Quest of Hope(181)

The pair pressed on. They had not been able to cover much ground—the roads were rocky and narrow, steep, and, at some places, treacherous. In addition, the poor baker had turned an ankle badly on a rock and had been limping for days. They finally descended into the flat Aare valley and the village of Meiringen. Exhausted, Heinrich led Solomon through the small village toward a pair of old men sitting on a bench. “‘Ave y’seen a band of children with an old priest come through here from parts north?” Heinrich was impatient and irritable. A white-headed, ruddy-faced fellow wiped froth from his mouth and set down his tankard of ale. “Hmm. Methinks to see some children on yester noon … or was it this morn? Axel, can y’not remember the strange Kinder?”

The other man, a bald, wrinkle-faced farmer in a badly torn tunic, belched. “Aye … nay … hmm.” He paused. “Ja, Edel, to be sure. They took the trail yonder, the one to the keep.” He pointed vaguely.

“Ach, nay, y’old fool,” answered the first. He shook his head and whispered to Heinrich. “M’friend’s a bit dim. Happened when he took the fall some years back.”

“Well, what of the children?” Heinrich chafed.

Edel wrinkled his nose and squinted. He grimaced and grunted and took another drink. “Ja,” he answered.

Heinrich tapped his hand against his side and waited as Edel swallowed more. His eye was beginning to bulge. “And?” he bellowed.

“You needn’t shout, stranger. Now what’s it y’want?”

“Did you see the band of children or not?” Heinrich roared.

“I already said so.”

“Well… where in God’s name did they go?”

“Ach, you never asked me that.”

Heinrich growled. “I’m askin’y’now!”

The man took another drink and shrugged. “Methinks they followed the highway south.”

“Are you sure?”

Edel shrugged.

Heinrich gawked at the old men and wondered who was dim and who was not. He turned to Solomon and shook his head. “Edel or Axel … whose word do we take?” He chose Edel—but he was wrong. Axel had, indeed, spotted Pieter taking the peddler’s trail. It led to the small keep of a lord built just beyond the roadway where the priest had hopes of begging food for his hungry company. So, while the crusaders followed Pieter on his short detour, Solomon followed his new master due south and deeper into the mountains—just ahead of the crusaders!

For the next several days the pair climbed higher and higher, finally struggling through knee-deep snow in the Grimselpass and dismissing the kindness of two French wayfarers before beginning their long descent into the Rhone valley. Frustrated and straining to find Pieter’s little column, Heinrich followed the rushing Rhone River southwest through the narrow, wooded valley etched deeply into the heart of the Alps.

A day later, in the village of Fiesch, Heinrich bought some mutton and a fresh-baked loaf of bread, a flagon of red wine and a spoon of honey. He wandered to a flat rock that sat squarely on the river’s edge where he and Solomon enjoyed both their meal and the pleasant sounds of a little man singing on a small dock.

Heinrich smiled. It was good to hear music again, and the tiny minstrel with the funny hat made him laugh. The fellow wore pointy-toed shoes and had a pointy black beard, just like a marionette Heinrich had once seen in a peddler’s basket. The little man strummed a wooden lute with fingers not much bigger than a child’s, but he had a voice as clear and as strong as the river running below his feet.

The following day Heinrich arrived in the village of Brig, weary and slow-of-foot. He entered the timber-walled town and looked carefully for any sign of the elusive crusaders before collapsing on a tavern bench. “Has anyone seen a band of children?”

“Crusaders? Most are west, we’d be told,” answered a merchant. He was seated with a group of fellows grumbling about their troubles.

“Why west?” asked Heinrich.

“Who could know what those fools are thinking? Why are they west?” he shrugged. “Why are they anywhere? I only know what’s been said.”

Heinrich bought the group a round of ale. “No news of any in these parts?”

Another answered. “None of late. Methinks some weeks past. Most stay by the highways near the monasteries, more to the west.”

Heinrich thought for a moment. How very much he wanted to find his sons along the way, but if he couldn’t, he rightly reasoned that he should get to Genoa before them. “Tell me, sirs, which is the most direct route to Genoa?”

The merchants paused and bickered a bit among themselves until one finally answered. “The most direct way is to cross the river here and follow the trail to the Simplon Pass, then along the Toce River to the lake. You needs follow the lake to the Ticino and then to Pavia. From there many roads lead to the mountains and the city.”