Finally, Pieter begged for rest, and Wil was happy to accommodate the old fellow. The priest took a long draught of wine and sat atop a large boulder from which he faced south. He laid back and closed his eyes. He told no one, but he had been feeling more tired than usual. His feet ached, to be sure, and his joints were stiff and swollen. But he had also become short of breath and hoped he was not battling the onslaught of fever.
After a quarter hour of dozing, the old man gathered his strength and stood slowly to his feet. “Ah, my little Heinz,” he said as he pointed southward, “we are leaving the people of passion behind. This mighty wall of mountains is the great divide between them and those who live in the north.” He turned and pointed the lad northward. “Ahead is home to the people of purpose.”
“So what?” groused Tomas.
“It may mean little, or it may mean much. These people of passion have given us art and beauty, song and philosophy. We, on the other hand, seem to be a people of determined ways. We are workers, and what has come to us through these passes has given us much to use.” He looked about his group. “Learn from the wisdom of other peoples and places, discover what you can, then be who you are and make the world a better place.”
Chapter Nine
THE WAGER
The pilgrims steadily made their way higher and deeper into the pass. Small pine groves stood in ever-thinning patches, and the air got colder with every step. Struggling upward, they followed the trail, still snow covered and packed hard by the many feet and carts of those gone before. To either side, the snow rose higher as they climbed, soon mounding far above a tall man’s head and creating a white channel through which the travelers passed. Above, bearing the wind like the unflappable sentries of a beleaguered fortress, the green-stained rock face of the peaks stood, silently watching those below as they had for millennia.
The Simplon was difficult to cross, yet its grandeur was exhilarating. Pieter’s heart, grown of late somewhat weary, now pumped vigorously, and his cheeks flushed with excitement. He surveyed the wonder about him and thanked the almighty Creator for such a gift as this. The old man drove his staff hard into the stony earth and considered, once more, his place in the cosmos. He laughed out loud. “What is man, that thou art mindful of him!’”
The pilgrims wrapped themselves tightly in their cloaks and pressed on, finally cresting the pass and beginning the long descent. They stopped for one night under a rocky overhang where they made a hasty campfire with some scrub wood Rudolf had gathered.
At dawn, Heinrich breathed deeply. The man smiled, refreshed by the scent of pine and the tingle of crisp air. “Home!” he cried. “It is beginning to feel like home.”
By the end of the next day, Wil’s company emerged from the Simplon and began their sharp descent toward the sprawling village of Brig. Set along the rushing Rhône River, Brig was nestled neatly in a splendid valley cramped by jagged-edged mountains that seemed to reach into heaven. Stubborn winds dragged snow off the distant peaks and formed huge white pennants pointing southward. Wil’s eyes turned from them and scanned the river northeastward along a narrowing green ribbon.
It was decided that Brig might be unsafe and that camp should be made beyond its borders. Benedetto had heard rumors over the years while perched on his dock in nearby Fiesch. “Too many Frenchmen,” he warned. “They come from Burgundy to take the Simplon south. Many are thieves and rogues who fear the popular routes like St. Cenis’s or St. Bernard’s.”
Just before compline, small clusters of quiet chatter ringed a snapping fire along the rapid river’s edge. Wil had slipped away to practice with his bow, and Frieda sat alone with her quill and parchment. Otto, Rudolf, Helmut, and Heinz told tales of their crusade, and Tomas stared aimlessly into the rushing water. Singing rhymes and giggling, Maria sat with Benedetto and Solomon.
Heinrich relieved Paulus of his burdens and tethered the grateful beast to a nearby tree before sitting alongside Pieter. In the warmth of the campfire’s heat, the two elders lounged comfortably and spoke of many things in low tones. The two had exchanged life stories over the past weeks, and both their mutual respect and mutual trust had deepened. Pieter leaned toward the baker. “So tell me, Heinrich, are you certain she is not your daughter? Wil says it could be no other, and he hates you for denying her.”
The man sighed heavily. He looked through the flames at the firelit face of the happy little girl. With his eye lingering on her misshapen arm, he nodded sadly. “Ja, Pieter. I am certain. Would that she could be mine, for I could love her easily.”