“Papa Pieter,” interrupted Maria, “ahead is where Georg died for Karl? Otto said so.”
Pieter nodded sadly. He remembered the lad’s bravery as he hurtled off the cliff in a desperate, selfless attempt to save Karl. “Yes, my dear, somewhere in the Brünig … but I doubt we’ll find just where.”
“But we’ll surely know the tree that marks his grave,” added Frieda. “We picked one we’d not easily forget.”
The old man nodded. “It would be nice to visit him.”
Wil interrupted. “We must find his grave, Pieter.”
“Well, my son, you are our leader. Lead us there if you can.”
The Brünig Pass was not as high as the Grimsel, nor as desolate as the Simplon, but was majestic and inspiring nonetheless. Sheer walls of rock marked its entrance from the south, and more cliffs abounded between tight channels of steep mountain slopes. It had its own “divine presence,” as Pieter oft repeated. “God is here, my children! Can you not feel His breath on your face, smell the fragrance of His chamber in the scent of pine?”
Indeed, the Brünig had a special quality of enchantment, a welcoming way about it that drew the pilgrims in breathless wonder of the pleasant sights that awaited them at every turn of the roadway. Mountain wildflowers of purple or blue, orange and white peeked from crevices and filled sun-brightened glades. Birds chattered happily, and from time to time a proud stag emerged from the dark woodland to bare his chest for all the world to admire.
The wayfarers had not traveled more than a half day when Wil and Frieda sprinted ahead of the column and returned beaming. “We’ve found it!” cried Frieda. “We’ve found it!”
“Georg’s grave?” cried Heinz.
“Ja!”
Surprised, Pieter leaned on his staff and patted Solomon on the head. “Oh, my shaggy friend! Have we e’er seen a truer act of love than what good Georg did on that awful day?” He turned to Heinrich. “You’ve heard the story?”
“Aye,” he answered sadly. “I have.”
The company hurried on and within a quarter hour was standing under the spreading arms of an ancient oak tree growing boldly in the center of a green glade. Beneath its wide-stretched boughs rested a mound of rocks marking the lad’s grave. A crusader’s cross was lying in the tall grass, and Maria picked it up. She then removed the cross she was carrying and fixed it at the head of Georg’s grave. “Wil, I’ve given Georg back his cross. Karl carried it for him.”
Wil’s throat tightened and he nodded mutely.
The little girl then ran to Heinrich and handed him the cross from the grave. “Herr… Herr Heinrich, this was Karl’s cross. He set it by Georg’s head that day.”
Heinrich’s eye filled with tears as he received the cross reverently. Thoughts of his son were his constant companions. He touched the rough wood to his lips. “Oh, my dear Karl!” he moaned. He held it to his heart, then secured it in his belt. “Thank you, Maria. I shall take it home, home to Weyer.”
Maria said nothing.
Heinrich wiped his nose, then looked carefully at the little girl. Her eyes were red and her cheeks stained with tears. Her braids were tangled and littered with wilted flowers. Heinrich dropped to his knees and smiled at her. “Come, Maria, let me hold you.” Gently, the man reached out to the tiny maiden and embraced her, then kissed her on the forehead. He laid his thick, callused hand on her frail shoulder and looked at her tenderly. “Maria, you may call me ‘Papa’ or ‘Vati. ‘You are to be my daughter, and I will be your father.”
The maid nearly fainted for the wonder of it. She collapsed onto the man’s breast as a weary lamb welcomed to the shepherd’s fold. There she sobbed great tears of joy. She had been accepted; she was loved and would be kept safe under the watch of a father who cared.
Maria did not rejoice alone. A short distance from the baker and the little girl stood a teary Pieter and a beaming Frieda. Wil had also witnessed the exchange, and tears streamed freely down his face.
“Well, he should claim her,” griped Tomas with a hiss. He stood behind Otto with folded arms and sneered.
Otto wheeled about. “You’d take the joy from Christmas if you could!” he growled.
Tomas snickered. “Maybe I shall yet.”
“Enough!” barked Pieter. “Tomas, you … you—”
“Pieter,” interrupted Heinrich, “leave him be.”
The group settled, and Maria led Heinrich through the glade to gather flowers for Georg’s grave. Wil and Frieda drifted to the shade of the nearby forest, while others rested. The air of the dark wood was cool and musty. A few squirrels rustled about, but the heavily needled floor muffled the sound. The needles made the earth soft beneath the pair’s feet as they left the others behind.