Pilgrims of Promise(4)
His mind carried him to happier days in Weyer, times when hope had not yet faded. He could feel his little boy crawling up on his lap and wished only that he might wrap two arms around him once again. He could see his beloved Karl romping about Weyer, wrestling with his brother in the tall grass of summers past, selling bread along the Münster road, and bidding him a sad farewell. He drew some comfort from the happy images and even smiled sadly. But this was a loss he could not bear, and the man collapsed to the ground in despair as the sea rumbled and hissed at him from the crevices of the rocks.
In the whispers of the surf, he heard Emma’s voice again, and in the deeper tones he heard the gentle words of Brother Lukas. He set his jaw, turned his face, and looked far up into the sky, past the merciful moon and beyond the twinkling of kindly stars. His throat swelled as he thought of Karl smiling from above, free to laugh, free to sing, free to dance in the gardens of heaven.
At dawn’s first light, the currents of melancholy, exhaustion, hunger, and privation swept over Heinrich and Pieter like a rush of unwelcome waters. Wil was sleeping restlessly in a state of fever while a host of children milled about the field without food, proper clothing, or purpose. Their want was now a burden stacked atop the broad shoulders of Heinrich and leaning upon the clever craft of Pieter.
Heinrich had returned to Wil’s side in the dark hours before dawn, still grieving in unspeakable agony, yet so thoroughly exhausted that his heart was fast becoming numb. Poor Frieda had spent the night in silent vigil by the shrouded corpses of her sister, Gertrude, and her friend Conrad. The whole of the camp had grown larger through the night, and Otto stumbled to Pieter’s side with a dutiful report.
“Our numbers now are four score and six,” he mumbled.
Pieter wanted to weep, but he clenched his jaw and looked about thoughtfully. Four score and six; no food, no shelter, no medicine for Wil. Me, a useless old man; the baker, broken in grief; they, an ever-growing flock of starving castaways. What can I do? He squeezed his crook hard and looked to heaven. “O my God, give me strength.” Finally, he took a deep breath to call for all to join him by a nearby cypress tree.
As a large company followed the white-headed man and his shaggy dog, he bade any hands willing to begin scooping four graves. In good time the graves were dug and a pile of rocks collected. Then all fell silent as Otto led those bearing the remains of Gertrude, Conrad, and two unnamed souls toward them.
Each shrouded body was laid gently in its grave midst muffled sobs and tears. Frieda knelt by her sister’s body, while Otto and Heinz remained steadfast alongside their comrade Conrad. Pieter leaned hard on his staff and raised his arms over the assembly of lost crusaders. “I am Pieter, once monk, now priest to all in need. Bless you all in the name of our Lord.” He then lifted his eyes to heaven, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…” He proceeded to pray for the souls now departed, for those yet in peril, and for the hearts of grieving parents in so many faraway places. He blessed the brave ones gathered near, urged God’s judgment on those who would cause His lambs more harm, and finished his prayer with a verse from the Thirty-Fourth Psalm: “I will bless the Lord at all times, His praise shall be always in my mouth.”
The bodies were reverently covered with dirt; their shallow graves then mounded with small rocks and stones. Four crosses were offered by four crusaders and were set securely above each head. Lying in their graves facing east, toward the Jerusalem they had not seen, the four were then left to wait for the resurrection to come.
It was midmorning when tears had dried and huddles of hapless children began to form. It was then that Heinrich emerged from his own grief to join Pieter. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Pieter, I shall carry m’loss always. But now we must find a way to help these others. We’ve need for a plan.”
Pieter stared at the red-eyed man with admiration. One eyed, one armed, scarred in body and in soul, yet thinking of others. Encouraged and inspired, the priest welcomed his new friend into his embrace. “Heinrich, Heinrich, my son … may God’s blessings be upon you.” He took a deep breath and faced the throng of tattered children. “Heinrich, our God is a God of scars. Wounded people serve others well.”
“Then these poor wretches ought bring joy to many.”
Pieter chuckled. “I was thinking of you!”
The children were stirring amongst themselves. Many wished to go home. Others were more defiant. “We’ll not fail in this!” shouted one. “I say we press on, on to Jerusalem!”