Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (18 page)

The children were now cheerful and well fed, high spirited and ambitious. No longer did the Rhine road daunt them, but rather it invited them to press ever southward on their holy march. The day passed more quickly than others, and, having made good distance through the wide Oberrheingraben, Wil ordered a brief rest in the shade of the forest now bordering the roadway.

Though pleased with improving morale and ample provision, Wil nevertheless abided a growing resentment toward Georg’s recruitment. Unable to restrain his feelings he dragged the new recruit behind a large tree. “Listen well, fat boy. You shall do as I speak and when I speak it. You’d be one of us now … none better. You are not our master. You shall march at the rear and had best keep those flabbed legs striding. You’ll have no greater portion than I allow and we care not one whit ‘bout your belly pains. And should one grouse, a single complaint of any sort fall on my ear I’ll drive you away. Do you understand?”

Georg’s gentle face quivered and flushed. He offered a weak smile and nodded respectfully.

The next day passed with Pieter walking cheerfully at his customary position just behind Wil and with faithful Solomon by his side. He raised his chin and baked his wrinkled face in the brilliance of the bright sunlight, contemplating for a brief moment the darkness of his future grave. His beard bent in the soft breezes and he sighed before turning to wink at Karl. “Now Karl, dear boy, this would be a fine opportunity for me to offer you yet another riddle.”

Karl smiled in eager anticipation.

“This particular riddle shall be presented in a number of parts and we’ll see if you might answer it before the last clue is offered. Ah, I truly must confess, lad, that I am only now beginning to grasp its meaning and
that
dubious success comes only after years of reflection. So it is. Are you ready?”

Karl nodded.

“Good. The first is this: ‘To what sun-washed haven must the dying daisy flee and in what wonderland abides the snow-lade’ holly tree?’”

Karl’s nose wrinkled.

Pieter chuckled. “So,
when
you are in need of another clue, you shall ask and I’ll give!”

Wil turned his head toward his brother and the priest but his eyes fell upon his sister. He slowed his pace even more and took careful note of her thinning frame and the awkward way her legs now seemed to bow.
She looks so very tired
, he thought, but she had scarcely ever passed an hour without offering him a ready smile and gentle wave.
Would that the others complain as little as she
, he thought. Always seeking to offer encouragement, the little girl often strayed from the pathway to pick bunches of wildflowers.

A pain pierced Wil’s heart as his mind suddenly envisioned her tossed atop that cursed pile of corpses with flames stretching and leaping to blacken her lifeless body. An icy chill clung to his skin and he pressed back tears. His guarded spirit, toughened from years of hurt as a child, was not wholly lost and its tenderest remnants warred earnestly against a creeping hardness born of a deepening cynicism.
Maria shall surely die on this journey
, he thought as he tightened his fists.
I know that God will kill her. Nothing lovely lasts. Not the flowers in spring, not the colors of dawn … nothing. And if she is spared, life shall change her into the monster our … mother became.

To Wil, Karl had the look of an exhausted but ever-faithful dog; always present, always working, rarely complaining and ever eager. His round, ruddy face seemed ever flushed by sincere effort, but his frame was thinning and his once, cheerful eyes sparkled less as the frequency of heartache had worked to extinguish them.

At the rear of the column trailed Tomas, usually alone and at some distance from the others. His darkening disposition created unease, and his secretive and ever-sullen mood had cost him the camaraderie and fellowship of his companions. He missed few opportunities to complain and was quick to nourish Wil’s doubts. His black eyes stalked the faltering and he would be seen pouncing on such prey with whispered words of discouragement. Lately he had begun to wander away, sometimes for a day at a time, always to return with some fantastic tale of woodland spirits or fairies, or a fearful yarn of witchcraft or sorcery in the dark forests to the east.

Pieter, however, faithfully pressed forward with his beloved flock, deftly hiding from their view the grave concerns that so disquieted his soul. In its hidden chambers his mind reeled and he wrestled to put order to the confusion all about him.
What can be said of this God of mine? He saves one from a well… yet why not all from fever? He saves these from starvation… yet why not those?

Pieter’s thoughts whirled within his whitened head as his beloved flock followed obediently. They complained on occasion but not so often as they would surely have been entitled, choosing instead to search for strengths within and without themselves. The ever-giving Georg was always willing to squeeze a quick smile between desperate wheezes and he pressed his heavy legs forward without as much as a murmur. Gentle Lothar, though weakened and frequently carried on Wil’s shoulders, calmed many with a soft song. The others, like little Anna and the always-true Jons, marched ever onward with an earnestness that would have heartened the most warworn Christian knights.

The day following, the crusaders rounded a bend in the dusty road and paused to survey the scene spread before them. Their faithful companion, the Rhine River, was now dotted with flat-bottom barges and the single masts of sailing ships. On the near shore women pulled reeds for weaving, while along the farther shore fishermen worked their cod nets, deftly throwing them toward the river’s bottom with well-trained arms.

“Look there.” Lothar pointed. “Must be a city at some distance. See the busy roadway.”

