by C. D. Baker
Heinrich nodded, then mumbled, “But… I’ve m’vow…”
The woman sighed and thanked him for loving her. “Now, good fellow, you’d best return to your two children and that wife of yours. She’s to bear you another quite soon! Now go. I am content with my memories and my hopes … and you’ve reminded me that I am not so very alone.”
So Heinrich returned to the village. Despite the earth’s struggle to bear fruit, the folk continued in nature’s ways of both good times and suffering. Arnold’s wife, Gisela, died from burns received at her own hearth. It seemed to most, however, that Arnold grieved less for her than for the loss of some silver in a recent theft. Richard’s wife, Brunhild, bore a son named Georg, and on the thirteenth day of November, Marta gave birth to another boy. Certain the name “Johann” assured greater blessing, she insisted the lad be baptized Johann Gerberg.
Heinrich was now the proud father of three: Johann Lukas, three years old, Johann Wilhelm, one, and Johann Gerberg. He cherished the lads but often found his way to Margaretha’s little grave where his tender heart would sag heavy deep within his chest.
Pentecost was on May twenty-fifth in the year 1197. Brother Martin, Emma’s old nemesis from the day she had first arrived at the abbey gate, had fallen ill with whitlow and the man was presented to the infirmer for treatment. The infirmer, in turn, sought Brother Lukas’s advice on an herbal compress. Lukas found Martin to be the most pompous of all the brethren. The man would only speak in Scripture—a ploy, believed Lukas, to present a piety that could not be found in his heart. Lukas also thought the man to be a petty thief, a cheat, and one to “share the failures of others” with the superiors. As with all things, thought Lukas, God has provided a means of justice!
The monk recommended an infusion rather than a balm. “Odd,” responded the infirmer, “the man suffers boils not cramps.”
“Aye,” answered Lukas, “but the boils come from poisons in his blood.”
So Brother Martin obediently drank Lukas’s concoction—a blend of stinging nettles and dandelion that left the poor man groaning for hours in the latrine, smitten with a condition that drew loud and earthy complaints from his offended brethren! Lukas was heard laughing loudly in his herbarium, and the smirk on his face when the prior confronted him only served to doom him to hours of penance with the latrine shovel. At thirty-five, the monk should be of a more “calm and serene demeanor,” he was told, and needed to stop “acting as an unbridled novice!”
Lukas laughed loudly in Emma’s garden as he told his story of sweet revenge, and Emma and Heinrich howled. It was a good Sabbath afternoon, one filled with sunshine and pleasant memories. Heinrich bounced young Johann Lukas on his knee and handed him to his namesake. The monk smiled and lifted the child, now nearly four, toward the sky. “Ah, good little Lukas: love God, love man, love joy!”
The monk laughed as little Wilhelm toppled into Emma’s flowers. The child scowled and groused at the stiff plants scratching against his soft skin. “He’s to be a strong one, Heinrich … y’can see it in his eyes, they burn with fire!”
Indeed, the little boy, now a year and a half old, was headstrong and keen. His eyes were sky blue and his young features were even and pleasing. But his white hair stood up straight, like a field of wheat, and brought a hearty laugh to many.
“Now, Heinrich,” began Lukas, “a peddler came by the cloister at midweek. He brought news for me to give you, good news!”
Heinrich and Emma leaned forward expectantly. “Yes, yes, goon!”
Lukas smiled. “Effi’s had a boy-child and they’ve named him Heinrich!”
The baker smiled. “Ah, good Effi! Is she well, and the child?”
“The message is that all is well.”
“God be praised,” chimed a beaming Emma.
“Indeed!”
Lukas continued. “Ah, but there’s sad news as well. Your brother Axel had a stillborn.”
Heinrich nodded as Lukas went on.
“The famine’s hard in Limburg and all the world beyond. ‘Tis said even the wolves are seizing travelers in the great mountains to the south. What wolves don’t get, robbers do. The merchants stay in long caravans, oft joined by pilgrims and men-at-arms. The weak ones are picked off at the rear. There’s no rain to be found, the winter’s snow passed us by. It seems all the empire is in great danger.”
