Pilgrims of Promise(27)
Heinz waved to the monks and then turned his squinty eyes toward the roadway and grinned. He was suddenly itching to begin. The happy young man laughed and poked Otto in the belly. “Ready, fat fellow?” he teased.
Otto laid a thick hand on the scamp’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. With feigned menace he growled, “Say it again and I’ll bash yer nose … Elfman!”
Chapter Five
MARIA’S SONG
Pieter and his companions hurried away from the fearsome Dragonara, through Camogli, and into the mountains. They hurried past the menacing fortresses dotting the ridges near Genoa, and within two days they felt confident that they had pressed their way to relative safety.
The November air was damp but not cold. Autumn rains fell, but the pilgrims continued steadily on, traveling along minor roadways and a few remote trails before descending onto a well-traveled highway that followed the stony shores of the Scrivia River. They continued without incident past numbers of clay-brick villages and soon entered Tortona, where all three paused to rest in a small piazza and to reminisce about their last visit to the city.
“If you could’ve seen yourself!” laughed Otto.
“Ja! I’ve ne’er seen the likes of it… and how the old gentlemen in the pool cried out!” Heinz howled.
Pieter chuckled. “Aye, lads. I couldn’t see m’self, but I surely saw the fear in their eyes!”
The three were remembering the bath at Tortona, and they chortled about the cursing noblemen, the scowling bath matron, and the red-faced Frieda. “Ah, boys,” said Pieter, “a good time, indeed.” He sighed and smiled. “But we’ve a need to keep moving. I think it best we not follow our old route to Pavia but turn on the highway to Allesandria instead. The land stays flat all the way, so the walk should be easy.”
“Methinks it ugly here,” blurted Heinz.
Pieter nodded. “Aye, perhaps a bit. But most of the world is gray by Martinmas.”
“Then white for Advent,” added Otto.
“And green for Easter and yellow by All Hallows’!” chattered Heinz cheerfully.
“True enough, lads.”
“But look, even the dirt is gray here, and ‘tis all flat.”
“Well, be thankful ‘tis flat, lad!”
The three turned onto a wide roadway that led them through the plain west toward Allesandria. The air had grown colder, though not as damp as it had felt in Liguria. They marched on, north through the lands of the Savoy family and across the narrow Tanaro. They passed countless drab villages and a few walled fortresses until the landscape gradually began to change. They descended low hills lined with tidy vineyards and passed gardens tilled and fallow. Finally they stood at the banks of the Po River.
“We need to ford there,” pointed Otto. A long line of rocks revealed an area of shallows.
Heinz stared at the water and grumbled. “Now we’ll be wet all day!”
“Only your feet, lad,” chuckled Pieter, “only your feet.” The priest stepped boldly into the chilly waters of the Po and raised his staff triumphantly. “Now, lads, follow me!” He took three confident strides, then stumbled forward with a loud oath. To the wild acclaim of his comrades, the old man heroically regained his balance and took a deep breath. “Ha! Almost!” he cried. He ordered his fellows to follow, and he took another step—only to slip off an unseen rock and plunge headlong into a swirling pool!
Shouting every blasphemy the howling boys had ever heard, the old priest found his footing, then thrashed through the water toward the far shore.
“Only yer feet, Father!” roared Heinz. “Only yer feet!”
The Po was quickly left behind, and the trio spent the fifth day of its journey marching past the brown soil of the northern Piedmont’s fallowed fields. Soon they were within earshot of the graceful herons of the Sesia and then finally entered the town of Vercelli, where a church gave them shelter. Grateful, they stretched out comfortably before a generous hearth and accepted a meal of fresh wheat bread, olive oil, chicken stew, and a large platter of boiled vegetables.
The following night was spent farther north with some French pilgrims traveling from distant Lyons to the grand cathedral in Milan. At first glance, the Frenchmen thought Pieter and his boys to be a respectable trio of a priest and two novices. Believing them to be so, the pilgrims graciously shared their provisions under their canvas tent. Unfortunately, their fine red wine oiled Pieter’s tongue, and he soon told them of the failed crusade. Upon learning of the children’s past, the mood changed. In one voice they insisted the three be sent away. “We’ll not share the night with the likes of these!” cried one.