Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (55 page)

“I saw but one in my youth at a fair in Paris,” said Pieter. “But I fear you already think me mad.”

“No, Pieter, you needs tell us!”

“Hmmm. ‘Tis is a most difficult creature to describe. But “I’ll try. Close your eyes and see a pig in your mind. Now make it as big as a plough-horse … and then make it twice again as big.”

“What?” groused Wil. “Fool’s talk.”

“I speak the truth and shall utter not another single word if you choose to not believe me.”

“Please say on, Pieter,” begged Karl. “Tell us more.”

“Ja
… now take this pig, which would be as high as a timberman’s hovel, Karl, and saw its legs so that they are short and fat with round pads for feet.”

The girls began to giggle.

“Nay. Listen carefully. I speak truly, I swear it. Now take your pig’s snout and pull it out like warm honeycomb … until it nearly hangs on the ground.”

“You’ve made dolts of us all!” complained Wil. “First circles that mean nothing and now giant pigs. By truth, Pieter…”

Gertrude eyed the old man suspiciously. “Tell us you’d not be lying to us, Pieter.”

“
Ach
, my little dear.” He bent down and held her close. “I would never lie to you.”

“Is that all of it? Would there be more to this dream?” laughed a voice.

“By truth, y’faithless litter, you’ll be laying eyes on these in Palestine! Then you’ll wish to repent such ridicule. But aye, there’d be a bit more. You needs fix huge ears on its head, larger than shutters.”

“And … and what about the tail?”

“The tail is much like a pig’s curl, only longer.”

“So you are saying,” said Karl carefully, “we needs take a pig and make its body as big as a house and make its legs short and fat, and pull its nose out so it hangs on the ground, and hang giant ears on it that are like flapping shutters—and that is an elephant?”

“Indeed, ‘tis true. I swear it.”

Karl shook his head. “Meaning no disrespect, Pieter, but methinks the waters of the bath to have soaked your head some!” He and his friends snickered.

Pieter continued. “Well, my point was that General Hannibal rode his elephants across the Alps and defeated the Roman legions by Pavia.”

Disgusted, Wil interrupted the old man with orders to beg at the marketplace. With feast day on the morrow the town was bountiful and filled with plenty, but, despite their friendly manner, the townsfolk were sparing. Gertrude returned with a handful of crust and Frieda with two onions. The boys fared worse and by vespers had no more than three apples, a half-string of garlic, and a pear.

The journey continued and the children soon found themselves marching tight to the sandy shores of the narrow Scrivia River within view of the Apennines rising in the distance. Knowing that the mountains ahead were the last wall between them and Genoa, the crusaders trod with new energy, now emboldened by past sufferings and resolved to reach the mysterious sea.

“What does it look like, Pieter?” asked Frieda.

“What does what look like, child?”

“The sea—what does the sea look like?”

“Oh yes, none of you have ever seen it. My, my, what a sight you have waiting for you.”

Wil ordered a brief rest and the crusaders sat around Pieter.

“Can you picture your fishponds?”

“
Ja
, of course.”

“Ha! The sea looks nothing like them.” Pieter guffawed, though his perturbed audience stared back indignantly.

“Ah, my apologies. The sea … so much to say about it … so many moods, so many different ways it has—like a woman.”

Frieda and her clique scowled.

“Begging your pardon. So, then … once again close your eyes and imagine when we looked over the wide valleys from the tops of the high mountains. Do you remember? Do you remember how green it was? Good. Now, in your mind’s eye, turn the green to blue and stretch it flat as far as you can see. Of course, when it churns and rolls in the wind ‘tis different and when the sky is gray … and at night… oh my!”

“And you said it smells good as well?” exclaimed Karl.

“Indeed, and the sounds of it! The waves and the sea birds … and the …”

Wil climbed to his feet, unimpressed. “Aye, Pieter, more stories like elephants and zeroes? Methinks ‘tis time to press on.”

Chapter 25

THE DARK LORD AND THE
HAVEN FOUND

T
he crusaders marched across the plain toward the foothills of the Apennines, passing through the villages of Villalvernia and Stazzano. The journey was easy and spirits were high, and before long they found themselves climbing through the foothills of the Apennines and taking respite in a small Ligurian village.

The children received a reasonable welcome from the warmhearted folk and were invited to make camp just beyond the walls. Pieter extended a hearty
“grazie”
on behalf of his flock, and the company encircled a good fire heating a bubbling pottage.

The next morning the crusaders roused themselves under a gentle sun and surveyed the landscape before them. “It seems we might follow the Scrivia?” asked Wil.

“Nay … methinks only at parts. Mountain riverbeds tend to be rough and we’d be better staying to the peddlers’ trails. I’d wager them to take us to a wider road into Genoa.”

Wil agreed.

