily.

  Jean Greb, who by no means lacked imagination, had once told Franz thatto see one tree was to see all trees. But that great spruce only a fewyards down the path, whose wide-spreading branches allowed room fornothing else, was very like--Franz stifled the thought that the greedyspruce might be compared to greedy Emil Gottschalk, for it ill-befittedanyone to think badly of a human being who was already in enoughtrouble. But the spindly larch whose summer needles were just beginningto grow back was remarkably like Grandpa Eissman, with his stragglinghair and stubble of beard. The fat scotch pine, that seemed to hold itsmiddle and laugh when the wind shook it, might well be fat and jollyAunt Maria Reissner. The knobs on the trunk of a young pine remindedFranz strongly of knobby-kneed young Hertha Bittner.

  Franz turned to go on, thinking that Jean Greb was wrong and that alltrees were not alike. They differed as greatly as people. Probably everyperson in the world had his or her counterpart in some tree.

  A bustling stream snarled across the path, hurried down the slope and,as though either bent on its own destruction or in a desperate hurry tokeep its rendezvous with the sea, hurled itself over a two-hundred-footcliff. Foam churned up in the pool where it fell and the sun, shiningthrough it, created a miniature but perfect rainbow.

  Franz stopped for a long while to watch, for in such things he founddeep pleasure. Then he and Caesar leaped the stream and went on.

  It was noticeably colder than it had been at the lower altitudes andFranz recalled Grandpa Eissman's explanation for Alpine temperatures.Pointing to a ledge a bit less than three thousand feet up the side ofLittle Sister, he had said that, when warm summer reigned in Dornblatt,autumn held sway there. Since sixty degrees was regarded as summer inDornblatt, and thirty-two degrees, the freezing point, might reasonablybe considered autumn, it followed that the temperature droppedapproximately one degree for each three hundred feet of altitude.

  But Franz did not feel the cold. This was partly because, sometimes insteep pitches and sometimes in gentle rises, the path he followed wentsteadily upward. Excited anticipation added its own warmth, so thatpresently he removed his coat and tied it to the pack.

  In the late afternoon, they emerged from the evergreen forest into theAlpine region. This was where the cattle found rich summer pasturage,and where thrifty Swiss farmers cut much of their hay. Here were stuntedpines, juniper, dwarf willows and millions of narcissuses and crocusesin full bloom. High on the side of a rocky crag, Franz spied a sprig ofedelweiss and was tempted to climb up and pluck it. But the day waswasting fast and the climb up the crag might be more difficult than itappeared. Spending the night on the face of the crag would mean a coldcamp indeed. It would be wiser to go on to the rest hut.

  The sun was still an hour high when he reached it, a rock and log hut alittle ways from the path. Franz opened the door, dropped his pack andremoved Caesar's. Then, with the mastiff padding beside him, he startedinto the meadow, carrying the small hatchet that was a parting gift fromhis father.

  There was wood already in the hut. But it was not only possible butprobable that some wayfarer too exhausted to cut his own wood mightreach the shelter, and to find fuel at hand would surely save a life.Able-bodied travelers were obligated to gather their own.

  But so many wayfarers had come this way, and so many seekers of fuel hadgone out from the hut, that Franz had to travel a long distance beforefinding a tree, a small pine whose withered foliage proved that it wasdead, so suitable for firewood.

  Bracing his back against a boulder, the boy pushed the tree over withhis foot rather than cut it, for the dried trunk broke easily. Hechopped out the remaining splinters with his hatchet and, dragging thetree behind him, started back toward the hut.

  He was still a considerable distance from it when Caesar, who had beenpacing beside him, pricked up his ears and trotted forward. The doglooked fixedly in the direction of the structure. Coming near, Franz sawthat he was to have a companion.

  The newcomer was a tall, blond young man, wearing the garb of anAugustinian monk. Since he was in the act of divesting himself of thepouch wherein he carried food and other necessities of the road,evidently he had just arrived. He looked up, saw Franz and Caesar, andhis white teeth flashed as he smiled.

  "Hello, fellow travelers!" he called cheerfully. "I am FatherBenjamin."

  More than a little overawed because he was to share the hut with suchdistinguished company, Franz said, "I am Franz Halle and this is my dog,Caesar. We are pleased to have you with us."

  Father Benjamin laughed. "I am sure the pleasure shall be mine.Hereafter, I may truthfully say that I shared a hut with Caesar. Ifyou'll wait a moment, Franz, I will bring my portion of the wood."

  Franz said, "This is enough for two."

  "So I am to be your guest?" Father Benjamin asked. "I am indeedhonored." He looked keenly at the boy. "Aren't you a bit young to travelthis path with only a dog as companion?"

  "I must travel it," Franz told him. "I go to the Hospice of St. Bernard,where I am to become a _maronnier_."