The children peered across the river toward the faraway walls of Strasbourg. A parade of carts and horsemen could be seen as tiny figures along the road leading from the ferries. “Aye,” answered Pieter. “’Tis a city out there, indeed … and a good one. Ah, if you could only enjoy its innards … the markets and fairs, the foods, the fine homes and cathedrals.” Pieter put his arms around Jon I and Karl and recounted his times wandering the place. He spoke of its grand marketplace filled with wares from the East—silk and perfumes, spices and fine silver. “Beautiful tapestries hang within the courtyards of the wealthy and women adorn themselves with the finest of gold. And the wine, ah, the wine! I am told the markets now sell a new accessory for the
cives
called ‘buttons.’”

The children waited for an explanation.

“Buttons, as they are described to me, are round or squared bits of carved wood or brass used to bind tunics fast by the chest. Seems clever enough. They are stitched to one side and pushed through a hole cut in the other.”

The children laughed. “Buttons,” chuckled one. “Why not a few for Georg’s breeches!”

“Ja, ja,
let us be kindly toward our friend Georg.” The old man smiled and proceeded to speak of the city’s minstrels and jugglers, of fools and jesters who could make both peasant and nobleman laugh to tears. “My children … know this, that merriment belongs as surely to prince as pauper. When people laugh we laugh without station, for our chortles are not those of lord or serf, high-birth or low, but of all who are made in the image of a God … who also laughs. ’Tis a joyous wonder to see the silked sleeve of a burgher wipe the same salted tear as the homespun of a peasant.”

The crusaders soon turned their eyes away from visions of Strasbourg and rejoined their attention to days of hard marching. Late one sultry evening a turn in the road delivered them to a view of the trading town of Dunkeldorf set some distance ahead. The sun was setting and Wil suggested the group make camp. In short order a small fire was snapping amidst a circle of forlorn and dirty faces.

For the past fortnight many such occasions were a pleasant, if not happy, respite, but this night’s fire nurtured a brooding melancholy. Pieter offered his usual blessing and a few strips of eel, a grasp of dried apples, and a final hard piece of spelt bread. But the pilgrims were painfully aware that they were about to swallow the last of the provisions Georg’s father had provided, and they knew hard times were upon them again.

Sensing the depressed spirits of his children, Pieter stood close by the quiet flames and, with a large, one-toothed grin began to tell tales of the ancient Germanic
volk
. The children’s distress dissolved into the darkness as the old man immersed his flock in the adventures of their Teutonic forebears.

Pieter thrust and parried his staff at the shadows as his voice bellowed the legends of the soldiers of the Mayfields, of battles against dragons, of the rescue of maidens, and of the guardian spirits of the valleys beyond their sight. “And soon, my children”—he pointed his staff into the darkness—“we shall come upon the edges of the endless Schwarzwald … a forest said to teem with elves and fairies … a place filled with mystery; a place where stars sprinkle magic dust and the trees are keepers of secrets. Ah, my dears, such a place of wonder.”

The children were still. Pieter walked slowly to the rim of the campfire and placed his hands solemnly atop his crook. “Close your eyes, my children, and see with your mind the sights of your world. Everything that can be seen has purpose.”

Pieter’s voice hushed to a whisper and he drew his black hood over his head. “The falling leaf in autumn, each summer’s dewdrop, every cry of the owl, each breath of the wind … all have purpose.”

A voice chirped from the shadows. “Even so the fairies?”

“Ah, yes, child, even the visions of our… imaginations.”

A rumble of protest circled the ring of earnest faces. “Nay so, Pieter!” cried one. “Nay so. M’
Vater’s
been about the wood and seen such with his own eyes.”

“Aye, and for me too,” stated another. “M’village is circled by elves near to every Midsummer’s feast…. ’Tis not in our heads.”

Pieter had no wish to challenge such things, and the sparkle in Maria’s hopeful eyes was enough for him to yield his own thoughts of the subject. He remembered his own days of longing for a glimpse of the pointed leather cap of a happy troll, or the fleeting wings of a woodland fairy. “Ah, perhaps true enough,” he answered. “I confess no certainty on these matters. Perhaps the spirits dwell in both our minds and the forest.”

Contented for having their dreams spared, the crusaders returned to the comfort of the fire and the warmth of the old man’s words. And soon enough their eyes weighed heavy and yielded to a good night’s sleep.

Dawn came too soon for most, save Wil who was eager to search for treasures in the town just ahead. So, with little food to prepare, the column formed quickly and followed their leader to the gates of Dunkeldorf.

“Have y’been at this town, Pieter?” asked Karl.

Pieter nodded slowly.
“Ja,
my son. I have been here and I doubt it wise to return.”

Wil was in no mood for reservation. “Pieter,” he snapped, “we’ve no choice but to enter and seek provisions. Lammas feast is soon and methinks the town must have a bounty to share.”

Pieter sighed and ignored the boy’s bite. Instead he cast a loving gaze at the weary faces of his flock. He looked sadly at their tattered clothing and swollen feet. All were hungry and some were sick, yet there remained a glint of stubborn faith and an abiding glimmer of hope in each eye his met. The sight of such resolve stirred Pieter’s heart and he whispered a silent prayer for his wisdom and for their protection.