The company lingered for a few moments facing the scene before them and feeling greater anticipation as they were finally about to ascend their final obstacle. The mountains standing in wait were sharp-edged, but considerably shorter than the Alps. They rose steeply and were divided by tight valleys covered with a stale-green carpet of round- topped trees. Wil thought the trees to be mostly softwood and noticed the silvery undersides of their leaves flashing in the sunny breeze. He missed the tall spruce and heavy oak of his home.

The company left the village camp and climbed a full day into the mountains, following, as Pieter had advised, a well-worn peddler’s trail. The following morning Wil woke with a strange odor in his nose. He drew a deep breath through his nostrils. “Ah? Awaken, everyone. What’d be the smell?”

His fellows opened their eyes and obediently sucked in the cool morning air. Uncertain as to the odor, they stood to their feet and held their noses high. “Aye … something’s odd here,” said one.

Pieter stretched his arms and inhaled a refreshing, pleasing breath. He smiled. “Ah,
kinder
. ‘Tis a blessed day … a blessed, holy day. This, my lambs … this is the air of the sea. Feel the breeze—it blows from the south. It is coming over the mountains from the sea.”

The children cheered and danced around their campsite. “The sea, the sea, we’ve come to the sea!” The jubilant children stormed the steep trail with a lighter step. Higher and higher they marched, whistling and singing and hardly noticing the thick forest closing in around them. They strained, grunted, and stretched their way up the paths without regard for the sharp rocks and gnarly roots wearing at their thin, tattered leather shoes and bindings.

Eventually their trail delivered them beneath the watch of two Ligurian castles perched atop opposing ridges but, to the relief of all, they passed between their wary ramparts unchallenged. But by that evening they arrived at the village of Brusalla where men-at-arms waited to seize them. It seems that some bands of children were thought to have pilfered the manor lands of late and Wil’s company of strange-looking
bambini
warranted suspicion. However, the ever wise and wily Father Pieter urged a judgment of divine wrath from the sky and a fortuitous cloudburst won the band’s freedom.

On the fourth evening in the mountains, Wil ordered his relieved company to set camp in a grassy clearing dappled with wildflowers. Wood was gathered quickly and by nightfall the children were huddled ‘round a roaring fire. Pieter sat comfortably in the soft grass and caressed his trusted crook. He thought of Georg and sighed. “My children … ah … perhaps I ought say ‘my ladies and young masters.’ Methinks on the morrow or, at worst, the morrow next, we ought descend to the port of Genoa and you shall behold that which you cannot now imagine. You shall see water that goes beyond sight itself.”

A crusader cried from the edges of the campsite, “And then to Jerusalem!” The circle hurrahed!

Pieter sighed. “I know not how our Lord wills for you to cross into Palestine, but I needs say again, that I, like Moses, shall not follow you into the Promised Land.”

A loud chorus of complaints arose. Gertrude stood up and pleaded, “Please, Pieter, please, you must come with us! We’ve come so far together!”

Now all the crusaders rose and circled close to the weary old man. Many clutched at his robe and begged him to remain with them. “Nay, my precious lambs, I have said before that my body is too frail. ‘Tis a proper time to release you. I have served you as best I have known and have failed you some, but now is the season for other wings to carry you from my arms.”

Large, salty droplets fell down Karl’s ruddy cheeks and Wil’s face was stained with tears he no longer chose to hide. Both recalled that day in Mainz, so very long ago. “Is there no word we can offer?” Wil choked, “Some vow, or pledge that might change your mind?”

Pieter shook his head. “Nay, good friend, I must remain here and pray for the souls of our dear departed. And, methinks I might do my praying by Brother Chiovo’s side.”

The man paused and looked over the anxious faces peering at him. He considered his next words carefully and delivered them with deliberation.
“Meine kinder
, I’ve need to say something to you all. It was, by truth, the hope and solemn pledge of each to set himself upon the Holy Land.”

The children nodded.

“Our journey has been both tragic and joyful, both terrible and wonderful—has it not? And each of us has both suffered and been blessed. Methinks such things as we’ve endured have borne good fruit.

“It would seem our miseries were but the heavy labors of a worthy Gardener, working and kneading God’s soil into our hard, barren hearts. It would seem as if He has planted vineyards of sweet grapes within us each. Y’needs not press o’er the sea for what God has already set your feet upon.”

Karl stood to his feet. “Pieter? We have come so far … we’d not be going back now.”

“Ah, you’ve made m’point, my son. You have come far, indeed. It was the
journey
that has served the Savior’s purpose. The Land has been secured.”

“I understand your words,” said Wil, “but I should like to see if He would have us put our feet in Palestine as well. I wish to raise a fistful of soil from that glorious shore and lift it to heaven.”

The others clapped.

