Quest of Hope: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series)

by C. D. Baker

The man hurried along the river’s bank, only to halt and hesitate. “I… I ought not wake them. Nay, ‘tis better in the morn. I… I shall buy them bread and cheese, some fruit… aye! Fruit and fish … and some cider. They’ve need of food!” Heinrich felt better.

  It was an hour before dawn when the first booth of the day’s market opened. Heinrich pounced on the peddler for a basket of his bread. Then the man raced to the next, and the next, until, at last his arm ached for the baskets hanging off his elbow and his neck. He then lurched and stumbled through the streets, and as the bells of prime struck in the city’s steeples, he hurried to the grassy bank where he had left his beloved sons and stared among the ferries at dockside.

  Heinrich quickly arrived at the very place where the crusaders had camped just hours before. He peered through gray light at the dewy grass flattened like the nest of small deer. No one was there. He ran farther down the bank. No one was in sight. He turned around and around, running this way and that, to the far side of the gate and back. They were gone! “You there!” Heinrich shouted to a pair of workmen ambling along the city wall. “’Ave y’seen a company of children … with a white-headed priest?”

  “Nay,” they answered.

  Desperate, the man ran inside the city again. He charged about the market square, the fish market, and the guild rows. Up and down the hilly streets he ran, until, fearing the worst, he sprinted to the dungeon and quizzed a guard. Relieved, but still distressed, Heinrich raced back to the grassy bank and collapsed. He rubbed his hand aimlessly through the crushed grass and he pictured his boys. The man then set his jaw and packed his satchel full. “I shall find them!”

  Heinrich burst onto the roadway leading south like a madman, stopping only to annoy passersby with questions of the local geography or of the young crusaders’ whereabouts. His feet pulled his leaning body forward through the low, green mountains that gently rose below Basel and into a nameless village where he needed to make the first of many decisions. After questioning a local peasant he sighed. Do I follow the road westerly along this river or south to some place called Olten? He paced about, then reasoned the valley seemed logical. A traveler had convinced Heinrich that the crusaders’ next destination was likely Bern, and the wide road could lead him there. Heinrich wondered. He knew the children’s provisions were low, and it seemed more logical that they might hurry for the closest town of some size, which would be Olten in the south. Nevertheless, the baker followed the other’s suggestion and charged through the Birs Valley.

  His decision proved unwise. He knew his own pace had to be considerably quicker than that of Pieter’s, and after almost three days of hard marching he had not overcome them. Frustrated and angry with himself, Heinrich decided he must retrace his steps in hopes of intercepting the company in Olten. “Surely, they shall pause for rest and food.”

  He wanted to press through the night, but the skies opened and a deluge unlike any the man had ever known poured over the land. Great flashes of lightning lit the sky and thunder roared through the valleys. Heinrich hid in a goat shed until the rain eased. In the morning the roadway was a long, brown quagmire.

  At vespers on the sixth day from Basel, an exhausted Heinrich stood at the gate in Olten’s walls. He peered past the guard at the timber-and-mortar, steep-pitched houses, the fishponds, and the muddy streets busy with morning business. He turned to the sentry. “Have y’seen a company of children … young crusaders … with crosses stitched on their breasts. They’d be traveling with an old priest?”

  The soldier stared down his long nose. He raised an eyebrow. “Ja.”

  “And are they still here?” Heinrich’s tone was impatient.

  The man looked at the one-eyed stranger for a long moment, then called for his captain. The two whispered for a few moments, then the officer scurried off. “Wait here.”

  Heinrich paced about, slapping his hand against his side until a beautiful young woman came to the gate escorted by a small troop of soldiers. Heinrich repeated his question.

  The woman looked at him carefully. “And what are these to you, sir?”

  Heinrich set his jaw, hard. He narrowed his one eye. “I am father to two of them. The leader, the one with long, blond hair named Wil, and his younger brother, a cheerful red-headed lad named Karl.”

  The woman looked at Heinrich’s own red-gray curls and smiled kindly. “Please, she said, follow me.” As the group made their way through the muddy streets of the noisy town, the woman introduced herself as Dorothea, the daughter of Bernard, Lord of Olten. She went on to explain how Pieter had healed her father from the torment of a fouled tooth and how the old priest had outwitted him in the barter!

