by C. D. Baker
Wil seemed to gather spirit and rejoined his comrades, though careful to avoid the cold stares of Frieda and the hurting eyes of his little sister. It was a pain he had never felt before.
In a few brief moments, final farewells were exchanged. The old veteran and the old padre embraced. The children waved gratefully to Signore Gostanzo and then all stepped briskly through the gate and across the moat bridge toward the valley of the Toce River.
The September morning was brisk, even chilly, but the sky was bright blue and the Italian sun felt warm in the cool air. The children enjoyed the beautiful green mountains that rose gently on either side of them as they descended through the river’s valley. The crusaders marched quietly, contented for ample provisions and happy for a gracious welcome in the villages of Pieve and Vergonte. The further south they moved the more excited they became, for talk had turned toward the easy walk of the wide plain ahead and the wonder of the sea waiting some mere weeks away.
Karl was staring into the brilliant sky one afternoon when he suddenly remembered the riddle. “Pieter,” he grumbled, “I’ve still no answer to your blasted riddle!”
Benedetto perked his ears. “I love riddles.”
“Well, he’s given me one I can’t figure for the life of me!”
“Eh, Pieter?” coaxed Benedetto.
“Karl, shall we let him try?”
“Why not? I’ll never answer it.”
“Ha! Then both of you listen carefully,” said Pieter as he bounced his staff onto the hard trail. “I’ll offer the entire riddle, including the final two parts which you, Karl, have not yet heard. Now listen very carefully and consider the words in light of all that has been learned on this journey.”
To what sun-washed haven
Must the dying daisy flee,
And in what Wonderland abides
The snow-laden holly tree?
The songs of thrush and nightingale
Are borne upon the breeze,
But toward what Country do they drift
While passing o’er the trees?
To what merry hearthstone
Speeds the twinkle of an eye,
And where in solemn duty waits
The grayness of the sky?
A misty dewdrop sparkles well
Upon a tender blade,
But soon it melts to gleam again
In which enchanted glade?
Through what canyon walls resound
And to what castle bound
The whimpers of a frightened child
Huddled on the ground?
“Now, pay attention, boy. These are the last two clues, and, I might add, my favorites!”
Where can be the valley
Where the fragrance of a rose
Can linger centuries after
It has bathed a maiden’s nose?
What hidden harbor greets the fleet
Of stars which cross the night,
And where do shadows gather
After they have lost their light?
Karl scratched his head. “Now, this is truly the very end of it?”
“I swear.”
Karl sighed. “I fear I still know nothing of the answer, but … it … it seems that it tells of a place … a special place. Like a magical place or …”
“A wonderful place!” blurted Benedetto.
“Ah, yes, a wonderful place indeed,” said Pieter. “I should like nothing better than to gaze upon an eternal valley of flowers! And can you imagine a harbor with unnumbered moorings tethering the stars? Wonderful! But take heart; I have only recently begun to understand the answer myself! And when you finally discover the place, you shall surely be happy.”
Benedetto yielded quickly. “This one is beyond my grasp. But my young friend shall surely get the better of it—I’d wager it.”
That night the company camped on the shores of the Toce River. It was a good-flowing river, neither wide nor narrow but strong and deep in parts. But without tools to build a proper raft, the crusaders would need to be content to fish and bathe in its cool water. They settled for the night around a warm fire and there enjoyed the bounty of Signore Gostanzo: long strips of salted venison, fresh crusts of wheat bread and honey, roasted mutton, venison, apples, and a hearty vegetable pottage.
After eating they lay upon beds of broken boughs while Benedetto sang them to peaceful sleep. Through the night, however, clouds gathered, and the pilgrims wakened to a light drizzle and a gray morning’s sky. Wil yawned and rubbed his eyes as he stood to his feet and he twisted his newly stitched tunic into place. He retied his belt and groused a few commands as he supervised the morning’s chores. Wil was still in command, but he led barren of the spirit he once had. No more did he feel the ardor of the self within. It was no longer reliable, and without a foundation of such familiarity he floundered. Instead of self-assured confidence swelling his chest, he writhed in secret anguish, tortured by the shame of his own heart. The lad was now trapped in that very hard place between the agony of repentance and the futility of denial. The truth was more than the boy could bear; yet his reasonable mind could not deny it. So, as is with all disappointment of the prideful, a heated wrath now brewed deep within: a fool’s remedy for soul-pain. Wil’s well-stoked cauldron rolled and bubbled with each imploring glance from Maria or every clipped word from Frieda. And a few acrid darts from a well-informed Karl simply fanned the blaze.
