by C. D. Baker
Pieter lost his tongue as the boy’s pointed darts stuck fast and deep. He turned away from Tomas and fixed his blue eyes into the dying, red embers of the night’s fire. He slowly pulled his black hood over his tired, white head and wondered.
By prime Pieter awoke without revealing the slightest hint of inner turmoil Tomas’s unexpected discernment had caused. As the day’s journey began, Karl walked close by his side and coaxed the old man to speak of new things. The distracted priest forced a patient smile. “This fine day I’ll instruct you and all interested persons on the thoughts of Aristotle as taught in his most treasured books of logic.”
Before Pieter could continue, a whining voice from the rear of the column suddenly pleaded, “Nay, nay, can y’not speak of else for us?”
“And might I inquire who is addressing me?”
Only the chirp of a passing bird broke the silence as Pieter glared over his shoulder, feigning anger. He turned to Karl and winked before clearing his throat. “I believe I’ll teach something else, after all. Aristotle does not suit me this morning.” So, instead, he marched until nearly noon reciting the works of Boethius and St. Augustine and all the while quite unaware of the disinterest of his captives. Most of his audience had done their best to avoid listening, Lothar being the first to stuff his ears with grass. A few managed to kick Karl in the rump as a warning against any such future requests! Finally, Pieter turned around, grinned at the weary column, and prepared for more.
Maria, not the least impressed with the old man’s eloquence, stooped by the wayside and plucked some wild-flowers. She tugged Pieter’s hem with enough authority to convey mild displeasure. “Papa Pieter, ’tis time to stop talking and eat.”
“Aye,” an anonymous voice complained. “Why not fill your mouth with food instead of words?”
“When I was a young priest,” chuckled Pieter, “I begged a rather ancient and exceptionally dull pastor to shorten his homily. ‘Brevity is a fine substitute for ability,’ I counseled. Perhaps I ought listen to my own words!”
His comment drew a few cheers as the exhausted pilgrims dropped onto a grassy clearing by the roadway. In short order, Wil distributed small portions of salt pork and tripe that Karl had been given by a kind dame and carefully rationed a wheat loaf begged by Jon I. After all had eaten and rested a while, Pieter reached carefully into a secret pocket he had sewn deep inside his robe and retrieved a well-worn pigskin wallet. He slowly, almost reverently, opened it and gently withdrew three stiff, partially blackened parchments stored carefully within. The children closed tightly around him as he laid each mysterious piece gently on his lap.
“I show only my dearest friends these treasures. As you have learned, I spent many years as a monk, vowed to the duties of copyist, and as such, I worked for years bent over a small table scratching God’s Word onto parchments such as these.
“Ah, but sadly, one cold winter’s night, a novice in our order was careless with his coals and caught his bed aflame. Unable to extinguish it, his dormitory was soon a roaring furnace and then, in turn, the whole of the cloister. Unfortunate for us brothers, the novices were bedded by the scriptorium and soon the work of a century was but smoke and brittle ash. It was most awful. I had set aside my worthless water pail to rescue these pages of the Holy Scripture from a burning Bible and this charred paragon from one of Aristotle’s books.”
Pieter held a parchment between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. “Behold my most esteemed possessions: a portion of the Psalms in my right hand and nearly an entire page from First Corinthians in my left. Poor Aristotle is so very damaged I fear it best to leave it lay on my lap. Someday I vow to learn a way to return it to whole.”
Pieter affectionately returned Aristotle’s page to the wallet and then cradled the Scripture on his lap. The inquisitive children drew even closer, straining over and under each other like a litter of curious kittens watching a butterfly bend a blade of grass. Most had never seen a written word of any kind and the sight of such a marvel hushed them. Finally, one little boy stretched his dirty finger to touch the parchment.
“Ah, my son,” said Pieter kindly, “it would be better for that pointer of yours to be washed.”
