Dietrich looked forward and with a start called to the boy. “No! No, no, Lukas … you mustn’t climb—”
The man’s echoing voice surprised the boy and he lost his balance, falling forward against the wide post. His little hands were too small to grasp the heavy timber and his young legs too weak to slow his fall. In a moment, with an anguished gasp of a grandpapa, the lad crashed atop the grindstone.
The death of a young child was not uncommon, for disease and accident, foul play or war took young souls each day across all Christendom. But for the household of Heinrich it mattered little what was common for others. They lay about their smoky hovel in the heat of that August afternoon, weeping and angry. Lukas was dearly known to them—he had been cared for in sickness, laughed with at feast days, played with in springtime meadows, and romped with under the summer’s sun. “He was yet a tender bloom,” wept Emma, “bursting with life, full of good things.” Indeed, and so he was.
For his part, Dietrich bore his own shame and carried it poorly. He cursed his mill and cursed his priest. The man sought comfort in excess of any ready vice and was quickly given over to the painless stupor of muddy ale.
Marta was utterly embittered by the loss. For days she would speak to neither her husband nor her father. For her, blame was a balm for pain and her long-suffering husband was willing to bear her wrath if it gave her comfort. For such strength he paid a withering price.
Heinrich often walked the footpaths of Weyer alone for nights on end. He could not express his brokenness in words, nor in actions, nor in thoughts or fits of fury. He could but trudge the nights in a vacant melancholy in hopes that time might finally soothe his heartache. One comfort did pursue him, however, and only one. Old Emma offered an ever-tender shoulder and a gentle touch. She could of course, because she knew.
In the season of Advent Marta delivered the family a son whose gentle disposition proffered little comfort to those yet suffering their loss. He was immersed in icy water on the twenty-first of December and blessed and salted by Father Pious. His mother dispassionately named him Johann Karl. The child was round-faced and ruddy, winsome and bright. Sadly, he was born to a household that was heartbroken, making his arrival bittersweet.
The gray weeks of another winter dragged on until more sad fortune visited the baker’s family. Two-year-old Gerberg had suffered winter fever and quinsy. Though Brother Lukas had supplied both fervent prayer and barley water, the young soul departed to his Savior’s bosom on a bitterly cold early morning in March.
Heinrich said little and Marta even less as Father Pious prayed for Gerberg’s soul. The parents were reminded of the hope of baptism as the tot’s shroud was laid in a tiny grave in the churchyard’s frozen earth. Heinrich stood over the dark hole and trembled with his faithful Butterfly Frau dutifully at his side. Then, when the last hard clod of dirt was dropped on the brown, frosty mound, the heavy-hearted folk turned away.
For nights to come Heinrich stared about his hovel at the haunted faces peering sadly into the ghostly light of his hearth fire. Herwin is aging, he thought, and Varina too. Their children were growing; the eldest now being fourteen.
Somewhere in her bedchamber lay Marta, angry and bitter and quite alone. She now banished Heinrich from her affections, swearing he carried a curse into her womb. “You’ll father no more,” she hissed from her bed, “y’hexed and black-touched monster. You’ve unconfessed sin … You’ve secrets that your children pay!”
Heinrich hung his head. This was not the life he had dreamt of in Emma’s garden so very long ago.
Despite rumors of warfare in nearby manors, October was a peaceful month. The harvest was ample, and calm ruled the rhythm of the village. Effi had sent warm wishes with a passing peddler. She and her family were happy and healthy in the city of Frankfurt.
As the brown leaves of autumn once more fell along the footpaths of Weyer, Heinrich was invited by Emma to spend a Sabbath hour at her door. The baker accepted gladly and brought his sons, Wil and Karl, with him. Little Karl, now nearly one, was still a happy child. His head was covered in tight, red curls, and his round face was rose-red like the happy faces of heaven’s cherubs. He chortled and giggled and his presence made others feel warm and joyful. Young Wil was keen and bright as ever. Healthy and playful, the four-year-old raced about Emma’s fading garden sword-playing with woody stalks and boxing against the air.
Emma dearly loved the boys—and their father. “Dear Heinrich, ‘tis so good you’ve come! And look there, scratching bark from my walnut. ‘Tis Brother Lukas. Look at him, aging, yet mischievous like a pup. Brother!” she called.