Quest of Hope: A Novel (63 page)

As if he understood, Solomon licked his new master’s hand and leaned against his thigh. He whined a little and stared into Heinrich’s face with hopeful, twinkling eyes. Heinrich coughed and scratched Solomon’s ears, then forced clean mountain air into his wheezing lungs. He bent to pluck a wildflower and held it to his nose. Its scent was sweet and gentle, its colors cheerful and pleasant. He sat and stared at the beauty held between his thumb and finger. “Could there be another way?” he murmured.

For the next several days Heinrich and Solomon hurried south, past a menacing castle bracing for battle and through a lowering landscape to the source of the Ticino River. From there they followed a valley roadway that paralleled the blue-green river. They rested infrequently, but when they did they loved to lie atop the warm, white rocks that were scattered along the pebbled shore. Here they slept, both twitching and smiling while dreaming good things in the warmth of the Italian sun.

Heinrich and Solomon finally reached the foothills of the Apennines and panted their way higher and higher into the mountains. The Apennines were rounded, like lumpy shoulders, but steep. The irritable German grumbled to Solomon about their lack of beauty and glared at the tangle of softwoods now surrounding him. “These trees are useless and disordered!” He wished he could prop himself against the sturdy trunks of his mighty Magi. He longed for the clear air and vibrant green of the mighty forests of the north. “Solomon,” he muttered, “some say this is a charming land of music, good wine, and beautiful women. Ha! I say it is charming like … like a dimwit smiling in the sun!”

The two pressed on for another day until they crested the mountains at a dramatic curve, where they paused. Heinrich smiled and a lump filled his throat. “There, Solomon! There!” He pointed across the treetops to the distant city of Genoa and the magnificent blue expanse of the Aegean. “Smell! Can y’smell the salt sea? Hurry! We needs hurry!”

The two rushed along the road as it wound its way downward. But it was then that fear rose within the man once again. With every step he felt a renewed urgency, a desperate need to hurry. He dared not be late! The pair trotted anxiously, pushing themselves through shuffling crowds of annoying travelers until they slowed alongside a patch of wildflowers surrounding a fresh grave. Heinrich felt a chill spread through the whole of his body as Solomon dashed toward it.

The grave was a mound of dark, crumbled earth and small rocks. It was overspread with a thin layer of freshly picked flowers whose blooms had not yet wilted. At its head was a simple wooden cross—one like the crusaders carried in their belts. Heinrich felt sick. He called to travelers coming uphill from the city, first to this one, then to that. Few could understand him and those that could knew nothing. At last, a huddle of brown-robed monks sauntered by, whispering amongst themselves with bowed, tonsured heads. Heinrich called to them.

An elderly brother answered kindly. “Nay, my son, we’ve no knowledge of the grave, but, yes, we passed the ones you describe. No doubt they entered the city just hours ago.”

Heinrich’s chest heaved. “Brothers, I beg you. Tell me of a tall blond lad and a younger redhead … with curls.”

The monks mumbled and shrugged. “Ah, forgive us, but we know nothing of either boy. We remember only their mad priest.”

Heinrich’s breath quickened. “In the city! In the city, Solomon!” He took a long look at the mysterious grave. Something within urged him to cast off the rocks and dig beneath the flowers to find a face.
Vile thoughts! I am a vile and wicked man.
He accused himself a sinner and hung his head. Then, with a deep, resolute breath, Heinrich of Weyer turned his face away and hurried on.

The port city of Genoa was large and unfriendly. Its palaces boasted the wealth of a merchant class enjoying the bounty of sea trade; the crowded alleyways of the poor just dingy and wretched. Smoke choked the narrow streets and the air reeked of septic and garbage. Its olive-toned folk gawked and grumbled at the travel-worn Teuton and his ragged dog. But Heinrich cared little and gave them no heed. His only purpose was to find his sons before they boarded a ship bound for Palestine.

The man hurried past towers and palaces, past marble colonnades and splendid fountains until he arrived at the city’s docks, where he rushed about, frantic and afraid. He shouted to seamen and to priests, to merchants and to
matroni
… but to no avail. Heinrich did, however, come across other little fair-skinned crusaders wandering aimlessly about the dangerous port. These pitiful wretches were confused. They had been told that the waves would miraculously part as they did for Moses at the Red Sea. They had been told that they would march to the Holy Land on dry ground. Instead, they now needed to either beg money for ship’s passage, hide in a city that did not welcome them, or face the trials of autumn in the cold Alps. While they floundered for a decision, these sick, hungry, and fearful lost lambs had suffered the further miseries of others’ contempt and the abuses that followed. They were shamed and spat upon, assaulted, molested, neglected, ridiculed, and mocked. After all, they had failed in their journey of faith.

So, despite his own compelling cause, Heinrich’s tender heart could not ignore the dirty, hungry waifs that had begun to follow him. Night was falling and he could only imagine what horrors these children would soon endure. With a painful groan he suspended his search in favor of mercy; he yielded his purposes to a circle of sad eyes. Heinrich hurried to the market and spent some of his gold on two carts full of provisions with drivers to deliver them to a hasty camp he set by the seaside. Here, surrounded by a growing throng of grateful little faces, he tossed a blanket to one child, then one to the next, all the while feeling the weight of a heart heavy for his own. With a forlorn eye on what could have been, poor Heinrich hugged, fed, and clothed the little strangers pressing close on all sides.