The boy plunged his forefinger into his mouth and offered it again to the chuckling priest. The boy moved his finger toward the strange shapes slowly, almost fearfully. When he touched the paper he recoiled for a moment, wondering if some power would be unleashed on him. He looked at Pieter for reassurance before leaning toward the page again. This time his finger eased along the lines of the letter A. He grinned and proceeded to follow the rest of the letters as Pieter read them aloud. “A-M-O-R, which is to say, ‘love.’”
“Why not just ‘love’?” asked a confused little girl.
“Because these words are written in Latin,” answered Pieter.
Karl blurted, “Yes. Latin is the language of the pope and the Holy Church; it is the language of heaven itself, and of Jesus and the Holy Virgin.”
Pieter answered with measured words. “It is truly the language of the Holy Roman Church, but I do not accept it to be the language of heaven nor of Jesus or Mother Mary.”
Karl was shocked. “What?” he exclaimed. “Every priest, every monk, the abbot, and even the archbishop speak to God and listen to God … in Latin.”
“Ah, dear boy, you are aware, I am certain, that the Romans who crucified our Lord spoke Latin, and the Caesars who slayed our brothers and sisters in antiquity also spoke this … this language of heaven. Have you ever considered that perhaps God wishes to speak to His children so they might understand? Could you believe that God could speak German to Germans, French to Frenchmen, and even Arabic to the Saracens?”
Karl was speechless.
Not wishing to pursue the matter, Pieter returned his attention to the parchments and selected one of them. “This page is from the one-hundred fourth Psalm. I am sorry I’ve but portions.” Pieter knew this to be a powerful moment for his children. “Ah, my lambs, grant your loving Father in heaven leave to speak through His Holy Word, and tell me, I pray, whether you hear Him.” Pieter held his parchment at arm’s length and slowly translated.
Bless the Lord, O my soul, O Lord my God, thou art very great; thou art clothed with honor and majesty …
He watereth the hills from his chambers: the earth is satisfied with the fruit of thy works.
He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man: that he may bring forth food out of the earth;
And wine that maketh glad the heart of man, and oil to make his face to shine, and bread which strengtheneth man’s heart…
O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches …
Pieter stopped and closed his eyes. He held the singed page lightly to his heart and sighed before gingerly folding it and securing it in its proper place. The children said nothing as he spread the next passage on his lap, gently straightening each fragile corner and smoothing it with the clean side of his bony hand.
“These verses are found in a book called First Corinthians and you shall find them most pleasing: ‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels but have not love, I am but a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have a faith that can move mountains but have not love, I have nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and yield my body to the flames but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered. It holds no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’”
The children sat hushed, unable to grasp the full measure of either the message or the occasion, but awed nonetheless. Maria broke the silence. “Papa Pieter, it seems God must love us much.”
Pieter’s eyes watered. A large tear tumbled across his weathered face and disappear
ed in his beard. He reached for the girl and laid his hand tenderly atop her golden head. “And my dear, precious lamb, only He could love you more than I.”
The next morning Wil was awakened by a distraught Karl and Jon I. They reported that three or four of the smallest children, including Maria the Younger and Marta, the sister of Lukas, were stricken with fever and were desperately ill. Wil roused Pieter from his grassy bed and both dashed straightaway to the groaning girls.
The girls were sweating profusely and lurching about the ground in delirium. Maria the Younger was breathing quickly and trembling, her yellowed eyes slightly rolled backward in their sockets, and Marta fared no better. Pieter knelt to hold Maria the Younger in his arms. He plucked a poppy still dewy from the night and placed it on her chest as he prayed.
Wil quickly retrieved the satchel of herbs from Brother Lukas and offered them to Pieter. “Here, I’ve some medicines.”
Pieter brightened and gently laid Maria on a small blanket. His eyes narrowed and his fingers scrambled through the vials and ampoules. “Karl, fetch some water, quickly. We have need of an infusion … aye … we’ll use this basil, thyme, and sage … yes, yes, this should be most helpful, most helpful indeed.”