The harvest of this present year had been so very sparse that the following winter claimed more lives than any had remembered. Many children had been abandoned to the monks in hopes of God’s protection, one infant being found nearly frozen at the rear of the cloister’s shearing shed. He was a black-haired baby boy and the monks baptized him Tomas.
In the May of 1198 spring sowing enjoyed a more proper balance of sunlight and clouds, but, hope notwithstanding, the peasants of the abbey’s lands had other reasons to despair. Emperor Heinrich VI had died suddenly and his realm was now plunged into a civil war between three rivals. To prepare for the troubles that were certain to come, taxes and fines were immediately increased. The demands pushed even Heinrich to near rebellion. For him and the other peasants of Weyer, even a better harvest would yield no gain.
Despite the pressures, the feast of Lammas was ultimately enjoyed with a modicum of gratitude. Weyer had not forgotten the hauntings of the past winter’s famine: the sunken, gray faces of the dead, frozen skin stretched tightly over protruding bones, the swollen bellies of blue-faced infants. By contrast, the vigorous fields of grain waving in the warm winds of August now brought tears of relief.
Heinrich and his household were survivors. The children were thin but not sickly, and Herwin, Varina, Marta, and the baker were, indeed, grateful for the advantages Heinrich’s position offered. Now, as a new harvest began, they bent their knees willingly as their priests prayed over both them and their crops-in-waiting.
Marta was in her eighth month of another pregnancy and the heat of the summer was becoming difficult for her to bear. She could not abide a cluttered house so spent most of her days chasing her three young sons out-of-doors, along with Varina’s brood. “Everything and everyone in its proper place!” she shouted.
It was on one such day in the first week of August when Marta chased her five-year-old, Lukas, her almost four-year-old, Wilhelm, and her toddler, Gerberg, out the door and into the busy village to play. “We’ve all work but you three! Lukas, you’re old enough to lend a hand, so you’re to keep a careful eye on the imps, and keep out from under m’feet!”
Lukas smiled and waved as he led his two brothers along the village footpaths toward the bakery. The village was bustling with carts and oxen, women carrying buckets toward the fields, and old men sharpening sickle blades on their treadle-stones. The day was bright and blue; a gentle breeze blew from the west. Young Lukas was mischievous like his namesake. Cheerful and round-faced, the lad was soft-hearted and quick to laugh. His younger brother, Wilhelm, was game for any dare. Though still a child, Arnold claimed he had the “heart of a lion!” He, too, showed signs of tenderness but seemed to be the happiest when brawling with his brothers or throwing stones at passing little girls.
“Ach, mein Kinder!” laughed Heinrich as his boys tumbled into his bakery. “You’d be hungry?”
Three dirty little faces smiled and nodded. The baker glanced about to be sure no one was watching and handed his tikes a pretzel. “So, all of us be working hard except you three!”
“Mutti says m’work is to watch these two.”
Heinrich smiled.
“And what shall you be doing?”
Lukas shrugged. “Grandpapa says come watch the mill grind the first rye.”
“Hmm,” answered Heinrich. “Could be worth a watch. But first, give Vati a hug!” With that, each laughing child jumped into the man’s arms. He then gave them each a playful swat on the bottom as they charged out his door, and he smiled as they disappeared down the path toward the mill.
The first grind was truly “worth a watch.” It was prayed over
by Father Pious, now the only surviving priest in Weyer. With Johannes now in his grave, Pious covetously held a fist of grain in one hand and repeated his prayer of Lammas dedication, the Immaculatum Cor Mariae. Having so honored the Holy Mother, he raised his hands and cried to the Lord, “Restore us, O God our savior, and turn Your anger from us, so You wilt not be angry with us forever nor extend Your wrath from generation to generation.”
The miller then poured the first basket of flailed grain into his funnel. Everyone watched as the brown seed spread atop the grindstone to be squashed to powder by the slow-moving wheel. It would be only one basket this day, for the harvest had just begun, but the ceremony was of great importance to all, and word was spread throughout the fields that Weyer’s harvest had been properly blessed.
The deed done, the miller bade all farewell and then eyed his grandsons spying from behind a wide post. “Ha! Get in here, y’devils!” he cried. Dietrich smiled a huge, toothless smile and pretended to be a giant stalking his prey. The little ones scampered in all directions, shrieking with delight as their grandfather growled and pawed at the air.