Solomon was happy to play with the tattered children and brought joy to faces that had almost forgotten how to smile. He licked and rolled, wagged his tail and pranced about midst squeals of delight. And as the dog warmed their hearts, Heinrich built a fire. Its light drew dozens more from their hiding. Homeless, wandering waifs slipped to the baker’s fireside from alleyways and sheds, from beneath abandoned boats, and from the crevices of the rocky shore.

That night the man sat on the dark edges of his camp determined to protect the sleeping children. Many had suffered the vices and lurid concupiscence of humanity’s most ravenous and disgusting debris, and it was merciful that a guardian had come. The night seemed endless to the exhausted baker, however, and he could only groan as he imagined his sons aboard a ship that may have set sail in the evening just passed. He stared at the silhouettes of rocking masts lined tightly along the city’s docks. “Perhaps they are yet here, waiting somewhere to board at dawn.” He saw a fire at the far side of the curving shoreline and wanted desperately to search it, yet he dared not abandon the little ones sleeping safely all around. A lump filled his throat. “I have failed again! Oh, dear God, hurry the dawn!”

Sometime before prime, sleep cast its spell over the exhausted baker and he tilted slowly to the earth where he lay long after the first hint of light eased over the rim of the round-topped mountains. The children quietly encircled the snoring man and watched him respectfully until a little girl nudged him awake. “Huh?” muttered Heinrich. He opened his eye and stared about the circle. Confused for a moment, he suddenly lurched with a start. “Dear God!” he cried. He jumped to his feet and peered anxiously at the docks. “Listen, children. The sun is up; you are safe for now. Quickly, I needs know if any has seen crusaders with an old, white-haired priest?”

A tattered, thin-faced lad of about eleven called out, “I have, sir.”

Heinrich ran to him. “Tell me, boy. Did he sail—he and his company?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do y’know where they’d be?”

The lad shrugged. He called to a friend. “Ludwig, remember the old priest? He gave you half an apple.”

A little boy smiled. “Aye.”

“Where is he?”

Ludwig thought hard. He was about seven and barefooted. His feet were bloody and his tunic was so tattered that his protruding ribs and sunken belly were plainly visible. “Don’t know.”

Heinrich’s breath quickened and his face went taut. He leaned toward Ludwig and spoke slowly. “Do y’know if they’ve sailed?”

Ludwig shook his head.

Heinrich drew a deep breath, then surveyed the press of hopeful faces staring at him. He licked his lips. “Hear me. I needs find about m’children, then I shall help you. I swear it. Run, quick, all of you and see if you can find me the old priest. If y’find him, tell him he must wait. Then come find me … I’ll be along the docks; you’ll spot me easy!”

The children scampered toward the docks, toward the marketplace, and to the far reaches of Genoa’s shoreline as Heinrich and Solomon charged to the ships. The sun was now a bright disc climbing boldly over the mountains in the east. The sky was clear and glorious but Heinrich gave it no heed. He ran hard, but by the time he reached the water’s edge several ships had already cast off and their sails were filling with a fresh breeze. The man ran from ship to ship, then bellowed across the rippling harbor. “Children! Have y’children on board?” He stared hard at each ship, first one, then the next. “There!” he shouted to himself. “There!” Heinrich’s eye had caught the glimmer of yellow hair in the morning sun. He stared hard, straining to see more.

“San Marco,”
muttered a man with a hoarse voice.

“What?” answered Heinrich.

“San Marco.”
The dockman was peeling an apple and pointed his knife at the slow-moving ship in Heinrich’s view.

Heinrich’s heart stopped. “Good man, can y’tell me if children are on board … children—
bambini
and
a padre?’

The man swallowed his apple and held out his palm.

Heinrich grit his teeth and jammed his trembling fingers into his satchel. He retrieved a silver penny and pushed it at the fellow. “Well?”

“Bambini, si, padre, no.”

Heinrich was confused. “No priest?” His mind whirled and he paced the dock. “What to do?” A squeaky voice from a small, panting little girl interrupted him. “What, child?”

“I says the old priest is yonder.” She pointed toward the far edge of the harbor where a jetty of black rock projected into the sea.

Heinrich stood on trembling legs. “There?”

“
Ja
.”

“Ah!” The man kissed the maiden hastily on the cheek. “Little one, I shall return for you!”

Heinrich bellowed for Solomon and sped across the harbor’s wharves. Anxious, he raced past rows of houses and shops, the shipwright’s building and the caulkers’ guild, the sailmaker and the open door of a loud inn where he suddenly heard laughter and the mention of
bambini.
Heinrich paused and hesitated. He peered toward the distant jetty then ducked into the tavern.

“Who speaks of children?” Heinrich roared. “A flagon of wine for words of the crusading children!”

The sailors grumbled, then ignored him. Panting, Heinrich grabbed a wine jar from the cupboard and slammed it atop their table. He pressed his hand hard to the cork. His grief had turned to fury. “Now, you, yellow-beard, tell me what y’know!”

The sailor stared at Heinrich and then at the wine. “Aye. Two ships of northland whelps sank a week ago. All hands lost.”