Maria gasped. “Then you are good?”
“Ha! Ha!” roared both giants. “We do not know the answer to that! But we mean you no harm. Come. You must follow us.”
Wil and Heinrich whispered with Alwin, and, with some reluctance, they agreed that they should obey. No sooner had they taken their first steps, however, when other torches rose from some cover on either side of the path.
“All is well,” roared one of the giants to his fellows. “We’ve a band of pilgrims.”
“To the village, then,” came the answer. It was an unseen man, seemingly giving orders to others. Heinrich thought his voice sounded odd.
The column marched between the giants cautiously, following a smooth, spongy trail for what seemed to be a great distance. The lines of torchbearers following them on either side were unnerving but had not threatened them.
Finally the giant in the fore halted. “Now y’must wait,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant—as a giant’s should be—but no longer fearsome. Maria thought it was almost kindly.
Poor Benedetto, however, shook uncontrollably. He wanted to burst out in tears, but Frieda wrapped her arm gently around him. “Don’t worry. We are with you, Singer of the Angels!”
Ahead, another figure greeted the giant, and the company was again instructed to follow. They carefully descended into a short ravine and transversed it for another half hour until Solomon stopped and lifted his nose.
“Aye, hound,” boomed the giant in the rear. “Tis a village y’smell!”
Within moments, the column was ushered around a corner and, to the pilgrims’ great surprise, into a welcoming hamlet glowing yellow in the firelight of several hearths. A lone man beckoned them to come to the village center, where a large bonfire was being stoked. To Wil’s keen eye, it appeared that the man was a priest or monk. The giants nudged the company forward. As the bonfire rose, the pilgrims turned to face the giants, and they gasped.
“Welcome,” one said as he bowed. Standing nearly twice the height of a tall man, he bent low and smiled. But more than that, he was also white as a ghost—as was the other, whom he introduced as his twin.
“Albinos,” whispered Pieter. “I’ve ne’er seen one … and here are two!”
The village cleric approached. “Welcome, pilgrims. Come, sit, eat, and drink. You are our guests tonight.” He eyed Pieter and his staff, then Benedetto and his lute. The man grinned. “So, we’ve a priest and a balladeer! Wonderful! You two have much in common: you both make things up!” He laughed loudly.
Confused, Wil and his fellows obediently followed the young churchman to a group of benches set closer to the fire. As the pilgrims sat, he introduced himself. “The villagers call me Oswald—God’s protection. I was once an anchorite in the wastelands of Estonia but am now called to serve those in need. Actually, I am really Friar Oswald, ‘friar’ being the new name for we monks who mingle with the world that needs us. I have been led by God to serve the good folk of this village where no other priest will come.”
“Where are we?” asked Wil.
“Ah, forgive my lack of courtesy.” He raised his arms. “Welcome, travelers, to Renwick. It means ‘where the ravens dwell.’”
The pilgrims shifted uneasily and looked up into the darkness of the trees. Wilda leaned close to Alwin and shuddered.
Oswald sensed the concern. “Brothers and sisters, do you fear the ravens? And why not? Some say they blind sinners and carry the souls of the damned to hell. They are accused of being harbingers of evil and destined to feed on the carrion of Armageddon. They are despised, unwanted, feared by the ignorant, who send their pretty falcons to chase them from the sky.
“They gather here in our trees, and they care for us. We know who they really are; we understand them to be our reminders of divine care in places of solitude. They have fed saints in the wilderness, saints such as Paul the Hermit and even Benedict. Yes, they are unclean, as are we all, yet God used them to feed Elijah by the brook of Cherith. Yes, they are often despised, as are we, but they are well cared for. ‘Consider the ravens, for they neither sow nor reap, which have neither storehouse nor barn; and God feeds them.’
“So, my new friends, fear the ravens if you wish, but you may soon learn that they are grateful, affectionate, hopeful, and brave—not unlike you, methinks.” He smiled.
Pieter studied the friar as he spoke. About thirty, he thought. Unusually wise. The man wore a slightly tattered gray robe and sandals. His head was shaven in the tonsure; his face was full and kindly, enlivened by bright brown eyes shining beneath thick, arching brows.