  Heinrich smiled. He could imagine that.

  A loud, brash man emerged from the doorway of a rich man’s house. It was Lord Bernard. “Ha, daughter! Another shaggy scoundrel? Look at him!”

  Heinrich bowed as Dorothea introduced him. Bernard was smiling despite the fact that his summer sandals were sunk in the mud from the terrible storm. He rested his hands on the folds of a long, red doublet and said, “So, you are the sire of two of the lads. Ha, a braver company I’ve ne’er laid eyes on! And that scallywag Pieter!” The man tilted his head and roared a hearty laugh. “He outwitted this sly fox like none before. But he was true to his word … my tooth is cured. Now, stranger, how may we serve you?”

  “M’lads are gone?”

  “Aye … a’fore the storm.” The man’s voice saddened. He turned to the skull-capped secretary standing close. “Fetch them.”

  As the little man scurried away, Lord Bernard explained. “The company left late in the day they came. I sent them with provisions enough.” Bernard turned and greeted two lads as they approached. One had a splint on his wrist and the other on his leg. He laid his hand atop the head of the one leaning on a crutch. “These two came wandering in the day following. Tell him, boys, tell him what you know.”

  The boy identified himself as Jon and told how the camp had been washed away in a surprise flood by the Aare River less than a half-day’s march to the south. “A few of us was drowned and Solomon went lost. Wil made us two come back here. The others wanted to keep on.”

  Heinrich listened carefully. “And Karl?”

  “Good,” answered the younger one, named Friederich.

  Heinrich closed his eye in relief. “And Pieter?”

  “Spared, but hurt.”

  “How many days ahead are they?”

  The boys shrugged, but Bernard answered, “Only three … you can surely catch them.”

  Heinrich nodded. “I leave at once.” He turned to Jon again. “Are they taking the main roadways?”

  The boys both shook their heads. “Sometimes. Pieter knows the ways. He usually keeps us to the sheep trails when he can; he says the roadways have danger.”

  Bernard furrowed his brows thoughtfully. “I heard some say they wanted to be in Burgdorf by the Feast of the Assumption, four days from now. He could surely make it there by then, even with injured children. From there they will probably go to Bern for more supplies, then turn directly south and follow the lake roads to the Grimsel Pass.”

  “Bern again,” grumbled Heinrich.

  Dorothea was thinking too. “Father, why not the valley of the Emmental. It is more direct to the Grimsel, it has many villages to help them, and—”

  “Nay, daughter. They knew of pestilence in the villages and Pieter knows Bern is filled with plenty.” Bernard’s tone was firm and had the added weight of confidence. He looked at Heinrich. “If you miss them in Burgdorf, press on to Bern. You’re close, man. God go with you!”

  Chapter 25

  THE FINAL PURSUIT

  Heinrich left at once. It was near nightfall on the twelfth of August, and he desperately wanted to be in Burgdorf before the feast day. He had been told the town was about fourteen leagues away and the roadway was poor, but with some effort he should be able to get there in two days. So, the anxious man hurried on heavy legs for an hour or s
o before collapsing in darkness along the banks of the Aare River.

  He awoke to a sunny dawn and reached into his satchel for some salted pork and a bit of smoked herring. The river was still carrying debris from the recent flood and was littered with piles of broken branches and brush that had collected in its shallows. The man stared and shook his head sadly for the children who had been lost. He rose slowly and stretched, then drew a deep breath and began his journey upstream.

  Heinrich hadn’t traveled more than a furlong, however, when he stopped suddenly. “I wonder.” he said and then he heard the sound again. Heinrich trotted along the muddy bank following the whine of a dog until he came upon a webwork of river clutter. In the center of the shadowy labyrinth of tree limbs and bramble was snared a desperate dog.

  “Hold on, fellow!” cried Heinrich. He splashed into the brown river and pressed through thigh-deep waters until he reached the tangle. Carefully, he extended his hand between the knots of brush until he laid it securely on the dog’s head. “Good creature,” he said calmly, “hold fast.” Heinrich struggled with the branches as he slowly pulled one from the other. As he did, his grateful new friend began to wiggle and squirm until he finally leapt from his troubles, free and happy!

