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Quest of Hope(16)

By:C. D. Baker






The hay harvest of the following spring was poor again. Kurt and his tenant, Herwin, labored for hours under the hot sun in order to fulfill the work requirements of the abbey. They swung their scythes over the monks’ meadows by the Laubusbach but sheaved less than half a good year’s yield. Thorny weeds seemed to always do best in hard times; it was as though they relished adding pain to misery. Kurt had pricked his hand on a thick thorn a week prior and the wound made his grasp of the scythe an agony.

Kurt’s own fields were suffering badly in a second year of drought. The harvest would yield little more than his rent required, and as he worked he wondered how he would buy barley for the field now waiting in fallow. With the carpenters’ guild now hiring laborers from Villmar, Kurt would have to rely on the harvest from his own small holding and the pittance Herwin paid in rents.

Most of the village men were working in the field that day. Each owed a fixed number of days in service to the monks in exchange for their protection. It was the ancient way. At the far end of the meadow worked the old men, most sitting in the shade with the village whetstones, sharpening dulled blades for the harvesters. The meadows were filled with scythe-swinging men, and behind them followed the women and children, including young Heinrich, raking and bundling the cut grass into sheaves for the carters to haul away. Berta, however, was home carding wool. She was due to deliver her fourth child and was suffering much discomfort.

At the bells of compline the weary peasants were dismissed from their tasks and most immediately plunged into the Laubusbach for a cool respite. A few splashes in the stream’s waters did wonders to brighten spirits, and soon a column of peasants in dripping woollens began the short march from the meadows to the village, singing songs of spring.

Kurt and Herwin stumbled through the door in search of beer or cider, but came upon the midwife in the middle of her work. “Out! Out at once!” she shrieked. Men were strictly forbidden to be present at times like these. By the look on Berta’s face Kurt knew something was not in order. He retreated through the doorway and sat against the wattled wall of his hovel where he winced and grimaced at the cries of his wife. Heinrich and Axel stared wide-eyed and sat close to their worried father.

At last there was silence. And then sobbing, followed by a curt reprimand. “Enough, woman. ‘Tis as God wills it to be!” The midwife came through the doorway wiping her bloodstained hands on her apron. “Kurt, you’ve lost a son. He was born breathing so ye’d best call on Father Gregor and have him baptized straightaway.”

“Kurt … Kurt!” cried Berta from within. “Kurt, get the priest and quick, we’ve needs to catch his soul before it falls in the Pit!”

The man’s face hardened in grief and he pushed his boys aside. He stepped into his hut and stared at his sobbing wife lying in the bedchamber. She was whimpering and holding her limp newborn tightly to her bared breast. He knelt by her dutifully and kissed her on the forehead.

By matins little Reinhard was baptized a Christian, bathed, and shrouded. He was buried in the morning, and before the bells of terce Kurt was scything hay once more.





The harvest feast of Lammas, August the first, was only two weeks away, yet the village was still bustling with its summer labors. The hay had been gathered and carted to the abbey, the wool had been carded and bundled into bales for sale in Limburg. The parched grain fields stood ready for the scythes, while the fields in fallow were turned by sluggish oxen.

Kurt grew weaker as an infection spread from his hand through his forearm. Heinrich faithfully bathed his father’s sweating brow through long nights of fever sweats, yet at each dawn the man rose to fight his way to dusk with a resolution that would have greatly pleased old Jost.

The summer had brought few changes, no season really ever varied much, but one addition to the village proved an annoyance to all. A stray mastiff had wandered into Weyer looking for food and attention. Reeve Lenard took ownership of the beast, hoping to train the dog to hunt.

Lenard’s new dog proved to be playful and bright but preferred his own pleasures to those of his master. Each night, Lenard loudly commanded the animal to sit or lie down, roll or fetch a stick. The more the man commanded, however, the less the dog performed until, exasperated, the man beat and pounded the dog with a leather strap. “You shall yield to me, beast!” Lenard cried each night. Then, night after night, grumping and grousing and bellowing foul oaths, the defeated reeve collapsed into his straw bed.

Heinrich lay awake each of those nights teary-eyed and sobbing for the poor animal. By day, the four-year-old would sneak over to Lenard’s cottage and play with the dog. Though the animal was twice the boy’s size, he had no malice in his simple heart and gently rolled the little lad around the ground. The beast was kind and gentle, though strong; intelligent and tender of heart. Heinrich sat quietly by his side and stroked his dusty, red-brown fur, laughing at the drooping tongue of his panting kindred spirit.