Quest of Hope: A Novel (31 page)

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 once 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.”

Heinrich nodded. “Some days ‘tis worse than others.”

“Yes, ‘tis the flours and yeasts you work with. I’ve told y’before y’needs wash your skin morning and night. Here, I’ve a good balm of marigold. Keep it on whilst you sleep, and you’ll smell the better for it too!” Lukas paused and looked into Heinrich’s eyes. “Hard times can bring the itch as well. Have you hard times, lad?”

Heinrich shrugged. “No more than another man. I’ve much on m’mind with the bakery and m’land, rents and taxes, and the like.”

“And your wife?”

The baker grew silent.

Lukas narrowed his gaze. “And your wife?” he repeated.

“She means to do well for all, and she wants the best for her household. She’s got a gift in charcoaling the likeness of faces and…”

“And have you peace?” asked Emma.