  Laughing, Heinrich lifted the licking dog by the belly and cradled him under his arm as he returned to the roadway. He cleared dried mud from its eyes and checked for deep wounds and broken bones. Content that the beast had been spared serious harm, he held him by the chin and stroked his head. “Solomon?” The dog lifted his ears and licked Heinrich’s hand. “Ah, Solomon!” Heinrich laughed. “Won’t Pieter be happy!”

  He rubbed the dog’s muddy head and studied him more carefully. Though low-bred and scruffy, there was a special light in the dog’s eyes that Heinrich found oddly familiar. With a chuckle, the man reached into his satchel and fed the grateful beast a generous helping of cheese and pork. “We’ll rest in the sun for bit, but we needs press on to find your master.”

  Within the hour, the ragged man and his shaggy companion were striding quickly southwestward, first following the Aare, then veering onto the narrow roadway leading to Burgdorf. Darkness fell and the path became so obscured that it was impossible to see. Heinrich reached for a new flint that Bernard had given him and struck some kindling afire. Before long, the two were curled alongside a crackling blaze under cover of the stars.

  Daybreak found the two hurrying on, Solomon trotting ahead, nose down and excited. “Soon, good fellow!” panted Heinrich.

  Indeed, by vespers of that second day the baker and the dog arrived at the gates of Burgdorf. “Ho, there, guard,” called Heinrich.

  “Aye?”

  “Can y’tell me the whereabouts of a band of children and an old priest? They ought to have come in the town a day past or so.”

  The guard shrugged and asked another, then summoned his captain. “He wants to know of any children and a priest.”

  The captain picked his nose and spat. “Aye. They come two days past and we sent ‘em on. We’ve no need for the likes of ‘em here, and by the sight of you, y’needs move on as well.”

  Heinrich stared angrily. “You sent them on?” he cried. “Did you give them food?”

  The soldiers laughed. “Food? By the devil no, man. They’ve brought fever to all the villages about. We’ve no need of ’em here.”

  The baker growled and squinted. He laid a hand on the hilt of his dagger. With that, the guards lowered their lances and laid the points against the man’s chest.

  “Leave, cripple, whilst y’can still breathe,” hissed the captain.

  Heinrich glared a moment longer, then stepped back and turned away, cursing. He and Solomon returned to the road and the man sat on his haunches, angry and anxious. “Where? Where did they go from here?” He scratched the dog’s ears and shook his head.

  “Bern!” he grumbled. “They’ve surely gone to Bern like Bernard said.”

  The frustrated baker hurried along the roadway south until he came to a fork in the road where he needed to be sure. The man hesitated. “Right or straight? Right to food, straight for time? Which did they choose?” He sighed and stared at the dog, who had lost any trace of scent midst the many feet that had converged at the intersection. “Food. I say they went for food and for the feast in the city.” Solomon followed obediently.

  Heinrich’s decision again quickly proved to be an unfortunate one, for Wil had chosen to stay the course and not add a detour to the west—not even for food. Fortunately, upon entering Bern, a spice merchant told Heinrich about a strange old man he had seen begging food for a tattered company of children in the Emmental villages south of Burgdorf. The raging baker ran out of the city gate and retraced his steps, unable to speak a word! Then, two days after he had made his decision, he returned to the fork and turned right—with a loud curse!

  It was nearly a fortnight after he left Basel when Heinrich passed through the splendid Emmental and began the ascent into the passes of the Alps’northern slopes. For days both man and beast traveled through magnificent hardwood forests until the steep-slanted groves of beech and maple gave way to barefaced cliffs and spruce. The two soon crowded with other travelers through rocky channels of lichen and high-mountain moss. Along the way they paused only briefly to view the blue-green waters of a breathtaking mountain lake lying still and shimmering far below. “Where are they?” Heinrich moaned.

