Pilgrims of Promise(184)
Otto looked at the kindly knight with a face laced by bittersweet. His heart was still heavy for his own father in faraway Weyer. “It is my honor.” The two clasped hands.
Horst turned to Heinrich. “I have taken the liberty of naming Maria as your daughter. I hope that is acceptable.”
“More than acceptable, sir, it is delightful!” Heinrich smiled broadly and draped his thick arm around Maria’s shoulder. “You’re mine, dear girl. ‘Tis the law of the land!”
Pleased, Horst addressed the women. “I assigned wives as they should be, and Wilda, I recorded you as the wife of Alwin and the mother of Friederich and Otto.”
The woman blushed as Alwin laughed happily. “So be it!” he cried.
The men embraced the merchant one by one. They could not find the words to thank him.
“Of course you’ve no words to thank me!” he roared and laid his arm around Helmut. “And I’ve no words to thank you! So the score is even! Now, follow me.”
Horst led his guests outside, where Paulus stood heavily laden with fresh provisions. “I hope he can swim!” he cried. “Here.” He pointed to a sturdy canvas litter. “We need four strong arms to carry Father Pieter. He’s in no shape to ride the donkey.”
Wil agreed that the idea was a good one. He shook Horst’s hand. “Again, sir, our thanks to you. It is now time.” He called for his company to assemble, and one by one each pilgrim embraced Helmut for the final time. It was a painful farewell for them all. From the jetty of Genoa to this place in the northland, he had been a faithful friend—and they had been his.
Alwin and Otto lifted Pieter onto his canvas, and four strong hands lifted the weary priest. Then, with a final wave and chorus of thanks, the travelers disappeared onto the roadway once again.
For the rest of that Saturday, the pilgrims walked briskly, stopping briefly from time to time so that Pieter’s litter bearers might rest. Every able hand helped as the day wore on, and by night they were all ready for sleep. Solomon did not stray more than a few rods from his master’s side. He did not sleep, though his eyes were dull in the firelight and his head drooped. Somehow he knew.
On Sunday the column passed the millhouse, turned due westward, and followed the path of the sun. The pilgrims met a few other travelers, including a small caravan traveling from Stettin, and from time to time a villager would emerge from nowhere to share a bit of news. It was a comfortable, warm day and quiet, as Sabbaths ought to be.
On Monday, sometime before noon, the band arrived at the chappelle and the bend of the road of which Horst had spoken. Alwin prayed at the feet of a little crucifix, and Pieter asked to be lifted from his litter to do the same. Together the former monks raised prayers to God that were not so different; their spirits were kindred and similarly burdened for the welfare of others.
When they had finished, Pieter summoned Otto to come close. “My dear lad,” he began, “you are a stout heart and as resolute a fellow as I have e’er known.” He pulled his satchel awkwardly off his shoulder. “I fear there is naught inside but a few crusts and some silver, but it has hung on m’shoulder for more leagues than I dare consider. I should like you to have it.”
Otto’s chin dropped, and he received the gift with a trembling hand. “Oh, Pieter, Father Pieter, I… I…”
“Fill it with the bounty of your liberty, lad.” Pieter smiled.
Otto embraced the old man lightly. “I shall treasure it always.”
Pieter was then laid upon his litter again, and Wil directed his column away from the roadway and led them due west across the flat countryside. The company traveled slowly through small stands of pine and scattered hardwoods for much of the afternoon, eventually noticing a subtle descent, which they followed until they spotted something glistening between a thin row of trees in the distance.
“There!” cried Tomas. “I see the river through the trees!”
A loud hurrah was lifted. It was the Weser!
The sun of late day lit a host of tiny white wildflowers that were sprinkled generously atop the green field waiting just ahead. Awed, the company lifted their faces past the white-tipped meadow and to the tree line beyond. Their eyes fixed on a ribbon of silver threaded between the shadowed trunks, and they quickly pressed on.
To liberty, rejoiced Heinrich. To freedom’s home! The pilgrims hurried through the wide field of shin-deep grass and stalky flowers until, at last, they slipped through the tree line only to be held in place by the sheer wonder of the enchanting scene now opened before them.
Unable to speak, the blessed wayfarers now gazed upon Blumenthal, the splendid valley of their river of promise, which welcomed them with such a flourish of heaven’s greeting as would dwarf the homecoming of the greatest kings of time! The light of day had faded softly as the sun sank respectfully toward the distant horizon. A few puffed clouds edged the yellow ball. Slanting shafts of golden light were cast across a fresh carpet of vivid wildflowers standing pure and precious before the dumbstruck travelers. The dappled colors of the creation sprawled as far as the eye could see, divided only by the water’s silver strand. It was a presentation of the Master’s palette, a masterpiece of gentle brilliance that heralded the very presence of its Maker’s glory.