Pilgrims of Promise: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series)

by C. D. Baker

  “Aye, lad?” Pieter brightened a little.

  Wil stood and fought for the words. His chin quivered as he said, “Please … please tell Karl I love him … I miss him so—”

  Pieter moaned faintly, pulled himself to his feet, only to fall forward into Wil’s heaving chest. “Oh, my son. Aye, aye … a thousand times aye.”

  The two faced one another, neither speaking, neither moving. And in that brief envelopment of master and student, that embrace of comrades, that enfolding of Christian brothers, they shared the warm juncture of past and future, if only for a fleeting time.

  At last, Pieter reached for his staff and held it in his two hands. “Do you remember, Wil?”

  “I do.”

  Pieter smiled and sat down once more. “Ah, good Georg. He found this for me along the way. He chose it for me, and with it I did shepherd my little flock as best I could. I pray God forgives my failings, for they were many.” He sighed and then looked evenly at Wil. He kissed his staff, prayed silently over it, and then presented it to his young friend. “Serve them well, my son. For the task now falls to you. To whom much is given, much is expected.’ Lead them by serving them. It is the way of wisdom.”

  The priest released his staff into Wil’s strong grip slowly, even reluctantly. He fixed his eyes on the trusted crook, and when he abandoned his touch, he sighed. “Your sufferings have set you free, lad. But hear this, too: to live freely, learn to live for something greater than yourself.”

  He struggled to stand and laid both of his hands on Wil’s shoulders. “Draw from the past, my son; it is a deep well of wisdom. Keep an eye on the future, for there lies hope. But do not fail to live for today, for it is what binds wisdom and hope together.”

  After the morning’s meal, Horst called Wil and the other men to his office, where he delivered a series of instructions. “You’ve a journey of two and a half days. Follow the roadway northwest from here for about a full day. You’ll come to an intersection of roads by a large brick millhouse, and there you will bear straight westward.

  “That road will take you almost to the Weser. At a pilgrims’ chappelle, it turns directly south toward Bremen and to the ferries to Stedingerland.”

  Alwin shook his head. “We wish to cross at a ford. The city is dangerous for us.”

  “Well, I warn you, you need have a care if you do. I am not sure which is more perilous, the provost of Bremen or the shifting silt of the Weser.”

  “We will ford at low tide,” answered Wil.

  The merchant furrowed his brow but yielded. “I am told the place to cross is directly west of the road’s bend. It is a place called Blumenthal, the valley of flowers.”

  A chill ran up Heinrich’s spine. Blumenthal! Oh, Emma, he thought.

  “Now, this,” continued Horst. He handed Wil a bag heavy with gold. “You’ll not say no. Share it as need requires. It is enough to buy a good start for you all.”

  Astonished, the pilgrims stared at the leather pouch. “But—”

  “But nothing. I’ll replace it with higher rates for the bishop!” The man laughed. “It is not a matter of discussion. And here. I’ve this as well.” Horst handed each of the men, including Tomas, a square letter with a wax seal affixed to it. “It was good that the storm threatened yesterday, for my lawyer had a thought… for once! We hired Lord Ohrsbach’s secretary to make passports for each of you. They declare you as freemen, by name. If any should challenge you, it will serve in court.”

  The pilgrims could not speak. They stared at the letters in disbelief. Horst looked at Friederich and continued. “Little fellow, I took the liberty to name you as the son of Alwin.”

  The boy grinned at the surprised knight. Horst then laid a hand on Otto’s shoulder. “And you, stoutheart. You’d be of age soon enough, but I’ve given you to Alwin as well.”

  Otto looked at the kindly knight with a face laced by bittersweet. His heart was still heavy for his own father in faraway Weyer. “It is my honor.” The two clasped hands.

  Horst turned to Heinrich. “I have taken the liberty of naming Maria as your daughter. I hope that is acceptable.”

  “More than acceptable, sir, it is delightful!” Heinrich smiled broadly and draped his thick arm around Maria’s shoulder. “You’re mine, dear girl. ‘Tis the law of the land!”

  Pleased, Horst addressed the women. “I assigned wives as they should be, and Wilda, I recorded you as the wife of Alwin and the mother of Friederich and Otto.”

