Quest of Hope(182)
Heinrich and Solomon left Brig the next morning, not knowing that Pieter’s crusaders had sped down the Rhone by raft and would arrive in Brig later that very same day! The baker and his panting dog climbed the long, winding ascent to the Simplon Pass at a pace much slower than before. At the summit Heinrich’s aching legs dragged him to a sun-warmed boulder where he rested for a time. The man faced the splendor of green gorges notched and shadowed beneath distant, snow-capped ridges. But as his eye followed the magnificent landscape, the wind rustled the needled forest around him and he shuddered. It was as if he suddenly heard Father Pious’s voice hissing words of judgment on he and his sons. Heinrich stood. His belly twisted and his chest tightened as he wondered if his sons would perish for his sins. He closed his eye and lowered his head; he thought he might go mad.
As if he understood, Solomon licked his new master’s hand and leaned against his thigh. He whined a little and stared into Heinrich’s face with hopeful, twinkling eyes. Heinrich coughed and scratched Solomon’s ears, then forced clean mountain air into his wheezing lungs. He bent to pluck a wildflower and held it to his nose. Its scent was sweet and gentle, its colors cheerful and pleasant. He sat and stared at the beauty held between his thumb and finger. “Could there be another way?” he murmured.
For the next several days Heinrich and Solomon hurried south, past a menacing castle bracing for battle and through a lowering landscape to the source of the Ticino River. From there they followed a valley roadway that paralleled the blue-green river. They rested infrequently, but when they did they loved to lie atop the warm, white rocks that were scattered along the pebbled shore. Here they slept, both twitching and smiling while dreaming good things in the warmth of the Italian sun.
Heinrich and Solomon finally reached the foothills of the Apennines and panted their way higher and higher into the mountains. The Apennines were rounded, like lumpy shoulders, but steep. The irritable German grumbled to Solomon about their lack of beauty and glared at the tangle of softwoods now surrounding him. “These trees are useless and disordered!” He wished he could prop himself against the sturdy trunks of his mighty Magi. He longed for the clear air and vibrant green of the mighty forests of the north. “Solomon,” he muttered, “some say this is a charming land of music, good wine, and beautiful women. Ha! I say it is charming like … like a dimwit smiling in the sun!”
The two pressed on for another day until they crested the mountains at a dramatic curve, where they paused. Heinrich smiled and a lump filled his throat. “There, Solomon! There!” He pointed across the treetops to the distant city of Genoa and the magnificent blue expanse of the Aegean. “Smell! Can y’smell the salt sea? Hurry! We needs hurry!”
The two rushed along the road as it wound its way downward. But it was then that fear rose within the man once again. With every step he felt a renewed urgency, a desperate need to hurry. He dared not be late! The pair trotted anxiously, pushing themselves through shuffling crowds of annoying travelers until they slowed alongside a patch of wildflowers surrounding a fresh grave. Heinrich felt a chill spread through the whole of his body as Solomon dashed toward it.
The grave was a mound of dark, crumbled earth and small rocks. It was overspread with a thin layer of freshly picked flowers whose blooms had not yet wilted. At its head was a simple wooden cross—one like the crusaders carried in their belts. Heinrich felt sick. He called to travelers coming uphill from the city, first to this one, then to that. Few could understand him and those that could knew nothing. At last, a huddle of brown-robed monks sauntered by, whispering amongst themselves with bowed, tonsured heads. Heinrich called to them.
An elderly brother answered kindly. “Nay, my son, we’ve no knowledge of the grave, but, yes, we passed the ones you describe. No doubt they entered the city just hours ago.”
Heinrich’s chest heaved. “Brothers, I beg you. Tell me of a tall blond lad and a younger redhead … with curls.”
The monks mumbled and shrugged. “Ah, forgive us, but we know nothing of either boy. We remember only their mad priest.”
Heinrich’s breath quickened. “In the city! In the city, Solomon!” He took a long look at the mysterious grave. Something within urged him to cast off the rocks and dig beneath the flowers to find a face. Vile thoughts! I am a vile and wicked man. He accused himself a sinner and hung his head. Then, with a deep, resolute breath, Heinrich of Weyer turned his face away and hurried on.
The port city of Genoa was large and unfriendly. Its palaces boasted the wealth of a merchant class enjoying the bounty of sea trade; the crowded alleyways of the poor just dingy and wretched. Smoke choked the narrow streets and the air reeked of septic and garbage. Its olive-toned folk gawked and grumbled at the travel-worn Teuton and his ragged dog. But Heinrich cared little and gave them no heed. His only purpose was to find his sons before they boarded a ship bound for Palestine.