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Pilgrims of Promise(173)



“To be sure, as the worker bees enlarge the hive, they add more wax around more air. Likewise, as we increase in knowledge, we, too, add more mystery.

“So, as you dwell among men of knowledge beware: they that deny the place of mystery will not taste the honey of the silent places.”

Pieter took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He reached forward and took hold of Friar Oswald’s hand. “Truth never dies,” he said slowly. “Deo gratias.”

“Now, enough of my preaching!” laughed the friar. “Please, rest here this day and the morrow if you wish. Mingle as you like and watch the work of our little hive.”

The company thanked Oswald profusely for the honey and his hospitality, then gradually dispersed throughout Renwick. With each passing hour the pilgrims felt more at home than the one before. Maria quickly found a friend. A little girl had spotted her deformed arm during Mass and presented herself. “My name is Katerina,” she said. She held out both her arms. They were both shortened to the elbow, like Maria’s, and badly misshapen. “Papa called me a devil child. But I followed the birds here!” she cried joyfully. The two soon disappeared to play.

Pieter was too weak to walk about very much. He sought his favorite chair—the wide trunk of an old tree. There he sat atop the soft forest floor and leaned back to rest with Solomon lying on his legs. Heinrich joined him, and the two men watched their comrades move about the village. The pair sat in quiet companionship, saying little more than necessary until Heinrich noticed the friar speaking with two panting dwarves. “Something’s afoot, Pieter.”

Oswald nodded to the men and then walked toward Pieter and the baker. “You need to stay until the morrow,” he said.

“And why, brother?” asked Pieter.

“It seems you’ve been followed.”

“You are certain?”

“Our sentries spotted a group of six riders approaching from the south. They were studying the trail like hunters following prey, and they were seen studying the sky.”

Heinrich cursed. “How? How on earth do they find us?”

The friar smiled. “Our birds, sir. They are following the three birds.”

Heinrich shook his head. “The birds? Why would they?”

“Well, perhaps they reckoned that you might be following them. I wouldn’t know.”

“Then they’ll follow them here!”

“Not likely,” smiled Oswald. “Not likely at all.”

Wil had drawn near to listen. “Two giants and village dwarves cannot stop six knights!”

“No, young sir, probably not. Though the fright of seeing them could send an army the other way! I’ve seen that once already.”

“That’s your plan?”

“Oh no … no, indeed not. I have no plan.”

“Then—”

“The birds flew off at dawn. Three of them, to be exact. Seabirds that look very much like those you followed.” He smiled. “They flew straight into the sun.”

Frieda joined the group. “But…”

Friar Oswald shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps the gulls are following a fresh wind. If so, it is to your good fortune. We have spies watching the knights. Two have returned to report that the fools are galloping wildly to the east.” He laughed. “We’ve others still spying on them. If they change course, we’ll soon know.”

Pieter took a deep breath. He was quickly learning to love this strange place. “So, Wil, my lad, have no care for it today. If the Templars abandon the birds, they’ll either turn north and be far ahead of us, or they’ll come back this way, in which case well have plenty of warning.”

Wil looked about uneasily. He turned to his father, then to Oswald. “You’ve good sentries?”

“The best.”

Frieda took his arm. “Wil, methinks we should stay the day and even the morrow.”

Wil turned his eye to the village and spotted Benedetto playing his lute for a breathless group of children. He watched the happy fellow dancing and singing. “Look at our minstrel,” muttered Wil, shaking his head. “Very well. Then on the morrow next we leave.”





Chapter Twenty-seven

THE ANGELS SING





Heinrich and Pieter were relieved and Oswald as well.

“Good,” the friar said. “I shall see to it that you are well fed as long as you remain with us. I ask only that you help as you can.” He pointed to Benedetto. “God be praised. We’ve craftsmen and farmers, woodsmen and the like, but we’ve no music in our village. It is music that heals and restores; it is music that stirs the spirit. Music is the language of the heart, and we need it desperately! Look! Look how the children smile.