Pilgrims of Promise(9)

“Aye. And once the city’s looted, the guard will hang any they catch.”

The priest nodded. “We must be as far away as we can by dawn’s light. Pray for another miracle on the morrow.”

Heinrich nodded. He had learned that miracles were rare but not impossible.

“My friend, what are we to do when the passes are melted?”

The baker sat quietly, scratching his finger aimlessly on the ground. “I’ve thought of little else other than returning to m’boys.”

Pieter waited.

“I … I suppose when the lad’s able, we shall go home, home to Weyer. ‘Tis where we belong.”

Neither spoke until Pieter offered carefully measured words. “My friend, I know but a little of your story, but methinks you’re not the same man who left Weyer those years past.”

Heinrich nodded. He knew the man spoke true. “And what of it?”

“Forgive me, but were you not a bound man?”

“I am a bound man.” The words sickened him. His stomach twisted and his mind raced. A bound man? Servile? To whom? Who has the right to bind me? The man clenched his jaw.

Pieter hesitated, then asked, “By faith, Heinrich, is Weyer truly where you belong?”

The man was not prepared for such a question. “Of course!” he blurted. “I am Heinrich of Weyer! I was born to men bound there since before time was counted. I was baptized in the Church; I’ve m’bakery, m’half-hide … and m’wife.” His voice sounded suddenly urgent, as if he was straining to argue the case to himself.

Wisely, Pieter remained quiet and listened to the man repeat all the ways in which Weyer claimed him. He learned of the cause and the code, of uncles and friendships, of Emma and Lukas, Richard and Ingly. He heard of harvests and feasts, sacred days and gardens—of butterflies and the Magi; of the bubbling Laubusbach and wending rye. It was a blend of things good and things evil, happy and sad; in short, a harvest of things familiar.

Finally the baker finished. “So, Father, I shall take my son home to his mother … to Weyer.”

Pieter nodded and held his thoughts as he looked about the milling children. “So what of these?”

Heinrich stared at them sadly. “We ought to ask them.”

“Indeed.”

The two men stood and summoned those who had chosen not to follow Paul to Rome. The children came willingly and gathered at their feet. Both men had earned their trust—Heinrich several nights before when he protected so many, Pieter by his clergyman’s robe and his unmistakable wealth of wisdom. As the children waited patiently, Solomon trotted among them and happily accepted their proffered affection.

Yielding to Pieter, Heinrich stepped to one side and carefully studied the faces of those assembled. They were a diverse group of boys and maidens from ages five to sixteen. All were thin, and all were weary.

“My blessed faithful innocents,” began the priest, “God be praised for each one of you. Tomorrow is our last in Genoa, for we must find a safer refuge for a season. But when the winter passes, Herr Heinrich and I need to know how to serve you.”

The group began whispering. After a brief delay, a squeaky voice offered the obvious. “I should like very much to go home.”

The children murmured more loudly.

Pieter nodded. “Where is home, children? Where do you belong?” The names of dozens of places drifted forward. Heidelberg and Worms, Cologne, Mainz, Strasbourg, and Bonn … Freiburg and Basel, Zurich, and St. Gall. The crusaders offered the names of villages and hamlets from Swabia and Franconia, the valleys of the Alps and the flat-lands of Saxony.

A small girl stood. Heinrich thought her to be no more than six or seven. She walked to Pieter and tugged on his sleeve. He bent low to hear her whisper sadly, “I’m afraid to go home.”

Before Pieter could answer, another child cried from the edge of the campfire, “I cannot go home.”

“Why not, boy?”

“I’ll be beaten, now more’n ever. I’ve failed.”

Pieter’s face tightened as a chorus of others agreed. “Tell me how you’ve failed.”

Answers, heretofore repressed, now came quickly. They erupted from aching hearts that had been locked by shame and confusion. “We did not reach the Holy Land, and so we failed God”; “My faith failed me … methinks God must hate me now”; “I was afraid”; “I stole things”; “I cursed Mother Mary” … On and on they listed their failings. Their poor little hearts emptied themselves of guilt like the spewing of poison from the mouth of a serpent.

Heinrich listened silently and understood. He saw his own painful emotions reflected in the contorted, woeful faces of these children and wished they all might be set free. He looked toward the wise old man and waited for his answer.