Quest of Hope(156)

“Mormal? You’ll die for sure.” Heinrich grimaced at his words.

“Aye. We all die for sure.” Dietmar chuckled lightly, then became faint.

Heinrich steadied the man and handed him a flask he had bought for himself. Dietmar drained a long draught of air-chilled ale.

“Many thanks, stranger. What is your name?”

“Heinrich. Heinrich of… Stedingerland.” He hated to lie.

“Well, Heinrich, your pilgrimage is to where?”

“Rome.”

“Ah, the Holy See. For a penance?”

“Aye. Have you been there?”

Dietmar shook his head. “You plan to winter in Salzburg?”

“Yes. But I hope to leave as early in the spring as possible. I hope before Easter.”

“The mountain passes are often closed until Pentecost, sometimes later. You ought travel through the Brenner. It is lower and clears a little earlier.”

Heinrich grumbled. “Perhaps I should hurry and find a caravan. I am told they sometimes dare the passes late in the season.”

“Some years the snow is late … sometimes early. Perhaps strange fortune and south winds might make for an odd season next year, but I can tell you that this year is too late.”

Heinrich sighed. The two sat quietly for a short time while Dietmar rested, then Heinrich offered his new friend a meal. The two found their way to a tavern within the shadow of St. Peter’s near the town’s center. Dietmar ravenously chewed a thick slice of soup-soaked bread and wiped his fingers through a hearty mash. Gangrene had indeed spread within his poorly set break and fever was besetting the young man. “This fare is some of the best I’ve eaten!” said Dietmar cheerfully. He grimaced and reached for his leg. “Cursed physicians! I have spent far too much on them. All they do is squeeze the ooze and sprinkle bits of salt on the rot.”

Despite the physicians’ shortcomings, salt was a powerful agent for healing. Just as it preserved the sausages, hams, bacon, fish, fowl, beef slabs, cheese, butter, and nearly every other food necessary to winter the growing population of Europe, it was found to protect life from many diseases. Salt was precious and expensive, yet, along with sunlight, a necessary ingredient in a dark and corrupted world.

Heinrich listened compassionately to Dietmar’s story and happily paid the man’s meal from the monks’ pennies. He then helped the man from the table and led him into the late daylight that still warmed the courtyard of the cathedral. The two found a comfortable bench and leaned against the wall of a merchant’s house.

Heinrich stared in awe at the massive stone church. Its towers were squat and heavy, like the little church in Weyer, but on a much grander scale. Its walls were massive; it was a fortress that would surely hold fast against the assaults of Lucifer’s legions. The simple man of Weyer had seen few such edifices of God’s kingdom and he sat in spellbound astonishment.

Dietmar noticed the man’s excitement and asked Heinrich to follow him into the sanctuary. Heinrich entered reverently, almost fearfully. His eye widened at the arched buttresses and thought the huge columns lining the nave to be like orderly plantings of ancient trees. He walked quietly toward the altar standing so very far away. His leather soles padded lightly on the stone floor, and as he walked he leaned his head back to behold the carvings gracing the heights of God’s castle. “This place,” he whispered, “it points me to God.”

Dietmar nodded. “What our eyes see, our tongues taste, our noses smell, our ears hear, and our fingers touch do much to call upon the spirit within us. They are important parts of our worship.”

The pair stood quietly near the altar where they lingered for some time. At last, an annoyed priest spotted them and chased them out the door, complaining he had chores for the All Souls’ services in the morning. The two stumbled out into the courtyard laughing.

“My new friend, look there.” Dietmar pointed to a mountain towering over the edge of Salzburg. “Lookup, Heinrich! An old Bulgarian priest once taught me to ‘Let the eyes climb the summit, then let them fly higher and higher! Let them take you to the God that this poor little chapel chirps about.’ ’Tis good the works of man remind us of bigger things, but look, see how the mountains point us higher still.” He turned to see Heinrich staring at the snow edging the tops of his feet. “Heinrich …?”

“I… I am under a vow.”

“A vow?” Dietmar was confused. He stared at the baker. “What sort of vow keeps your eye from heaven?”

“I do not wish to speak of it. Now, let me help you home.”