Chapter Seventeen
HOME?
Alwin was, no doubt, a hunted fugitive. On numerous occasions he had offered to spare his fellows all risk by leaving them, but his pleas were soundly rejected. Heinrich had sternly reminded him of his prior vow. Now that they were nearing the lands of his home, he was secretly happy that he had made such a vow. He wanted to stand once more on the “Golden Ground” where he had been raised. He wanted to see, once more, the manorland of Villmar’s abbey, and he was overjoyed to imagine seeing it with his beloved friends at his side.
So, walking warily behind the hedges and hurrying cross-country along the banks of the Emsbach, Alwin and the rest of Wil’s company detoured Limburg, then arrived in Oberbrechen, where they followed the southeastern bank of the beloved Laubusbach until they arrived atop the slope overlooking Weyer. It was Sunday, the twenty-first day of July in the Year of Grace 1213.
At long last, the weary pilgrims now stared into the smoky green hollow of home. For those who had lived there, it was a moment of true homecoming, a time of returning to that singular place of belonging. They were suddenly awash with unnamed images of times past, of long-lost family and dear friends, a blur of memories bathed in colors, sounds, and scents. It was home—that inimitable place to which roots yearned to cling and the place from which all the world is measured.
Heinrich’s eye filled with tears, and he could see little more than a blur of thatch beneath a wide landscape of green as he peered into Weyer. The village, still ruled by the monks of Villmar, was tucked tightly in its nestling hollow like it had been for more than four centuries. Beyond it lay the wide horizon dipped with gentle valleys and striped with forests and fields. The summer sky was grand—bright blue and blotched with puffy white clouds. Heinrich wiped his eye and looked up, smiling. He fixed his gaze on a chubby cloud overhead. Emma, he chuckled. Emma, you’re welcoming me home! The man’s mind swept him quickly to his Butterfly Frau and her wonderful hovel. He could see her illuminated pages, her gardens, her smiles.
The baker sighed, then turned his face to the haphazard assortment of hovels and sheds that was so very familiar. His mind flew from his boyhood along the babbling Laubusbach to the anxious day he had left his family behind. He closed his eye and drew deeply of the fresh, grass-scented air. He lifted Karl’s cross from his belt and held it to his heart. His mind carried him to memories of the cheerful lad laughing and dashing about the footpaths below.
Heinrich sniffled, then kissed the wooden cross. He stared blankly into the waters of the silver Laubusbach below and pictured his father and his poor mother, the angry face of Baldric, and the imploring eyes of Ingelbert. A vision of Katharina and the Christmas star raised bumps on his skin, and the terror of that horrid night of feud turned his belly sour. Memories of feast days and harvests, of bitter winters and warm Sabbaths, of people beloved and others hated, all quickly melded into a single impression of what had been—in a word—his life.
And so it was for the others. Each crooked rooftop made for a memory either good or bad, but all surely familiar. And in the comfort of habituation, in the security of habit, an oppressive temptation began to climb from this “Golden Ground” through the soles of weary feet and toward the hearts of each melancholy pilgrim.
“Will be good to be home again, methinks,” muttered Heinrich. “I miss what I know.”
“Ja,” added Otto. “Enough of this crusade or pilgrimage … or whatever it has been! I want to be back in m’own bed under m’own roof.”
Maria smiled politely, but she looked at the village with some reservation. For a girl of a mere six years, she was wise and insightful. She had wanted to share in her father’s hopes, but a sense of dread had kept her still. She walked away from the others to search the field for some flowers to pick but saw none, and then turned her face to Friederich, who was solemn and troubled. “Friederich?”
The boy wrinkled his smudged face and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Something is amiss,” he whispered.
Wil had been standing quietly with one hand in his wife’s and the other wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. He withdrew the blade from his belt and stared at its inscription. “‘Vrijheid altijd,’ ‘freedom always, ‘Frieda,” he said. He stared down on his village and wondered.
Tomas shifted uneasily on his feet. He, too, had learned to treasure his freedom, and he was no more certain than Wil of the conditions that now faced them all. “So are we free or bound?”
The company turned away from the view and faced one another. “Eh?” asked Pieter.