Quest of Hope(87)

Lukas laughed loudly in Emma’s garden as he told his story of sweet revenge, and Emma and Heinrich howled. It was a good Sabbath afternoon, one filled with sunshine and pleasant memories. Heinrich bounced young Johann Lukas on his knee and handed him to his namesake. The monk smiled and lifted the child, now nearly four, toward the sky. “Ah, good little Lukas: love God, love man, love joy!”

The monk laughed as little Wilhelm toppled into Emma’s flowers. The child scowled and groused at the stiff plants scratching against his soft skin. “He’s to be a strong one, Heinrich … y’can see it in his eyes, they burn with fire!”

Indeed, the little boy, now a year and a half old, was headstrong and keen. His eyes were sky blue and his young features were even and pleasing. But his white hair stood up straight, like a field of wheat, and brought a hearty laugh to many.

“Now, Heinrich,” began Lukas, “a peddler came by the cloister at midweek. He brought news for me to give you, good news!”

Heinrich and Emma leaned forward expectantly. “Yes, yes, goon!”

Lukas smiled. “Effi’s had a boy-child and they’ve named him Heinrich!”

The baker smiled. “Ah, good Effi! Is she well, and the child?”

“The message is that all is well.”

“God be praised,” chimed a beaming Emma.

“Indeed!”

Lukas continued. “Ah, but there’s sad news as well. Your brother Axel had a stillborn.”

Heinrich nodded as Lukas went on.

“The famine’s hard in Limburg and all the world beyond. ‘Tis said even the wolves are seizing travelers in the great mountains to the south. What wolves don’t get, robbers do. The merchants stay in long caravans, oft joined by pilgrims and men-at-arms. The weak ones are picked off at the rear. There’s no rain to be found, the winter’s snow passed us by. It seems all the empire is in great danger.”





The harvest of this present year had been so very sparse that the following winter claimed more lives than any had remembered. Many children had been abandoned to the monks in hopes of God’s protection, one infant being found nearly frozen at the rear of the cloister’s shearing shed. He was a black-haired baby boy and the monks baptized him Tomas.

In the May of 1198 spring sowing enjoyed a more proper balance of sunlight and clouds, but, hope notwithstanding, the peasants of the abbey’s lands had other reasons to despair. Emperor Heinrich VI had died suddenly and his realm was now plunged into a civil war between three rivals. To prepare for the troubles that were certain to come, taxes and fines were immediately increased. The demands pushed even Heinrich to near rebellion. For him and the other peasants of Weyer, even a better harvest would yield no gain.

Despite the pressures, the feast of Lammas was ultimately enjoyed with a modicum of gratitude. Weyer had not forgotten the hauntings of the past winter’s famine: the sunken, gray faces of the dead, frozen skin stretched tightly over protruding bones, the swollen bellies of blue-faced infants. By contrast, the vigorous fields of grain waving in the warm winds of August now brought tears of relief.

Heinrich and his household were survivors. The children were thin but not sickly, and Herwin, Varina, Marta, and the baker were, indeed, grateful for the advantages Heinrich’s position offered. Now, as a new harvest began, they bent their knees willingly as their priests prayed over both them and their crops-in-waiting.

Marta was in her eighth month of another pregnancy and the heat of the summer was becoming difficult for her to bear. She could not abide a cluttered house so spent most of her days chasing her three young sons out-of-doors, along with Varina’s brood. “Everything and everyone in its proper place!” she shouted.

It was on one such day in the first week of August when Marta chased her five-year-old, Lukas, her almost four-year-old, Wilhelm, and her toddler, Gerberg, out the door and into the busy village to play. “We’ve all work but you three! Lukas, you’re old enough to lend a hand, so you’re to keep a careful eye on the imps, and keep out from under m’feet!”

Lukas smiled and waved as he led his two brothers along the village footpaths toward the bakery. The village was bustling with carts and oxen, women carrying buckets toward the fields, and old men sharpening sickle blades on their treadle-stones. The day was bright and blue; a gentle breeze blew from the west. Young Lukas was mischievous like his namesake. Cheerful and round-faced, the lad was soft-hearted and quick to laugh. His younger brother, Wilhelm, was game for any dare. Though still a child, Arnold claimed he had the “heart of a lion!” He, too, showed signs of tenderness but seemed to be the happiest when brawling with his brothers or throwing stones at passing little girls.