Little Gerberg giggled his way to the ground where he was snatched by Dietrich and held under one thick arm. Wilhelm gleefully darted like a frightened hare, finding refuge inside an empty grain bin. Dietrich put a finger on his chin and peered about the shadows of his dark mill. His grandsons were quiet and well hidden. The man set Gerberg atop a stool and pat him on the head. “Good lad,” he whispered, “shhh … I shall find the others!”
Dietrich stepped lightly across the dusty planks and peeked behind crates and baskets, gears and posts. At last, he heard a muffled sneeze from inside a bin. The old man smiled and flung open the lid. Wil squealed and laughed as his grandfather tickled his belly. Dietrich then turned to find Lukas. “Where do y’think him to be?” he whispered to Wil.
Dietrich raised his brow and asked again. Wil giggled. A glance to the beams some twenty feet above gave his secret away. “Ah …” Dietrich winked and slowly turned. “Hmm,” he said loudly. “It wonders me where the lad could be.” He took a few steps around his grindstone, then moved slowly toward the ladder leading to the crossbeams and the gear-works above. “Hmm … methinks I needs have a look from up there.”
With that he began his ascent toward the ceiling. From high above young Lukas was so excited that he could barely keep silent. He licked his lips and his heart pounded. He cast his eyes from side to side, looking for a place to shuffle.
Grandpapa climbed slowly, adding drama to the boy’s game. Lukas was determined not to be seen, but smiled at his two brothers’ upturned faces and ventured a wave. With that he lost his balance for just a moment and his belly fluttered. He quickly grasped both hands upon the beam and looked for his grandfather, now nearly at the top of the ladder. I must hurry! he thought.
Lukas spotted a knot of gears and crossbeams directly over the grindstone and decided it would be a good place to hide. His five-year-old body was nimble and sprite and the lad deftly scurried across the beam like a hurried mouse. Dietrich, however, was neither nimble nor sprite. His old joints were stiff and weary. He saw the lad quick-stepping down the beam and he took a determined breath. For all his many vices the man was a good grandfather and he stayed in the game.
Dietrich had not been to the top of the mill for many years. After all, he was forty-three years old! The sport of chasing his grandson through the forest of posts and beams now invigorated him, and he smiled as his knees ached their way along the rough-hewn timber.
Little Lukas paused above the mill’s mighty gears to glance back. Seeing his grandfather’s slow approach, he grinned and looked for a place below to hide. He stared into the gears, the teeth, and the sprockets of the millworks and thought them to look like the inward parts of a sleeping giant. The brakes had been set so nothing turned, but the little lad could hear the water of the Laubusbach just beyond the walls. He looked once more across the dim-lit heights of the mill and saw the gray head of his grandfather coming slowly closer. He laughed, set his little hands timidly against a rough post, and stretched a curling leg forward in hopes of shimmying down.
Dietrich looked forward and with a start called to the boy. “No! No, no, Lukas … you mustn’t climb—”
The man’s echoing voice surprised the boy and he lost his balance, falling forward against the wide post. His little hands were too small to grasp the heavy timber and his young legs too weak to slow his fall. In a moment, with an anguished gasp of a grandpapa, the lad crashed atop the grindstone.
The death of a young child was not uncommon, for disease and accident, foul play or war took young souls each day across all Christendom. But for the household of Heinrich it mattered little what was common for others. They lay about their smoky hovel in the heat of that August afternoon, weeping and angry. Lukas was dearly known to them—he had been cared for in sickness, laughed with at feast days, played with in springtime meadows, and romped with under the summer’s sun. “He was yet a tender bloom,” wept Emma, “bursting with life, full of good things.” Indeed, and so he was.
For his part, Dietrich bore his own shame and carried it poorly. He cursed his mill and cursed his priest. The man sought comfort in excess of any ready vice and was quickly given over to the painless stupor of muddy ale.
Marta was utterly embittered by the loss. For days she would speak to neither her husband nor her father. For her, blame was a balm for pain and her long-suffering husband was willing to bear her wrath if it gave her comfort. For such strength he paid a withering price.