But the shamefaced lad was not alone in his misery. Though the gentle Maria had no anger in her little heart, she did feel pain. Her pain was not unlike her brother’s, for it too was the agony of shame, though it differed in that it was a shame cast upon her by another. Her heart had been broken into a thousand sharpened shards and now lay scattered about, cutting and wounding the deepest places.
Karl, too, was afflicted, though that within him which suffered was not apparent to the boy. While moved, in part, by transgressions warranting just and proper indignation, his heart was puffed, in larger part, by the sinister pleasure of his inner claim to higher honor. His thoughts clung fast to Frieda’s tale like a spinster’s ear to vulgar gossip, each word confirming him as the better.
Wil’s conspicuous weakness had sadly clouded Karl’s mind’s eye to his own vice and none, save Pieter, had the stuff to shield the lad from such a subtle folly. And so the boy’s self-righteous anger grew and a self-assured fury took firm hold. Oh, if I could but smash his pretty face … were I bigger I’d break his arms and legs … I’d pull out his tongue for what was said! he mused. At last, Karl’s festering rage could no longer be contained and he pushed Wil from the rear. “You needs answer for how you spoke of Maria and the others.”
Spinning around, Wil barked, “Shut your mouth!”
“Nay! ‘Tis bad enough you were a coward in battle, but you were a fool with that … that wench as well. Maria cries each night and you’ve not the pluck to even—”
“Put a stopper in y’mouth else I’ll smash it!”
The castle’s combat had altered Karl’s easy ways and he felt a different sort of charge now pulse through his veins. The boy said nothing but his eyes flashed and he lunged toward Wil savagely. He bounced his fist hard into his brother’s face, knocking the surprised lad backward. Wil howled as blood poured out of his nostrils and rushed over his lips.
Pieter held Otto and Jon with his staff. “Leave them be,” he whispered wisely. “Just leave them be.”
Karl stepped toward his brother again. “I say you are a coward, and one who’d betray his own.”
Wil seethed under the accusation. He knocked Karl to the ground with a quick punch on the chin. “And I say, shut your mouth or I swear to kill you where y’lay.”
Karl dismissed the threat and answered defiantly, “You’ve not the pluck to kill—or the blade! Ha! I’ve seen you beg in fear.”
Wil stood silently as Karl climbed stubbornly to his feet.
“I never thought you to be a coward,” Karl pressed. “But you’d be afraid of more than combat
and of more than a wench. You fear to face your own faults!”
Wil took a menacing step toward Karl. He glared impotently, then turned and stormed away. The company stood silently and drifted to the wayside until some order was restored. Various clusters gathered to rest while some lay flat to snatch a moment’s sleep. Otto followed Pieter to a seat in thick grass and wiped his hands over his face, unburying a host of crust-caked freckles. He shook his head and whispered, “Oft it seems the whole world to be angry.”
“Ja, my boy. The whole world is angry and ‘tis wise to learn something of it.” Pieter shook his head. “Lad, hear me. There are two kinds of anger. Learn to discern them and life goes a bit better. The first is the anger of God. We share in it when we are outraged at evildoing—our own or others’. It is ignited to defend the innocent; its target is the Evil One. It is a worthy kind of anger that many claim but few have.
“The second is what is common all around us. It is the rage of arrogance, the fruit of hard hearts defending their vanities in as many deceitful ways as the mind can conjure. That anger, good Otto, is the child of disappointment and the grandchild of pride. It is born of bondage and is the snare of Lucifer.”
