Pilgrims of Promise(182)

The women let the barber cut the ends of their hair and braid it. The wives and the betrothed Wilda were told that the coming fashion for them was to plait the hair, then pile it atop their heads. And so they did. Maria’s hair was plaited neatly into two long braids and decorated with red silk ribbons. They hung neatly over her shoulders.

Now facing one another, the company marveled. “You look handsome, Heinrich!” Katharina said, laughing.

The man blushed. “You always were beautiful, wife, only now even more so.”

Wil stared at his lovely young bride sitting on her wooden chair upright and proud. She looked suddenly very much like the daughter of nobility that she was. He smiled at her and his heart raced.

“Now,” began Horst as he took his place at the table’s head. He turned toward his son and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now, God’s blessing to my table, God’s blessing to my guests. Deo gratias!” he cried. “You have brought my son back from the dead. God be with you always.”

The diners lifted their goblets and toasted Horst, Margot, and Helmut loudly. When the hurrahs had ended, another voice drifted from the doorway. “Omnia vincit amor! Love conquers all!” It was Pieter.

Wil’s company turned and welcomed their dear friend to the table. The pale priest leaned heavily on his staff as Solomon followed faithfully. The diners fell quiet, and a few began to sniffle. “Do not weep for me, my beloved. For another lost sheep has found his home. It is a night to rejoice.”

He was escorted gently to a seat, where a bowl of stew was set before him. “Many thanks, m’lady.” He lifted his face and stared at his fellows with a broad, though quaking, grin. “You look different! You look civilized!” He chuckled and shook his head. “Who could have imagined it? Now, all of you, please, eat and be merry. This old fool will sip a bit and return to his bed.”

The rest of that evening was spent in long conversation. The pilgrims shared their stories of bravery and fear, of failure and victory—of shame and redemption. Horst and Margot sat speechlessly, alternating between tears and laughter, amazement and disbelief. They looked at their son proudly and at his fellows with respect. In sum it was a tale of adventure and mystery they would never forget.





Morning broke brightly over Wümme. It seemed to Maria that the birds were singing louder than usual and that the sky was quickly turning a wondrous shade of blue. She ran to Pieter’s room and found the man sleeping with Solomon curled at his feet. His breathing was uneven, however, and he felt cool to her touch.

“Papa Pieter?” she said softly. Her throat was swollen and her chin quivered. “Papa?”

Pieter lay perfectly still.

“Papa?” A tone of desperation laced the word.

The man moved. His eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head weakly toward the child. “Ah, my angel,” he whispered. “Am I now in heaven?”

Maria touched his cheek. Relieved, she shook her head. “No, Papa.”

“But soon?” The man’s tone was hopeful and oddly reassuring to the girl.

She nodded as tears began to drip along her smooth cheek. “I think so.”

Pieter drew a long, quivering breath. He released it slowly. “My dear,” he said, “forgive me for this final failure. That I am not able to do more …”

Maria leaned against the old man, sobbing. “Oh, Papa,” she whimpered, “it is not a failure. Have no shame in this. I will love you always.”

Pieter closed his eyes and nodded. “And I you, child.”

Frieda entered the room and saw Maria sprawled over the man’s breast. With a start, she hurried to the side of the bed and laid her hand on Pieter’s brow. Cold, she thought. So cold. She leaned close to his face and felt his breath slowly drifting by her skin. Not much time.

The company had hoped to press on that very day, but after they finished their generous morning’s meal, dark clouds suddenly loomed in the east and thunder rumbled toward them. To take Pieter through heavy weather was unthinkable. So Friday passed with the company doing little other than waiting about Wümme for the storm that never came. “All gas, naught to pass,” grumbled Alwin. “If it’s not to rain, it ought not threaten!”

Horst had hired the surgeon to spend the whole day with Pieter, and he filled the alms box so that the priest might remain close by as well. The two hovered over the man’s bed, probing and praying, applying compresses and laying on hands.

At the bells of prime on the next day, however, Pieter climbed from his bed and weakly grabbed hold of Wil’s tunic. “Help me to the garden,” he pleaded. The young man led his elder through the cool morning air to a flat rock in the center of a small vegetable patch. “Ah, many thanks, my son.” He sucked a quivering breath through his nose. “Now, lad, I beg you, nay, I implore you. If there is any good in you, please set me loose from the cursed surgeon and his partner the priest. They are death’s porters—one for the body, the other for the soul!” He shook his head. “By the saints, whether in tempest or by calm, I should very much like us to be on the roadway once again.”