Heinrich often walked the footpaths of Weyer alone for nights on end. He could not express his brokenness in words, nor in actions, nor in thoughts or fits of fury. He could but trudge the nights in a vacant melancholy in hopes that time might finally soothe his heartache. One comfort did pursue him, however, and only one. Old Emma offered an ever-tender shoulder and a gentle touch. She could of course, because she knew.
In the season of Advent Marta delivered the family a son whose gentle disposition proffered little comfort to those yet suffering their loss. He was immersed in icy water on the twenty-first of December and blessed and salted by Father Pious. His mother dispassionately named him Johann Karl. The child was round-faced and ruddy, winsome and bright. Sadly, he was born to a household that was heartbroken, making his arrival bittersweet.
The gray weeks of another winter dragged on until more sad fortune visited the baker’s family. Two-year-old Gerberg had suffered winter fever and quinsy. Though Brother Lukas had supplied both fervent prayer and barley water, the young soul departed to his Savior’s bosom on a bitterly cold early morning in March.
Heinrich said little and Marta even less as Father Pious prayed for Gerberg’s soul. The parents were reminded of the hope of baptism as the tot’s shroud was laid in a tiny grave in the churchyard’s frozen earth. Heinrich stood over the dark hole and trembled with his faithful Butterfly Frau dutifully at his side. Then, when the last hard clod of dirt was dropped on the brown, frosty mound, the heavy-hearted folk turned away.
For nights to come Heinrich stared about his hovel at the haunted faces peering sadly into the ghostly light of his hearth fire. Herwin is aging, he thought, and Varina too. Their children were growing; the eldest now being fourteen.
Somewhere in her bedchamber lay Marta, angry and bitter and quite alone. She now banished Heinrich from her affections, swearing he carried a curse into her womb. “You’ll father no more,” she hissed from her bed, “y’hexed and black-touched monster. You’ve unconfessed sin … You’ve secrets that your children pay!”
Heinrich hung his head. This was not the life he had dreamt of in Emma’s garden so very long ago.
Despite rumors of warfare in nearby manors, October was a peaceful month. The harvest was ample, and calm ruled the rhythm of the village. Effi had sent warm wishes with a passing peddler. She and her family were happy and healthy in the city of Frankfurt.
As the brown leaves of autumn o
nce more fell along the footpaths of Weyer, Heinrich was invited by Emma to spend a Sabbath hour at her door. The baker accepted gladly and brought his sons, Wil and Karl, with him. Little Karl, now nearly one, was still a happy child. His head was covered in tight, red curls, and his round face was rose-red like the happy faces of heaven’s cherubs. He chortled and giggled and his presence made others feel warm and joyful. Young Wil was keen and bright as ever. Healthy and playful, the four-year-old raced about Emma’s fading garden sword-playing with woody stalks and boxing against the air.
Emma dearly loved the boys—and their father. “Dear Heinrich, ‘tis so good you’ve come! And look there, scratching bark from my walnut. ‘Tis Brother Lukas. Look at him, aging, yet mischievous like a pup. Brother!” she called.
The monk waved and smiled and lifted his black robes as he trotted toward them. As he approached, he paused to dance and wrestle with Wil, then lifted little Karl up toward the sun. “Ha, a fine fat little fellow!” He walked toward Emma and Heinrich panting and smiling. “Peace be to you!”
“And to you!” chuckled Heinrich.
Emma laughed and handed the monk a flask of mead as Wil begged all to go to the stream.
“Should we?” asked Emma.
Lukas swallowed a long draught and wiped his mouth. “Aye! Of course,” he roared. “Let’s be off to the Magi!”
The sun was kind for October and filled the blue sky above with bright and brilliant warmth such as few had remembered on an autumn’s day. The group walked through the quiet forest and soon came to their favorite place where, before long, Wil and Karl fell fast asleep atop the limp ferns beneath the outstretched limbs of the Magi.
Lukas enjoyed being the abbey’s herbalist, but his strange brews and concoctions had some wondering about his sanity. He turned toward Heinrich and took the young man gently by the wrists. He pushed the baker’s sleeves toward his elbows. “Hmm. You suffer affliction of the skin similar to your uncle Arnold, only not so severe.”