Pilgrims of Promise(39)

Easter Sunday came on the fourteenth of April. It was a rainy day, but Father Frederico offered such a pleasant surprise that none gave it mind. He preached a brief homily to the monks, then turned to his guests and delivered a simple farewell message translated into German by Stefano. The pilgrims sat fixed on the man as he spoke of Christ as the Way of suffering, the Truth incarnate, and the Life to whom all belonged. They had traveled along their own journey of sorrows, and to imagine the Christ as having endured the same—and more—was oddly comforting. The God they worshiped was not without empathy; He had, indeed, touched His feet upon a world beset by hardship—upon the very world they themselves had been called to endure.

For Heinrich, the sudden realization that it was the Christ who had pursued him all along his own burdensome path was a moment of particular inspiration. The man nearly cried out. This Christ, this Jesus, is the One to whom the others had been pointing! It is He who has given me sight; it is He who has set me free. The truth is alive and it is He!

For all of them, the notion of new life as new persons—changed persons, redeemed ones—was one that abruptly began to create a change in their thinking. A vague excitement stirred in their bellies, an anticipation of a resurrection yet undefined. It was a message of mystery: They would soon become that which they already were; they would soon belong where they already did. For these former crusaders and their beloved baker, the priest’s homily was one never to be forgotten.

The holy day was spent peacefully. The monks provided a generous feast, complete with many of the treats Heinrich and the Frenchman had concocted during Lent. But alas, the blessed day soon passed, and night fell upon a somber group of fellows preparing to bid one another a sad farewell on the morning to follow.

A misty dawn greeted the bells of prime. The church bell pealed slowly, most thought even sadly. Within the hour Wil and his company were fed and prayed over. Most fought tears as they assembled along the sandy beach they had learned to love so very much.

Heinrich stood erect and ready. He had gained weight, and his spirit had healed some, though the distance between him and his son was becoming a great source of frustration. The gentle man had allowed the monks’ barber to trim his hair and beard. His eye patch and old boots were oiled, his vest repaired. The Stedinger dagger was stuffed into his belt, and over his shoulder was slung his satchel, still bearing his Laubusbach stone and the pouch of Anoush’s gold. He had offered the monks one gold coin for each child remaining, but they would not have it. Instead, they filled the remaining space in his satchel with foodstuffs enough for the journey to Arona.

“Heinrich,” said Brother Petroclus as he approached with Stefano and the brethren. “Heinrich, we have prayed over all of you this morning.”

“Thanks be to every one of you,” answered the baker. He cleared his throat, stiffened, and then nervously offered, “And may God above always light your way with His truth and give you a life of belonging.”

Stefano translated, and the amazed brethren stood dumfounded, astonished at the simple man’s profound blessing. Brother Petroclus finally spoke. “Dear man, we receive your kindness with gratitude. Thanks be to God.

“Now this, my son.” The monk turned to another and received a sheathed sword in the palms of his outstretched hands. He then returned to the baker. “Heinrich of Weyer, it was the desire of our late brother, Nectarious, to have this presented to you for the protection of your young pilgrims.”

Heinrich’s eye widened as he took the gift. A pang of fear ran through him suddenly. I am a bound man, not permitted a weapon, he thought.

“Draw the sword, Heinrich,” said Petroclus. “Draw the sword.”

The baker held the sheath between his knees and drew the gleaming sword into the morning’s light. It was a heavy short-sword, about the length of his arm. It was perfect for one-handed use by a strong man.

“Look, there.” Petroclus pointed to the inscription. “‘Veritas Regnare … Truth Reigns.’ According to a note our old brother left, this was his own sword in Palestine. I saw it used here against Saracen pirates. It has drawn much blood in the cause of good.

“Now, we must tie it at your hip so you can draw it without using your knees!”

Heinrich let the sun glimmer on the sharp edge of the blade. “I’ve no words at all,” he offered.

“None needed.” Stefano laughed. “Old Nectarious can’t hear you!”

The children laughed. Then Wil stepped forward. The lad was dressed in his new black garments, like the others. His leggings were of heavy cloth, his hooded tunic a bit thinner. A braided leather belt girded his waist. He had been given good shoes that laced at his ankles. A thick blanket was tied to his back alongside the quiver slung over his shoulder. The smith had sharpened his arrowheads and oiled his bow with resin and beeswax before wrapping it in canvas. The lad held Emmanuel proudly and adjusted his satchel. It had been repaired and oiled and filled with provisions. He raised his hands over the company and spoke. “Brothers and sisters, ‘tis time. Those leaving with me need join me now.”