Chapter 22
THE LAKE OF TEARS
The rest of that gray day and the next, the children descended the valley toward Lago Maggiore and by dusk they made camp along the stony shores of the quiet lake near the town of Stresa. At dawn, Pieter, Karl, Otto, and the minstrel left the camp to go begging and returned in the afternoon with a fair grant of fish, local fruits, and an assortment of vegetables, cheeses, and breads. The spirits of their comrades were lifted …though, to Pieter’s skilled eye, numbers of them seemed sickly.
The crusaders ate quietly under a sky growing heavy and damp. The air along the lake smelled of fish and wet gravel. Benedetto pointed to a far shore. “Somewhere over there is a hermitage, I’m told. Seems some years before my birth a local merchant was spared a pestilence and endowed a chapel in a cliffside where he is now buried. Many tell of miracles and such.”
The group stared at the far shore with mild interest, seeing little more than blue water against rolling green mountains. “Ah, si!” the minstrel continued. “It is the chapel of Caterina del Sasso. Perhaps a miracle shall find us, too!”
Wil, still lost in his own melancholy, motioned for his pilgrims to form their column. He surveyed them carefully, agreeing with Pieter that several were showing signs of fever—including his little sister. “We’ll follow the shore. Should be an easy stretch. Benedetto says the village of Arona lies about three leagues south, so we’ll make for it by nightfall.”
The children nodded in obedience, though Pieter had grown evermore uneasy. He, too, was feeling poorly. “Might we find a night’s stay in Stresa, lad? The folk seemed warm to us and the churches were charitable. Methinks it might be a help to the sick ones.”
Wil hesitated. He looked deeply into a long column of imploring eyes but shook his head. “Three leagues are not so many. We’ve fallen far behind as it is.”
So, with no more discussion, they began a slow march along the stony shores of Lago Maggiore. The day passed quickly, though, and to Wil’s chagrin the march was rather pitiful. Darkness fell with the torchlights of Arona still a ways in the distance. “We simply cannot go on, lad,” moaned Pieter. “See … Anna and Gertrude are far behind. Frieda has carried Maria for the last hour. We’ve driftwood aplenty and food enough. ‘Tis never good to enter a village at night anyway.”
Wil growled and spat, disgusted with himself and those who now crowded around him. “So, have your rest. We camp here.”
The sky was heavy and the air damp and misty. The lake lapped quietly along its narrow shore as evening fog crept low atop its dark waters. The weary company settled passively around a struggling campfire that laid curling smoke atop them. Indeed, some had been stricken with fever and now languished about the campsite visibly ill. The others spoke in hushed tones as they ate a stew of boiled fish and vegetables.
Since his return from Stresa, Pieter had kept an odd distance from the others and now sat against the narrow trunk of a leafy tree away from the fire. Frieda noticed the old man’s change of habit and sought him out. “Pieter, are y’not feeling well?”
“I fear not, dear Mädchen, not well at all.” Pieter had sensed a fever rising all through the day. His skin felt sore to the touch, his eyesight was slightly blurred, and a clammy sweat had broken across his brow. He had thought it best to remove himself from the children. “Ah, but Frieda, I am in need of sleep and would beg your leave.” Frieda hesitated. She reached her hand toward the man’s face but he caught it. “Please, my dear, I would be so very pleased if you would just leave me to rest.”
The young maiden was a nurturer by nature. She would obey her elder though her concern would hardly be abandoned. She withdrew to the circle of her comrades but kept a secret watch so, later that evening, she was quick to respond when the priest began to tremble and perspire heavily. She called for others, and soon she and Maria were bathing his brow. Finally, over the man’s feeble protestations, some of the boys carried him carefully to a leafy bed they had quickly made alongside the campfire.
“Good kinder… please keep away,” entreated Pieter. “Please, stay far away.”
Wil and Karl quickly set aside their differences and both leaned close to their old friend. “Have we no more herbs?” asked Karl fearfully.
Pieter shook his head weakly. “Nay, lads. All were lost in the flood; now y’must keep a distance from me.”
Maria gave the man’s words no heed. She offered him a tender smile and snuggled against his shivering body. “You’ve need of us and we love you.”