“And here,” urged Wil, “here is a little belladonna atropa. The priest at the village ordered its use for my fevered mother, and …”
“Nay, you have misunderstood him, boy. This is no remedy, ‘less murder is the ambition.” Pieter heaved the contents of the tin, scattering the deadly herb across the wet grass. “We’ve no need of that Devil’s herb.”
Dumbstruck, Wil stared at Pieter angrily. His mouth was suddenly dry. “What say you, old man … old madman? Poison? ’Tis not so!”
“Yes, ’tis poison. I believe I spoke plain enough. What ails you now, lad?”
Wil’s face paled in the early day’s light and perspiration beaded on his brow. “B-but, the … the priest ordered it be given to Mother … and …”
“Hear me, lad,” Pieter offered gently, concerned for the boy’s sudden terror. “I am certain your memory is a bit confused. For all their wicked ways, I’ve yet to know a priest to give such to a living soul, and …”
“But he did, he did! He said it would end m’mother’s fever.” Wil wrung his hands and looked fearfully about the circle of blank faces staring at him. “He did … I swear it.” The boy slowly backed away from the camp before fleeing into the shadowed woodland.
Karl returned with some water and the troubled priest began to prepare the brew. “Young fellow,” Pieter said, “would you recall any instructions for the remedy your village priest offered for your mother?”
Karl thought for a moment and then answered casually. “Methinks something of an infusion from an herb called Bella … Bella Atrop … I do not actually remember for certain…. Why do you ask?”
Pieter nearly dropped his pail and his face darkened with rage. He pursed his lips and breathed through pinched nostrils, but held his tongue. With a sad look to the forest he answered mercifully, “’Tis no matter.”
Early in the evening of that same day the cold hand of death plucked a soul from the faithful band. Maria the Younger had drawn her last breath and now lay lifeless and stark-white on the dry grass. Poor Marta was failing and the sight of Maria’s drawn face gave her fair cause to cry out in fear. Two others had shown symptoms of the same distress and Pieter suggested the three be taken by first light to a small village he had noticed in the distance.
But before the stars could find their place, poor Marta had passed to her rest as well. Both girls’ bodies were washed by loving hands in the dark Rhine and tenderly and tearfully laid in shallow night-dug graves. The weeping children stood respectfully on the moonlit riverbank and stared at the stony mounds as a heavyhearted Pieter addressed the Almighty.
“Pater, Filius, Spiritus Sanctus … Oh, Lord of all Creation, we know not why You chose to withhold Your awesome might from these helpless ones. We know not why the Great Physician heals not on most occasions. We understand little of You, but You are our God. Help us understand so we might be empowered to love You more deeply. Now we beseech You to spare these departed souls the horrors of the Pit and receive them into Your heavenly realm, forever. Amen.”
Wil stood at a distance, still reeling from Pious’s betrayal, and observed his weeping band with some disdain. His grief and frustration had turned inward and an unrequited wrath seethed in his bones. The haunting awareness of his own ignorance and his misplaced confidence fed his fury. He yearned for vengeance and vowed to never trust again.
Maria cuddled with Solomon between the two graves and sobbed quietly to sleep. Others slowly drifted to their grassy beds at the roadside and stared sadly into the late July night’s sky. Only Pieter’s restless groaning broke the silence of that sorrowful night and soon all were fast asleep.
The rustle of birds at prime stirred the travelers and set them to their morning’s tasks. After bidding a sad farewell, the fevered children were escorted to the nearby hamlet while others prepared for first-meal. Before long a few eels were roasting over a snapping fire and three good, round turnips were boiling in the pot. Pieter had finished his morning prayers and returned to the camp quietly.
“So, Father Pieter,” smirked Tomas, “resolve this riddle: Say how you use these deaths to understand your God.”
