by C. D. Baker
The man wouldn’t speak.
“I do not demand a miracle for Maria, but I do dare pray for one.”
Pieter nodded.
The minstrel joined the pair and slowly gathered words to his lips. “Padre, my heart weighs heavy and I cannot bear this pain. These poor children …” He wiped the tears from his eyes and pulled on his beard. “I think I have never felt such loss; to see their graves along the shore …”
Pieter had no counsel left and was content to simply nod again. His spirit had been pressed beyond all resource.
Wil wandered far away from his comrades and stared at the green mountains that rose around the lake like well-muscled shoulders. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun warm and the air sweet, but none were of comfort. Indeed, the lad pondered, there is nary a rogue on this earth as wicked as I. I am not the man I thought m’self to be. I am cowardly, selfish, weak; I’ve no heart. How could I have hurt her so? He slid his back against a tree trunk and sat in its cool shade. There his mind flew to images of his sister as an infant in his mother’s arms, then playing happily by the bakery ovens, or tending sick geese and picking flowers. Melancholy overtook the lad once more. “Dear, dear Maria,” he beseeched aloud. “Please, dear schwester, if y’can hear my words I beg y’hear this: I am so very, very sorry. Please forgive me.”
Frieda brought Pieter a wedge of cheese and some salted fish, then left him to his thoughts. He sat silently on the lakeshore watching the sun slide ever farther west. At last he walked to the water’s edge where he cupped a refreshing splash of water onto his face. Feeling revived, he then turned to survey his flock. This shall not do, he thought. This shall not do at all.
Pieter’s voice turned all heads. “Komm, meine kinder, komm.” He extended his arms and waited as his flock drew near. He scanned their faces and smiled tenderly. “Where is Wil?” he asked. The children looked about and shrugged.
Gertrude pointed. “I thought I saw him climbing through those trees.”
“Heinz,” said Pieter, “fetch good Wil. Tell him we have a need of him.”
Heinz sprinted across the beach and disappeared into a wooded hillside.
“And as for you, my beloved,” Pieter continued, “we have bidden farewell to dear ones before. Poor Georg and Albert and Jost and Lukas and now all the Jons. Gunter, August, Richard, the others …”
“And my brother, Manfred,” blurted Frieda.
“Ah, dear one,” said Pieter, “yes, and our Manfred. But we cannot linger by this lake.”
“Onward!” said Karl at once. “’Tis time.”
“Aye!” echoed Otto. “They cannot have died for naught. They’d want it so.”
Pieter sighed. “My lambs, it gets some easier to walk, but I would not have you deceived. Other hardships do remain.” He looked at the sky and shook his head. “By m’measurement of the stars some nights past, I reckoned us clearly nearing the equinox. You needs know that the change in season shall bring a time of natural melancholy, especially in souls so hard-pressed as yours. The shortening hours call the humors of the body to produce black bile and our sadness may grow ever heavier.
“As a child I did love the crisp air of coming autumn and the fruits of harvest, but as I aged m’mind changed some. Now it seems ever more sad to me; a time when lightness and hope give way to shadows and thoughts of endings. It is the season when youth dies….”
Pieter began to tear a little. “Ah, yes, these are but the ramblings of a weary, old man in the winter of his own life. The Secretum Secretorum tells us, ‘From noonday till vespers, the melancholy humors are at their peak.’ And I see by the sun that we are at midday.”
Pieter turned to Benedetto, who was plucking aimlessly at his lute. “My good friend, do you know these lake parts very well?”
“I know something of them.”
“I believe it fair to say we’d all rather float than march. Might y’know how we might sail or row along this shore?”
Benedetto nodded. “Indeed, and if you could sail to Sesto Calende you could then drift south on the Ticino—all the way to Pavia.” He turned toward the water. “But, I ought tell you now, dear friends, I’ll not be traveling with you any longer.”
Karl was stunned. “You must! You’d be one of us now. And we need your songs.”
“Dear lad,” answered Benedetto quietly, “happy songs must come from a happy heart. I fear I would only sing what my heart now feels and there is not one happy ballad in it.”
Wil emerged from his refuge in time to hear Benedetto’s comments. “There is no heart heavier than mine own, minstrel. And I’ll press it onward.”