Pieter struggled to sit and pushed her with what little strength remained in his weak arms. “Ach, nay! My dear, dear Mädel. Y’must stay away!” Exasperated, he began to weep but his tears only drew his beloved crusaders closer. “Please, I beg you all,” he implored, “please keep distance. I brought fever to another in my life; God have mercy on me should I do the same again.”
Benedetto gently lifted Maria away. “Si, bambini. Pieter is right. You must keep far off.”
But the children would not listen. They vowed to keep a vigil through the night and circled close around the fevered priest as the wet mists settled heavy on them all.
The hours passed slowly and each stout heart did its very best to keep a faithful watch. But, alas, the flames soon dwindled to red licks over charcoaled wood, the clouded moon set behind unseen mountains, and, like the disciples at Gethsemane, the well-intended company fell fast asleep.
Pieter’s fever broke into a robust sweat sometime in the night and by lauds he slowly opened his eyes. Dawn had not quite broken, but the dim light of a new day had stripped the blackness from the sky and Pieter whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. He wiped his damp brow and neck with the back of his robe’s rough sleeve and looked about to find his young guardians sleeping in a ring around him. All, that is, save Wil, who had roused himself earlier to keep a better watch. Pieter turned a heavy eye toward the faithful lad and whispered weakly, “God bless you, dear boy. God bless you, indeed.”
Wil shook his head and muttered, “God shall never bless me; for my deeds and for my heart, God’s curse shall follow me forever.”
Before Pieter could answer, a child’s troublesome cough turned him to his side. The startled priest suddenly found himself staring into the flushed face of his beloved Maria who lay sweating in the early light, stirring uncomfortably and struggling for breath. Pieter’s heart seized. Then Jon and Anna coughed and moaned close to Wil’s fire. Pieter strained against the brawn of his sturdy staff and pulled himself to trembling legs. “Quickly, Wil, quickly!” he cried frantically. “Stoke the fire again and help me wrap these children in more blankets.”
Karl was wakened by Pieter’s voice and stumbled to his feet. Wil sent him to gather more wood, while he gently covered the sick with blankets. “Otto, waken!” Wil shouted. �
�All of you … Frieda, Gertrude … all… now. We needs more blankets, more firewood, water and … and a good broth—now! ”
Pieter fell to his knees and opened his hands to the heavens. His face was pale and drawn from his night’s battle, and his ravaged body could barely keep his own soul from flying away. But his consumption would never bar his heart’s resolve and he engaged all his faculties in favor of his beloved lambs. He recited the Lord’s Prayer with a cracking voice. “Pater noster qui es in coelis, Sanctificetur nomen tuum, Adveniat regnum tuum….”
Having begged the attention of the high places, the priest crawled to Anna’s side and put his hands on her head. He wept a pleading prayer for God’s mercy and His healing touch. He then leaned over Jon and begged again. “Oh Father!” he wailed. “Show us Thy grace!”
And though he loved all his children, Pieter’s poor heart burst within him when he came to Maria’s side, for she had taken a special place near its very center. He stared speechlessly at her perspiring face, and the sight of her suffering so crushed him that he fell back onto his haunches and sobbed uncontrollably.
Maria suddenly opened her yellowed eyes and whispered an indiscernible word. The sound caught Pieter unawares and he moved close to the girl to listen more carefully. Maria reached her hand into the folds of her gown. She smiled faintly and offered Pieter a crumpled bunch of wildflowers she had picked in the evening past. “I… I… found these for you, Papa Pieter,” she whispered. “I thought they would help you.”
Speechless and chin trembling, Pieter stretched his hand slowly toward Maria and received the flowers from her as if he were being offered a favor from an angel. He fought his tears and offered her a quivering smile as he held the tiny blooms to his heaving breast. “Oh, my precious little one. It was love, indeed, that spared me this very night.”
Red-eyed and tear-stained, Karl fell to his knees by Maria. “And love shall spare you, sister. God shall bless you with healing by the morrow, I … I just know it.” His voice trailed away.