  The woman blushed as Alwin laughed happily. “So be it!” he cried.

  The men embraced the merchant one by one. They could not find the words to thank him.

  “Of course you’ve no words to thank me!” he roared and laid his arm around Helmut. “And I’ve no words to thank you! So the score is even! Now, follow me.”

  Horst led his guests outside, where Paulus stood heavily laden with fresh provisions. “I hope he can swim!” he cried. “Here.” He pointed to a sturdy canvas litter. “We need four strong arms to carry Father Pieter. He’s in no shape to ride the donkey.”

  Wil agreed that the idea was a good one. He shook Horst’s hand. “Again, sir, our thanks to you. It is now time.” He called for his company to assemble, and one by one each pilgrim embraced Helmut for the final time. It was a painful farewell for them all. From the jetty of Genoa to this place in the northland, he had been a faithful friend—and they had been his.

  Alwin and Otto lifted Pieter onto his canvas, and four strong hands lifted the weary priest. Then, with a final wave and chorus of thanks, the travelers disappeared onto the roadway once again.

  For the rest of that Saturday, the pilgrims walked briskly, stopping briefly from time to time so that Pieter’s litter bearers might rest. Every able hand helped as the day wore on, and by night they were all ready for sleep. Solomon did not stray more than a few rods from his master’s side. He did not sleep, though his eyes were dull in the firelight and his head drooped. Somehow he knew.

  On Sunday the column passed the millhouse, turned due westward, and followed the path of the sun. The pilgrims met a few other travelers, including a small caravan traveling from Stettin, and from time to time a villager would emerge from nowhere to share a bit of news. It was a comfortable, warm day and quiet, as Sabbaths ought to be.

  On Monday, sometime before noon, the band arrived at the chappelle and the bend of the road of which Horst had spoken. Alwin prayed at the feet of a little crucifix, and Pieter asked to be lifted from his litter to do the same. Together the former monks raised prayers to God that were not so different; their spirits were kindred and similarly burdened for the welfare of others.

  When they had finished, Pieter summoned Otto to come close. “My dear lad,” he began, “you are a stout heart and as resolute a fellow as I have e’er known.” He pulled his satchel awkwardly off his shoulder. “I fear there is naught inside but a few crusts and some silver, but it has hung on m’shoulder for more leagues than I dare consider. I should like you to have it.”

  Otto’s chin dropped, and he received the gift with a trembling hand. “Oh, Pieter, Father Pieter, I… I…”

  “Fill it with the bounty of your liberty, lad.” Pieter smiled.

  Otto embraced the old man lightly. “I shall treasure it always.”

  Pieter was then laid upon his litter again, and Wil directed his column away from the roadway and led them due west across the flat countryside. The company traveled slowly through small stands of pine and scattered hardwoods for much of the afternoon, eventually noticing a subtle descent, which they followed until they spotted something glistening between a thin row of trees in the distance.

  “There!” cried Tomas. “I see the river through the trees!”

  A loud hurrah was lifted. It was the Weser!

  The sun of late day lit a host of tiny white wildflowers that were sprinkled generously atop the green field waiting just ahead. Awed, the company lifted their faces past the white-tipped meadow and to the tree line beyond. Th
eir eyes fixed on a ribbon of silver threaded between the shadowed trunks, and they quickly pressed on.

  To liberty, rejoiced Heinrich. To freedom’s home! The pilgrims hurried through the wide field of shin-deep grass and stalky flowers until, at last, they slipped through the tree line only to be held in place by the sheer wonder of the enchanting scene now opened before them.

  Unable to speak, the blessed wayfarers now gazed upon Blumenthal, the splendid valley of their river of promise, which welcomed them with such a flourish of heaven’s greeting as would dwarf the homecoming of the greatest kings of time! The light of day had faded softly as the sun sank respectfully toward the distant horizon. A few puffed clouds edged the yellow ball. Slanting shafts of golden light were cast across a fresh carpet of vivid wildflowers standing pure and precious before the dumbstruck travelers. The dappled colors of the creation sprawled as far as the eye could see, divided only by the water’s silver strand. It was a presentation of the Master’s palette, a masterpiece of gentle brilliance that heralded the very presence of its Maker’s glory.

