Wil reached for the monk’s hand and grasped it firmly. “Our thanks, Brother Stefano, for your charity and your wisdom.”
Stefano embraced Wil, then Heinrich, then each of the others. He prayed over the pilgrims and reluctantly returned to his boat, where his brothers were patiently waiting. Then, with a sad wave, the two groups parted company, never to see one another again.
By nightfall, Tomas proved himself to be of some value. He knew of an obscure trail that would lead the pilgrims safely around Genoa and deliver them to the main roadway north, in the foothills just beyond the city. All agreed that they ought not to risk the podesta’s wrath. The city’s guard was doubtlessly still fomenting over the night of grand theft. But Heinrich, Wil, and Frieda refused to leave Liguria without one final farewell to Karl, whose body was buried along the roadway just above Genoa.
The boy’s grave had been dug in the “Angels’ Garden” nearly seven months before. On the curving highway descending from the mountains to the city, the good lad had been lost to a reckless company of horsemen and their wagoner. Wil and Frieda could not blot the moment from their memories, and Heinrich’s imagination lost nothing in conjuring the horrific event.
Indeed, while others slept, poor Heinrich walked about in the mountain’s wood, lamenting the loss of his beloved child. Guilt heaped itself upon grief, and the weight of the burden was intolerable. He simply could not forgive himself for failing to reveal his true identity to Karl before it was too late. Would his cheerful, loving, and kindhearted son have forgiven and welcomed his father? Would Karl still be alive if he had been there to protect him? Heinrich could find no satisfying answers to these questions.
At dawn the man returned to the camp. He was drained, and his face looked sallow and drawn. He stood silently and waited bravely, and the sight of such a crushed soul caused more than one heart to clench in sympathy. Frieda ran to the man and held him tightly. “I loved him too, Herr Heinrich,” she whispered. “I loved him too.”
Wil stared at his father and wondered how a man so broken could have been as callous as others had once said. His mother had told him and Karl over and over again how uncaring, how utterly selfish, and how dangerous a man he was. Looking at him now, Wil wondered.
With few words the company gathered themselves and followed Wil upward along the crowded roadway. Most passersby thought them to be pilgrims from some holy order. Their black garments and somber faces even convinced a few to toss them pennies.
It was well before noon when Wil slowed his walk to study the shoulder of the highway in earnest. The grave had been dug on the east side in a clearing filled with wildflowers. It was mid-April, and he was sure some would be in fresh bloom. He wondered if Frieda’s cross would still be there.
The pilgrims followed their leader quietly, respecting the loss that both he and his father so sorely suffered. Even Tomas admitted that he had liked Karl, though he had thought him a bit annoying from time to time. “His riddles could drive a monk to madness,” the young man offered awkwardly.
No one answered. Finally Wil stopped. He beckoned Frieda close, and the two peered ahead at a distant clearing on the downside of a curve. From this vantage it looked peculiar, but something about it seemed familiar. The two ran forward with Heinrich close behind.
“Oh, by the saints,” said Frieda in a hushed tone. “He is here.”
Wil dashed ahead and fell to his knees. Frieda and Heinrich quickly joined him, and the three stared sadly at the sinking mound of stones half covered by winter debris. Wil leaned forward and began to pick away dead weeds and crumbling petals when he spotted the wooden cross lying on its side. The sight of it brought a flood of memories to his mind, and his vision swam into a blur. “See, Father … Frieda’s cross,” he choked.
The man’s gaze rested on the simple apple-wood cross as Wil and Frieda slowly set it upright. He could only imagine what sorrows that cross had witnessed, what sufferings it had borne along his sons’ crusade of tears. He then laid his hand atop the grave and groaned woefully. It was a painful thing to be separated from his beloved boy by such a thin screen of dirt and rock. He only wished he could hug the happy lad one last time. Heinrich fell to the ground alongside the mound and cried out for heaven’s mercy.
Wil drew short, shallow breaths and tried for all the world to hold back his tears. Unable to bear the raw agony of his father’s grief, he retreated to the far side of the road and leaned against a tree, very much alone. Alas, there in his solitude he could not hold the flood tide of sorrow any longer. He covered his face with his hands and was soon weeping.