A murmur circled the ring, and Frieda chimed, “Ja! Then we ought—”
“Aye! We should take new names too!” cried Otto.
The idea immediately inspired the pilgrims, and they discussed the idea loudly.
Pieter interrupted. “Brothers and sisters, a name is something to be treasured. In the Holy Scriptures, names were given with great purpose and forethought. A name has the power to tell much about you. Otto, are you still Otto of Weyer?”
“No!”
“Tomas … is Tomas the Schwarz enough for you?”
“No!”
Pieter nodded. “Well then, Otto, you may have a good idea. Here in this place, you might help one another find a rightful name, one you can take with you to your new home. I can think of no better time.”
With excitement it was agreed, and for the next hour they bandied about names both silly and serious. Another hour’s conversation ensued and then another’s. Long after Münden’s bells of matins chimed, Otto finally stood. “I have decided.”
The group fell silent.
“I am to be known as Otto Traveler. It is this journey that has changed me.”
The group approved.
Tomas stood next. “I … I should like to be known as Tomas Retten … Thomas the Saved. I was once saved from a shearing shed, then from the dungeon at Dragonara … and finally from the way of darkness.” He looked at Pieter.
Helmut was content to keep his name as Helmut for the time being. “I’m not ready yet,” he said.
“Nor I,” said Wilda.
“And what of you, Benedetto?” asked Frieda with a knowing grin.
“Si, I have a new name.” The man was blushing. “Maria gave it to me. I… I hope I am worthy of it. I put it in my own tongue. I am to be called Benedetto Cantore degli Angeli”
The group stared. Maria clapped and said, “It means ‘Singer of the Angels’!”
Now the circle cheered.
“A good name, Benedetto!” cried Tomas.
The beaming minstrel smiled and sat down.
Alwin stood. He had pondered the matter quietly. “I was once Alwin of Gunnar, then Alwin the oblate, then Brother Blasius, the Templar. I am content to remain as Alwin.”
“Nay!” blurted Wil. “Tis not enough. I think you should be Alwin Stoutheart.”
The ring cheered and the knight grew embarrassed. “I… I think it a boastful name….”
“But true enough!” cried Pieter.
Alwin shook his head and then offered shyly, “Perhaps, Alwin Volker… Alwin the protector of the folk?”
“Aye!” sounded a chorus of voices.
It was Friederich who took his turn next. He smiled mischievously. “I am to be Friederich Nimblefingers!”
“Friederich Nimblefingers?” roared the circle.
The fellow puffed his chest. “Ja.” He wiggled his fingers in the firelight. “They’ve served us all well. ‘Tis what I do best.”
Pieter chuckled. “But, lad, your fingers are only a part of you!”
Friederich stiffened. “But what they do pleases me.”
The priest nodded. “Well said, my boy, well said. Then Nimblefingers it is!”
Wil and Frieda had been whispering together for some time. At last, Wil took his turn. The group fell silent and waited as the young man stood. “I am unsure of all I have become or all that I may be. So I am content to be known as Wilhelm Freimann… Wilhelm the freeman. My wife shall be known by Freimann as well. As a freeman I’ll live, and as a freeman I’ll die!”
The group roared its approval.
Maria stood. “And until I marry, I shall be Maria of Heinrich.”
Frieda took her hand and squeezed it. “A good name, my dear sister. A good name indeed.”
Now all faces turned toward the priest. He drew Solomon to his side and pulled himself up slowly on his staff. Standing on his badly bowed legs and stroking his beard, he looked about the circle. “So it has come to me. I think it too late for a change.”
The group protested loudly.
“I have been Pieter the Broken for many years. You all know the story of m’cracked hips! It has been a good name, methinks, but I confess it is one that is not so true. I fear I have not been a broken man at all, but rather a willful one, stubbornly disposed toward a stiff neck.
“But perhaps I overstate the point. This have I learned: who we are is not how we look, from whence we’ve come, or what we have. We are not what we do, nor even what we think. Nay, in the end, who we are is what we love.”
The company fell silent until Maria finally chirped, “Well, Papa Pieter, tell us what you love.”
Pieter sighed. “Oh, my dear Mädel, what a question!” He sat and tossed some sticks into the fire. “I have loved many things. Some I should have loved and some I shouldn’t. Sometimes I love God more than anything else, but I do confess those times are not as often as I’d like. It is good that His love for me does not depend on my love for Him!”