  Wil ran to Pieter and, with Heinrich’s help, stood the priest up to behold the world as it should be. Pieter stared silently for a long moment. His eyes moistened and his throat swelled. “Fields of gossamer touched by the rainbow,” he whispered weakly. “Dear God, You have brought us to the portal of paradise.”

  The man began to sag in his fellows’ grip. He tossed his head weakly toward a stout oak to which he was quickly carried and seated against its sturdy trunk. Solomon slumped close by, then laid a forlorn chin on the man’s lap. Pieter rested a loving hand atop his companion’s head. “My good and faithful friend,” he whispered.

  Looking across the river, the failing man pointed a trembling finger and asked faintly, “Is it there? Is that Stedingerland?”

  Heinrich knelt by Pieter’s side and laid a soft hand on the man’s shoulder. “Ja, Pieter, it is there, just beyond the river.”

  The priest smiled, then looked quietly into the distance for along while. His lambs gathered close to either side, and the whole of the company stared wistfully at the panorama before them.

  In time, Heinrich retrieved Karl’s cross from his belt. “Pieter, I shall plant this in free soil.”

  Pieter nodded. “Good. He would have it so.” He lifted his feeble hand upward to touch the apple wood lightly. “Dear friend, would I be too bold to ask you to set it at my grave?”

  The baker’s throat swelled. He turned a wet eye to Wil and nodded. “Indeed. I surely shall. Karl would have liked it to be so.”

  Pieter sighed contentedly and closed his eyes. He then awakened with a start and stared into the distance again. His breathing began to falter before he pointed his finger once more. “You all do see it, don’t you?” he asked weakly. “Maria, Wil…?”

  “Ja,” his fellows answered in unison.

  The good man nodded, then stared into the shadowed lands far beyond the Weser. “Then your day is come …” His eyes lost their light, then fluttered and closed. “You are home,” he whispered faintly. He took a difficult breath and muttered something indiscernible.

  “What, Papa?” asked Maria as she clutched his arm. “What did you say?”

  Pieter stirred as his troubled flock leaned close by either side. He opened his eyes and gazed ahead once more, then lifted his timeworn face toward heaven. There he sat silently as the sun sank peacefully in the west. Frieda led the others in some quiet songs, and Pieter’s breathing became shallow.

  At last, the old fellow’s eyes rolled slightly, and his head tilted to one side. In a faint whisper he murmured, “What… hidden harbor … greets the fleet of stars … that cross the night… and … where do shadows gather… after they have lost their li …” Pieter Godson von Kinder’s voice trailed away, and his chest released its final breath. He slumped into his beloved Maria’s arms, and his soul flew to his Maker’s breast.

  Solomon whined and Maria whimpered. Great groans of sorrow rippled through the grieving company. Their Pieter—their Papa Pieter—was gone from them. It could not be, yet it was; and it was very much to bear.

  For the next hour, the mourners suffered their loss with sobs and anguished cries. Death remained as it always had been: that certain shadow that follows every life, that ruthless foe that bites the tender places and shows mercy to none.

  In time, Wil and Alwin laid the good man prostrate on the soft, bloom-spotted grass and folded his cold hands over his heart as Heinrich stood to speak. He wiped his eye and cleared his throat.

  “Pieter Godson von Kinder was my friend,” he said with a loving smile. “He taught me much of things that are and of things that shall surely be.” The pilgrims shuffled close and listened carefully as the simple baker proceeded to bless them with something of a homily on the resurrection to come. His words were soft and comforting, and he finished by saying, “For in the rising of the Christ we find our only hope against this curse. In that, and in that alone, is our final triumph. Take heart, my brothers and sisters, though we grieve this night, we shall see him again.”

  Then, under the gauzy light of the rising moon, Pieter’s body was carefully carried to the shores of the lapping Weser to be bathed. His mourners stared heavenward, as if hoping to somehow see his white beard amidst the silver of the night’s sky. Frieda said that he would have loved the way the stars were shining down on the river. “They are making the water sparkle clean and bright,” she said. “He is smiling on us; he is at peace. I can feel his joy all around.”