  The pair pressed on. They had not been able to cover much ground—the roads were rocky and narrow, steep, and, at some places, treacherous. In addition, the poor baker had turned an ankle badly on a rock and had been limping for days. They finally descended into the flat Aare valley and the village of Meiringen. Exhausted, Heinrich led Solomon through the small village toward a pair of old men sitting on a bench. “‘Ave y’seen a band of children with an old priest come through here from parts north?” Heinrich was impatient and irritable. A white-headed, ruddy-faced fellow wiped froth from his mouth and set down his tankard of ale. “Hmm. Methinks to see some children on yester noon … or was it this morn? Axel, can y’not remember the strange Kinder?”

  The other man, a bald, wrinkle-faced farmer in a badly torn tunic, belched. “Aye … nay … hmm.” He paused. “Ja, Edel, to be sure. They took the trail yonder, the one to the keep.” He pointed vaguely.

  “Ach, nay, y’old fool,” answered the first. He shook his head and whispered to Heinrich. “M’friend’s a bit dim. Happened when he took the fall some years back.”

  “Well, what of the children?” Heinrich chafed.

  Edel wrinkled his nose and squinted. He grimaced and grunted and took another drink. “Ja,” he answered.

  Heinrich tapped his hand against his side and waited as Edel swallowed more. His eye was beginning to bulge. “And?” he bellowed.

  “You needn’t shout, stranger. Now what’s it y’want?”

  “Did you see the band of children or not?” Heinrich roared.

  “I already said so.”

  “Well… where in God’s name did they go?”

  “Ach, you never asked me that.”

  Heinrich growled. “I’m askin’y’now!”

  The man took another drink and shrugged. “Methinks they followed the highway south.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Edel shrugged.

  Heinrich gawked at the old men and wondered who was dim and who was not. He turned to Solomon and shook his head. “Edel or Axel … whose word do we take?” He chose Edel—but he was wrong. Axel had, indeed, spotted Pieter taking the peddler’s trail. It led to the small keep of a lord built just beyond the roadway where the priest had hopes of begging food for his hungry company. So, while the crusaders followed Pieter on his short detour, Solomon followed his new master due south and deeper into the mountains—just ahead of the crusaders!

  For the next several days the pair climbed higher and higher, finally struggling through knee-deep snow in the Grimselpass and dismissing the kindness of two French wayfarers before
beginning their long descent into the Rhone valley. Frustrated and straining to find Pieter’s little column, Heinrich followed the rushing Rhone River southwest through the narrow, wooded valley etched deeply into the heart of the Alps.

  A day later, in the village of Fiesch, Heinrich bought some mutton and a fresh-baked loaf of bread, a flagon of red wine and a spoon of honey. He wandered to a flat rock that sat squarely on the river’s edge where he and Solomon enjoyed both their meal and the pleasant sounds of a little man singing on a small dock.

  Heinrich smiled. It was good to hear music again, and the tiny minstrel with the funny hat made him laugh. The fellow wore pointy-toed shoes and had a pointy black beard, just like a marionette Heinrich had once seen in a peddler’s basket. The little man strummed a wooden lute with fingers not much bigger than a child’s, but he had a voice as clear and as strong as the river running below his feet.

  The following day Heinrich arrived in the village of Brig, weary and slow-of-foot. He entered the timber-walled town and looked carefully for any sign of the elusive crusaders before collapsing on a tavern bench. “Has anyone seen a band of children?”

  “Crusaders? Most are west, we’d be told,” answered a merchant. He was seated with a group of fellows grumbling about their troubles.

  “Why west?” asked Heinrich.

  “Who could know what those fools are thinking? Why are they west?” he shrugged. “Why are they anywhere? I only know what’s been said.”

  Heinrich bought the group a round of ale. “No news of any in these parts?”

  Another answered. “None of late. Methinks some weeks past. Most stay by the highways near the monasteries, more to the west.”

  Heinrich thought for a moment. How very much he wanted to find his sons along the way, but if he couldn’t, he rightly reasoned that he should get to Genoa before them. “Tell me, sirs, which is the most direct route to Genoa?”

  The merchants paused and bickered a bit among themselves until one finally answered. “The most direct way is to cross the river here and follow the trail to the Simplon Pass, then along the Toce River to the lake. You needs follow the lake to the Ticino and then to Pavia. From there many roads lead to the mountains and the city.”