  "A _maronnier_, eh?" Father Benjamin asked. "And what inspired you tobecome such?"

  "I am too stupid to be anything else," Franz answered.

  Father Benjamin's laughter rang out, free as summer thunder and warm asa June rain. Puzzled, Franz could only stare. After a bit, the monkstopped laughing.

  _He saw Franz and Caesar.... "Hello, fellow travelers!"he called cheerfully. "I am Father Benjamin."_]

  "I do crave your pardon!" he said. "But it is rare to receive such anhonest answer to a well-intended question. Nor do I think you arestupid, young Franz Halle. Those who are never say so. Surely you areclever in some ways?"

  "I can cut wood, climb mountains, get about on snow and work withCaesar," said Franz.

  Father Benjamin said gravely, "Then you are surely coming to the rightplace."

  Franz began taking bread, cheese and cakes from his pack. "What does_maronnier_ mean?" he asked.

  "Moor," replied Father Benjamin. "The Moors are a warlike people from afar country. They robbed and stole, and one of the finest places to doso, since many travelers must go through it, was the Pass of St.Bernard. When our sainted Bernard first came this way, he was merelyBernard de Menthon, a youth not yet in his twenties. He and those withhim found the Pass held by a group of Moorish bandits, whose chief wasnamed Marsil. Bernard, most devout even then, held his crucifix erectand put the entire band to flight."

  "With a crucifix alone?" Franz asked incredulously.

  "It is thought by some that the clubs and axes carried by Bernard andhis party and wielded with telling effect on Moorish skulls, helpedout," Father Benjamin admitted, "but we like to believe that his faithand courage are what counted most. Bernard went on into Italy, where indue time he became Archbishop of Aosta. Travelers through the Passcontinued to tell of Moorish bandits, so Bernard returned to rout them."

  "And did he?" Franz asked breathlessly.

  "He did indeed," answered Father Benjamin. "But other tales were alsocoming out of the Pass. They were stories of travelers who died in theterrible storms that rage across these heights in winter, and there werea great many such unhappy tales. Bernard determined to build a hospice,a sh
elter for all who needed it, at the very summit of the Pass. TheMoors, led by the same Marsil whom Bernard had previously defeated, knewthey could never prevail against such might. So rather than fight himagain, they chose to become Christians and join Bernard. Since theycould not be priests, they became lay brothers, or _maronniers_."

  "It is a wonderful story!" Franz gasped.

  Father Benjamin said seriously, "One of the most wonderful ever told.This Pass has been in use since mankind began to travel. The Romanlegions used it to invade Gaul. Hannibal took his army through it toinvade Italy. Countless others have traveled through it, and countlesspeople still do and will. We who are charged with its keeping considerit the finest privilege of all to serve at the Hospice of St. Bernard."

  "What is it like?" Franz asked.

  "It is cold, my young friend," replied Father Benjamin. "There arewinter days of fifty below zero. Snow in the Pass lies forty-five feetdeep. The wind blows constantly and fiercely and shifts the snow aboutso that the entire landscape may change from one day to the next.Sometimes there is a complete change in an hour, or even minutes. Somemight think it the most miserable life imaginable, but we who serve atthe Hospice know it is the finest!"

  "How long will you be there?" Franz asked.

  Father Benjamin told him, "Even though only men born to the mountainsand skilled in mountain arts are chosen for service at the Hospice, andeven though our spirits may be strong, the bodies of the strongestcannot endure the trials we must face for more than twelve years. Butduring those years, and quite apart from ministering to souls, all of ussave lives. That is our reward."

  Franz asked, "Do you save everyone?"

  "Unfortunately, no," said Father Benjamin. "Many are still lost. But inthe more than seven centuries that have passed since Bernard de Menthonerected the Hospice, an army of people who otherwise would have beenvictims of the snow have lived to return to their loved ones and carryon constructive work."

  "Do travelers use the Pass all winter?" Franz continued his eagerquestioning.

  "Indeed they do," Father Benjamin assured him. "The path is open to thenext rest house, where we shall sleep tomorrow night, and travelers maysafely make their own way that far. From there on to the Hospice, somefive miles, is the real danger area. There is another rest house fivemiles down the south slope. When possible, which is when the weather isnot so bad as to make it impossible, one of us visits each rest houseevery day. Such wayfarers as may be there are then guided to the Hospiceand, of course, on down to the next rest house."

  Franz asked, "What is your greatest difficulty?"

  "Choosing a safe trail," Father Benjamin declared. "I've spoken of thefierce winds and shifting snows. Each time we go down to a rest house,we face an entirely different landscape, where a misstep might well meandeath to us and those we guide. But come now, Franz, is it not time tostop talking and start supping?"

  "Indeed it is," Franz agreed, "and my mother prepared a great store offood. I shall be honored if you will share it."

  "And I shall be honored to share," said Father Benjamin.