The old priest put his arm around the baker. “Sometimes we need to guard against our conscience. It is not always a proper master.”
After several moments of silence, Heinrich finally whispered brokenly, “I have been given much mercy.” Indeed, and so he had. It was a simple truth so oft ignored, but once grasped, a truth bound to bear fruit. The weary baker turned toward Maria and took a deep breath. Then, with a determined stride and a gracious smile, he joined the astonished girl and sat by the minstrel to hear a happy song.
Morning broke brightly over Brig. Knowing the next days would require only a relatively easy march across the valley floor, the pilgrims roused themselves with ease. Wil, however, had not slept well. A great struggle of the heart had kept him tossing and turning through the night, for he had happened upon Pieter’s conversation with his father and had heard everything. Hearing his father disavow all demands on the lad’s affections had released Wil to forgive his father with greater ease. Hearing the man decry his own failings, acknowledge the suffering he had caused, and plainly state the truth of his motivations had moved Wil’s heart greatly. He now understood the truth of Maria’s parentage, and when he saw his father offering kindness to this daughter of Pious, his heart filled with respect.
Wil had secretly wondered if Pious was, indeed, the father of Maria. He had seen the man prowling about the hovel all the while his father had been gone. It did not shock him, therefore, to imagine that the priest had visited his mother even before his father had left. For as long as he could remember, he had hated Pious. Hearing his darkest suspicions confirmed only infuriated him all the more. The anger he had directed toward his father was promptly shifted against the village priest. Wil remained confused about his mother, however. Perhaps she was lonely. Perhaps in great fear for all of us. The comfort of a priest was a temptation too great. He wasn’t sure what to think. Throwing a stone as far as he could, he took a deep breath. “Otto, is everyone ready?”
“Ja.”
Wil surveyed his company and let his gaze linger for a moment on Frieda. “And you, Frieda, are you ready?”
The damsel answered playfully, “I am, my lord.”
“And me, too, sire!” Maria cried with a giggle.
So, in good spirits, the band of pilgrims began its nine-league march along the Rhône toward the majestic Grimsel Pass. It was a glorious day and the sun shone kindly overhead. Maria and Benedetto passed the time singing simple ballads, while the boys teased one another with jibes and taunts.
The company kept a brisk pace alongside the surging, chalky gray Rhône. The river was swollen and tumbling hard from the spring thaws. The group paused for a midday meal and reflected on their raft ride southward in the summer past. At Fiesch, however, Benedetto grew silent and urged Wil to hurry on. He cast one brief look at his former home and was shocked to discover his old dock was gone.
“It isn’t there!” exclaimed Otto. “Benedetto, your dock is gone.”
The minstrel nodded sadly, then looked away. He was surprised at the weight of melancholy that pressed his heart. The man had spent many years singing to travelers and those few brave enough to dare the rough glacier waters of the Rhône. It was a time that had surely passed. He was the minstrel of Fiesch no more.
The valley widened considerably as the pilgrims made their way northeastward. It was dotted with tiny hamlets whose poor residents pastured numbers of milk cows atop fields now carpeted with the most spectacular assortment of wildflowers. Maria dashed from the column from time to time to gather handfuls of them. She decorated Frieda’s flaxen hair and her own, even setting a cluster behind laughing Pieter’s ear. To either side of the splendid valley, the great mountains rose ominously, but not in an unfriendly way. They stood tall and proud, mighty sentinels of things glorious.
It was midday of the second day when the pilgrims stood at the base of the Grimsel Pass. There they gawked slack jawed and in wonder of the sheer magnificence before them. Huge spruce-covered mountains lay in wait, and behind them stood what seemed to be unending folds of snow-blown peaks.
“I can barely speak,” mumbled Pieter. The old priest fell to his knees and gave thanks for the gift of God’s handiwork spread before them all. When he finished, he turned to his little company. “God and nature do not work together in vain! See, whether we stand upon summits or walk in fertile valleys, the Lord is good. He gives us this earth as a glimpse of His greater glory. It is a gift. It is a reminder that He is present in all things, and from that we can draw hope. Look, there, at the mighty cliffs … no, they are not divine in themselves, but He dwells in them. And there, among the tender flowers of the valley floor … He dwells there, too. His Spirit abides in the heavens and in the forests, in the waters of the Rhône and the drizzle of the mist. He is with us, around us, above our heads, and below our feet. And there He shall be—always.”