Pieter had done what he could do and it was clear he’d not be altering their course. He yielded them to the mysterious providence of his unseen God. “I cannot command you, beloved. But know this: You are in my prayers always.”

The chirps of wakening birds gently stirred the sleeping crusaders. Pieter rolled and snorted under his blanket. He cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes, and relieved his customary gas. It was not unlike other mornings. The others stretched some, unconsciously aware that another day would soon begin. The camp’s fire had collapsed into a glowing heap of white ash and red embers. An occasional spark escaped from its snapping coals and floated gracefully away, dancing on the thick, gray mist and disappearing in the forest.

Suddenly, hushed laughter rippled across the treewalled clearing and nearby birds rushed from their leafy roosts. The sudden flutter of their wings startled Wil and he sat up with a start. The lad’s ears cocked and he now thought he’d heard muffled tittering from the clearing’s edges. The boy climbed out of his blanket. He stood in the dewy wildflowers and peered intently into the dim-lit shadows of the new day. He nudged Karl and Pieter when a loud, mocking voice rolled over the fog.

“Ho there, valiant crusaders of Jesus!” It was a deep and strong voice, rich and mellow, yet Wil felt a sensation of dread creep over him. The company awakened and climbed to their feet.

“What is it, Wil?” whispered Frieda.

Wil held up his finger. “Shhhh.”

A group of murky silhouettes emerged from the wood and swooped toward the camp, ghostlike and ghoulish. The crusaders quickly gathered together and huddled helpless and confused behind the glowing coals of their night’s fire. The strange shadows drew ever closer until they broke upon the hearth with eerie laughs and wicked jeers.

A sudden flurry of fiery embers flew from the campfire as the intruders dumped armloads of branches upon it. In the burst of light the crusaders stared across the fire and beheld the terror before them, and they gasped.

Pieter, though startled, leaned on his staff and railed at the strangers. “Who comes here?” he challenged.

A large figure loomed from the mist and placed himself at the fore of his fellows. He stood square-legged in the red light of the campfire. “Who asks?” he hissed.

Karl cast a nervous glance at Wil and then fixed a mesmerized eye on the apparent leader of the trespassers.
He’s young
, thought Karl,
but not so young
. Indeed, the man was in his prime, both of body and mind. His face was strong and sculpted like the statues Karl had seen in the courtyards at Tortona. A sharp nose divided his square face evenly; thick, black eyebrows arched perfectly over his bright, dark eyes, and a trim, black beard outlined a strong chin and firm jaw.

The captivating man stood there smiling haughtily, his straight, white teeth gleaming in the light of the snapping kindling. A black-hooded cape was draped along his broad shoulders and cascaded over his arms to the rim of his knee-high, black boots. He heaved his chest and planted his fists on his narrow hips.

Frieda pulled her sister close to her side and glanced about her friends’ faces for reassurance. She stared at the sneering man and trembled. He was so very tall, she thought; a full head and shoulders above any man she had ever seen.

“Greetings!” boomed the man. “I say greetings to you, you pitiful band of weak-willed crusaders.”

Pieter stepped forward, keeping one eye on the leader and the other on the company of his followers gathering behind him. “You are not welcome here.”

The man laughed loudly and spun on his heels to address his companions. “Have you heard the news? We are not welcome here.” A chorus of guffaws and taunts sounded. The caped man turned again toward Pieter and scowled. He extended a menacing finger over the fire at the priest. “Who are you, beggar, to tell me where I am welcome?”

Pieter squeezed hard on the grip of his staff. “I see by your dress and manner that you come from some breeding and I should have thought some manners might have come with you. You wake us from our slumber without regard and you have not even the courtesy of proper introduction.”

The man paused, then smiled broadly. “So? Before me stands something of a cleric, feeble of body but not of spirit. I beg your pardon for my inappropriate and unfortunate behavior.” He bowed deeply, winking at his lieutenants on either side. “Permit me, all, to introduce myself. In my past some have called me, ‘Squire,’ others, ‘Count,’ later,
‘Pater,’
then for a horrid time, ‘Brother,’ and for another season I was dubbed, ‘Master of Divinity’ by the Archbishop of Magdeburg himself.

“But now I am better known as ‘Dark Lord,’ or Wizard,’ though others say ‘Woodland Sorcerer’ and others still, ‘Lucifer Incarnate.’” He threw his head back-raised his hands to the sky. “‘Lucifer Incarnate,’ indeed! I think that to be my favorite.”

Pieter had rallied his courage but now trembled as the man spoke. He was, indeed, a dark lord. There seemed to be a portion of hellfire flickering in those gleaming eyes and the old priest chilled. Around the man swirled an aura of evil that Pieter sensed; some wicked presence, some dread essence. Pieter had never felt so close to the Pit and he felt all strength drain away.