The small boat splashed quietly forward, following the bending shoreline of the promontory about a bowshot from its rocky edge. Otto rested comfortably with Solomon dozing on his lap. The stout lad had been a faithful comrade from the first days of the crusade. He had left Weyer behind days before Wil, Karl, and Maria had taken their first steps.
As the miller’s son, Otto had spent many hours unloading baskets of flour at Heinrich’s bakery. For the six years the baker had been gone, the lad had watched Karl and Wil do the work. Otto understood Wil’s anger. But Otto also understood Heinrich more than the man could know. The lad had heard rumors in the village for years—rumors kept very much alive by the man’s bitter wife. But Otto had become friends with Brother Lukas in the few years before the crusade, so he had heard other things as well. “The man who speaks first seems right,” the monk had once said, “until the other answers.”
“I wish Wil would forgive his father,” Otto mumbled.
Pieter stirred. “Eh?”
Otto shrugged. “I say I wish Wil would forgive his father.”
“Ja, lad. Me, as well, but it is not something that can be forced.”
Otto nodded thoughtfully, then blurted, “I miss Lukas.”
“Eh?”
“I was thinking of a monk at home, in the abbey by Weyer. He was a clever man … you would have liked him.”
“Perhaps I’ll meet him?”
“No. Wil found him dead just before he left.”
“Ah. Well, you must tell me about him.”
Otto beamed. His cheeks rounded like two red apples under a September sky. The boy had loved Lukas, just like Wil had—and just like Heinrich had in his own time. Otto proceeded to tell Pieter of Lukas’s odd notions and of his wisdom. He spoke of his potions and his love for walks in the forests. “I helped him fill his satchel with mushrooms and berries and strange things. He loved to sneak away from the cloister whenever he could! He loved to play ball with us, and he showed me the place he called the home of the Magi!”
Pieter chuckled. He did wish he could have met the man.
“Wil carries Brother Lukas’s satchel. Sometimes I like to touch it; it helps me remember him.”
Pieter nodded and laid his hand on the lad’s sandy hair. He looked into his broad face and realized that he had often taken the steady fellow for granted. “I am glad you’ve come with me, Otto. I pray we get you home safely.”
The boy took a deep breath. “Sometimes methinks m’home’s now with you … and with Wil and Frieda … and the others.” Otto had been a good son to an unworthy man. His mother had died during a plague that had ravaged Weyer. Bitter and lonely, his father had become a drunken fool, oft beating the boy without cause and without mercy.
The old man sat thoughtfully and turned his face to the fortress of the Dragonara drawing close. He surveyed the muscled shoulders surrounding the sea and wondered where his own home really was. He looked into the sky and noticed it beginning to fill with gray clouds drifting from the southeast.
“Father,” called one of the monks. He pointed to the sky. “Sirocco winds … they’ll bring rain to this side of the mountains today.”
The boys groaned. “No more sunshine.”
“Ah, lads,” chuckled Pieter. “The sun always shines … ‘tis only hidden by the clouds!”
Within the half hour, the monks delivered their boat to the Camogli beach tucked tightly within a sandy cove surrounded by jutting rocks. The village fishermen had long since left for the day, and it was nearly empty. A few old women were picking mussels from tidal pools; others were mending nets. Pieter urged his two companions to keep a sharp eye at all times. “If challenged, you are novices on a pilgrimage with me. Our clothing is sound; we should look the part. I do the talking, and if you are asked about the crusade, you deny your part in it. Do you understand?”
The boys nodded. The boat was dragged ashore, and its occupants climbed out to stretch. They checked their gear and their clothing carefully. The cloister’s cobbler had made sturdy rucksacks for the two boys, and the kitchener had filled them with many days’ worth of meat and cheese.
The priest cast a wary eye toward the fortress perched nearby, then urged his lads to make ready. “We must begin. We’ll follow the Genoa road until the first trail into the mountains. I’ve little interest in tempting the city guard.”
The monks agreed. “Si, si, Padre, it would not be wise. Now, go with God.” They recited two psalms, prayed over the travelers, and kissed each on their cheeks. With a final bow they turned away sadly and left Pieter and his companions quite alone.