Wil stared hard at the troubled priest and stepped to Tomas’s side. Pieter looked first at his feet and then at his beloved Maria who was holding his bony hand in a firm grip. He stroked Solomon’s head and sighed. “I … I am without a reply, my son. I simply do not know.”
Pleased with his perceived victory, Tomas sneered and walked to the far side of the camp. The other children soon finished their small portions and reassembled, the escorts having returned. All tucked their crosse securely into their rope belts and now waited patiently for Wil’s command to march. Pieter dragged himself to his position but his mind was plagued by the vision of the pale cheeks and purple lips of the two girls he had interred the night before. He turned one final look at their graves and shook his head.
The crusaders marched silently southward that day with little to distract them from their exhaustion other than an occasional peddler or passing pilgrim. Pieter, determined to leave the past in its place, leaned hard on his staff and bent low to scratch Solomon’s ears. “Ah, Karl… I’ve a bit of bad news for you.”
Karl stepped quickly to his side. “Bad news?”
“I’ve the answer to thy riddle.” He smiled weakly.
Disappointment shrouded the boy’s round face and he kicked at a stone in the dust.
“’Twas a fine riddle, though, one I’ll endeavor to remember in m’old age.” Pieter chuckled. “By the look of you I should have been better to fail at it.”
“Just end m’misery, Pieter.”
“The husband plucked the bloom that had no dew upon it.”
Karl shrugged and reluctantly affirmed the grinning priest’s answer. “I’ll confound you yet… priest.”
The weary column finally arrived at the top of a long, upward grade and the crusaders threw themselves on the hard ground. They had barely closed their eyes, however, when a light breeze filled their nostrils with a terrible, odious stench. Pieter groaned and begged God’s mercy, for the air bore him a dreadful familiarity, an unwelcome and horrible memory that awakened every unpleasant emotion in his anxious soul.
Wil ordered his complaining soldiers to their feet and drove them over the crest of the hill, hoping all the while to escape the noxious odor. But as they descended, the air became more rank until each whining pilgrim had pulled his tunic over his nose. Wishing to get past whatever ghastly rot was near, Wil led them at a quick pace and the column was soon charging down the roadway. They rounded a sharp bend where their advance was suddenly arrested. With a single gasp the band halted, most turning their faces away, for they had come upon a spectacle which so sickened and dismayed them, so wholly overwhelmed them, that they could
barely endure the sight.
Piled at the side of the roadway was a tangled, putrefied heap of fellow crusaders. Their tiny corpses were bloated and bursting in the heat, their flesh torn and ripped by dispassionate vultures now crowing high overhead. Their trickled blood had dried in a ghoulish, dark cascades which spidered over them and puddled in blackened, grassy pools beneath. Those eyes not yet gouged from little faces stared helplessly toward heaven itself, as if begging for some explanation. But none was offered.
Pieter stiffened and, submerging all emotion, advanced solemnly with Solomon by his side. He stood silently a few paces from the pile and considered each body singularly, wishing to grace each child with at least a moment’s dignity. He then dropped slowly to his knees, raised his hands in blessing, and moaned a benediction for their departed souls. When he finished he kissed his cross and pulled himself upright to trembling legs.
Pieter leaned hard on his staff, lost in thought and entranced by the buzzing of the swarms of flies shrouding the corpses. He finally furrowed his brow and leaned over the mound to discern any sign of wound or injury. All his trained eyes could detect, however, were tiny lesions on a few faces. The old man was still curious, though fairly certain of a diagnosis, and reached out his nimble fingers to probe the children’s thin limbs and protruding ribs. Having concluded that these crusaders’ ends were wrought by starvation and fever, the priest turned to his flock.
“My soul cries within me.” Pieter’s face twisted in a building rage and he roared to his crusaders. “I yearn for judgment against those wicked, heartless demons who have stacked these poor little ones like so much tinder! Had they no heart at all for such as these? We’ll not simply pass them by.”