  Pieter’s body was carried back to the camp, and Wil walked slowly to Paulus in order to retrieve the bundle that had been discreetly handed to him by Friar Oswald in Renwick. It was another gift from Traugott—a fine deer-hide shroud, one fit for a prince. Wil unfurled the shroud, then handed his wife a ball of leather cord and a heavy needle.

  Frieda nodded and quietly gathered the women together. In less than an hour, Pieter’s body was sewn within the deerskin and then laid in the center of the camp, where the company fell slowly to sleep until distant birds signaled the coming of dawn.

  It was Tuesday, the twenty-seventh of August in the year 1213. Heinrich rose first and added a few small logs to the red ashes of the night’s fire. He looked at Pieter’s shroud lying stiff and straight atop the earth.

  “Father?”

  Heinrich turned. “Aye, lad?”

  Wil stretched his open hand toward the man. “Let all things be forgiven … let all things be made new. You have brought us safely to a new land, and I thank you for it.”

  The baker squeezed his son’s hand hard and answered, “We have brought each other here, both guided in ways I cannot explain.” He looked deeply into his son’s eyes, now enlivened by the rising flames. “May God bless you richly as you take hold of what is now yours.” He released his son’s hand and retrieved Karl’s cross from his belt. He kissed it and held it to his breast. “I pray that none of us forgets the sufferings or the joys of our journey.” Heinrich’s throat swelled, and he could no longer speak.

  Katharina slipped to the baker’s side as Frieda joined Wil. Maria emerged from the darkness to lean against Heinrich. Together, the five stood silently as the first light of the new day streaked pink across the bluing sky.

  The light breezes of the early morning teased their hair and brushed warm against their faces like the breath of angels. The quiet group watched their fellows rise, and when all had gathered, Wil spoke. “We’ll not eat here,” he said firmly. “Today, we eat our first meal as freemen!” He looked at Pieter’s shroud and then smiled at Maria. The stitching had been filled with flowers in the night. He lifted his sister into his arms. “And we take him with us. He shall rest in free soil.”

  In a quarter hour, the brave company was standing in proper order as Wil inspected each of his comrades. With Solomon at his side, he planted his staff firmly into the rich soil of Blumenthal and walked up and down the small column with pride. Tomas, Otto, Alwin, and Heinrich each held a corner of Pi
eter’s litter—Heinrich and Otto in the fore. Wil paused to look at each of them. Brave men all, he thought. And Friederich, too. He turned to face Maria and the women. Dear sister, dear wife, brave Wilda, and good Katharina…

  “May God bless us all on this good day and for many to come,” he proclaimed. He walked past Maria and rubbed Paulus’s ears with a contented smile. Then, taking his place in the fore of his beloved company, he pointed westward.

  With cries of jubilance, the pilgrims advanced, measuring their steps lightly atop the yielding petals of the valley floor, drawn deeper into color and to light as the sun rose higher behind them. Splashed to either side was the brilliance of this new day’s dawn, set to glory by the fluttering of butterflies now dancing atop the morning mist and the gift of wildflowers spread far and wide. Above, the sky was filled with songbirds, and ahead the lightly riffled waters of the Weser lay easy and warm, peacefully waiting to receive this tithing of free brethren.

  Drawing deeply of the sweet, fragrant air, Wil paused at the water’s edge and took Otto’s place with Pieter’s litter. He held the rail handle firmly in his left hand; to his side stood Heinrich holding the litter with his right. The pair looked at one another, then turned their heads southward as their memories suddenly carried them across green forests and wending fields of grain. They were swept far, far away, through narrow valleys and into the magnificent desolation of the highest places. They closed their eyes to smell the wood smoke of a hundred campfires, to hear the laughter and the tears of those much loved.

  It was in that moment that their fellows began to sing the “Crusaders’ Hymn,” that gentle song of so many lost along the way, that melody of innocence and purity that had graced the hearts of all who had lifted it to their lips. “Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodland….”

  Heinrich listened and looked to the heavens, where he imagined Karl joined in chorus with Pieter and Emma, with Lukas and Ingelbert. It was as though he could see them floating with the angels at that very moment, in that very place. He let a tear fall from his eye as Katharina stepped to his side.