Pilgrims of Promise (59 page)

Morning broke brightly over Wümme. It seemed to Maria that the birds were singing louder than usual and that the sky was quickly turning a wondrous shade of blue. She ran to Pieter’s room and found the man sleeping with Solomon curled at his feet. His breathing was uneven, however, and he felt cool to her touch.

“Papa Pieter?” she said softly. Her throat was swollen and her chin quivered. “Papa?”

Pieter lay perfectly still.

“Papa?” A tone of desperation laced the word.

The man moved. His eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head weakly toward the child. “Ah, my angel,” he whispered. “Am I now in heaven?”

Maria touched his cheek. Relieved, she shook her head. “No, Papa.”

“But soon?” The man’s tone was hopeful and oddly reassuring to the girl.

She nodded as tears began to drip along her smooth cheek. “I think so.”

Pieter drew a long, quivering breath. He released it slowly. “My dear,” he said, “forgive me for this final failure. That I am not able to do more …”

Maria leaned against the old man, sobbing. “Oh, Papa,” she whimpered, “it is not a failure. Have no shame in this. I will love you always.”

Pieter closed his eyes and nodded. “And I you, child.”

Frieda entered the room and saw Maria sprawled over the man’s breast. With a start, she hurried to the side of the bed and laid her hand on Pieter’s brow.
Cold,
she thought.
So cold.
She leaned close to his face and felt his breath slowly drifting by her skin.
Not much time.

The company had hoped to press on that very day, but after they finished their generous morning’s meal, dark clouds suddenly loomed in the east and thunder rumbled toward them. To take Pieter through heavy weather was unthinkable. So Friday passed with the company doing little other than waiting about Wümme for the storm that never came. “All gas, naught to pass,” grumbled Alwin. “If it’s not to rain, it ought not threaten!”

Horst had hired the surgeon to spend the whole day with Pieter, and he filled the alms box so that the priest might remain close by as well. The two hovered over the man’s bed, probing and praying, applying compresses and laying on hands.

At the bells of prime on the next day, however, Pieter climbed from his bed and weakly grabbed hold of Wil’s tunic. “Help me to the garden,” he pleaded. The young man led his elder through the cool morning air to a flat rock in the center of a small vegetable patch. “Ah, many thanks, my son.” He sucked a quivering breath through his nose. “Now, lad, I beg you, nay, I
implore
you. If there is any good in you, please set me loose from the cursed surgeon and his partner the priest. They are death’s porters—one for the body, the other for the soul!” He shook his head. “By the saints, whether in tempest or by calm, I should very much like us to be on the roadway once again.”

Wil smiled and nodded.

“Eh?”

“Ja, Pieter, so we shall.”

Relieved, Pieter nodded and turned his eyes toward the wide horizon. In the purpled morning sky, the last stair of the night could be seen failing in the west. “Good,” he said in a whisper. “Now, look there.” He pointed to the star. “We shall follow it, my son. See how it sinks into the horizon?
Ja,
lad, it is filling your new home with its light.”

Wil smiled and looked at his friend sitting slump shouldered and frail beside him. He wrapped an arm around the feeble fellow. Fighting the lump filling his throat, he said tenderly, “I love you, Pieter. Thank you for all you’ve done for us. May … may heaven give you rest.” He sniffled and wiped his eyes. “I… I do have one more thing to ask of you.”

“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.”