As Benedetto turned to face Wil, he saw a brokenness in the lad’s eyes, a shattering of the soul that had left its mark plainly. The minstrel hesitated, wrestling within himself. “This much will I do,” he offered. “I’ll seek out some means to float this lake and then decide.” With that, he turned and trotted toward the clay-clad rooftops of a small village in the distance.
Pieter realized the most important thing now was for each to be busy about some task. “Wil,” he whispered, “I suggest we make camp for the night. The sky is clear, the air is warm, and I think a good meal and deep sleep will help heal us all.”
Wil so directed his company. The signore’s gifts of pots, knives, flints, and sundry tools had made each evening’s camp more agreeable, and soon the children were hurrying about their duties.
Pieter had kept a keen eye on Wil and called him aside. “Might we speak for just a moment, lad? ”
Wil shrugged.
“I see the pain in your face, and I feel it as well.”
“You do not feel the pain I feel. You did not deny your own sister, nor are you a coward.”
Pieter placed his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Wrong on each point, dear friend. I have failed more oft than most know. In my first battle I was so terrified that I hid on the ground as though I was slain! I have served my pride in secret ways … ways that I dread to be exposed. And while I did not betray a sister’s love, it is certain to me that had I a sister, I would not be above such a thing.”
Wil did not respond.
“Can y’not recall St. Peter’s denial of his Lord? And not only once, but thrice. And he was forgiven even that. The Father above loves you much, my dear son. You must believe that He forgives His children, always, and not because it is deserved. Methinks if forgiveness could be earned it might not be forgiveness at all, but rather a bartered reckoning of some sort.
“You are dearly loved, Wil; ne’er forget that. And you are not perfect; forget that neither. I am an old man and I oft imagine I would rather be right than be forgiven. Ah, but it has been good to see I am never ‘right’… always there is a quality of evil, of error, or pride that stains all I do. And, I deserve nothing! So, I’ve a need, Wil, a need of free forgiveness … always.”
Wil kept his eyes fastened on the ground. “I’ll never understand a God who allows such things as I have seen, and I’ve little heart to reach a hand toward Him.”
“Ja. I know that struggle well. I’ve no answer for you lad, for His ways are His own, and we’ve not been called to grasp them nor empowered to do so. He asks for our trust, and methinks He ordains some mystery so that we learn to trust Him as He is … our Sovereign.”
“But I don’t want to trust Him!” blurted Wil. “I would rather work to trust m’self better.”
The old man nodded and leaned hard on his staff. “I tell you this, boy: Self-reliance is a merciless tyrant. It blinds the eyes; its appetite is never quenched and it never rests. I warn you, son: If you choose to trust yourself and not face your need, you shall surely spend your days in the grip of a dragon.”
To Pieter’s surprise and great joy, Wil’s jaw loosened and his shoulders lowered. The spirit within the boy had been nudged ever so slightly and a change had begun. He nodded humbly as he walked away.
The old man drew a deep breath through pinching nostrils and turned his face to the gentle blue la
ke that rippled in the light breeze of the late afternoon. His mind drifted to his little Maria and how she used to snuggle against him in the cold mountain air. He squeezed his eyes tightly and imagined her happily snuggled in the lap of her precious Jesus. Pieter turned back toward camp and to the meal now steaming in the pots above crackling flames. It was then that Karl approached him. “I am troubled, Pieter,” the boy said sadly.
Pieter beckoned the lad to his side. “Yes, my son?”
“I know of no sin that would have caused Maria’s suffering.” The boy ran his fingers through his curls and shook his head. “But I now know how I wounded Frieda and the yeoman.”
Pieter drew a deep breath. He was weary and hungry and ready to speak of other things. But a shepherd’s spirit ruled his heart. “I’ve a question for you. Could you not imagine sufferings to ever be a blessing for the obedient?”
Karl tossed some pebbles into the water and thought for a moment. “I cannot imagine it.”
“Aye, ‘tis a hard thing. Karl, consider this: Methinks we needs consider our present sufferings in a different way. You see, because God walked this sad earth, He understands how we feel. But because He is God He knows better what we need … and what we need is to be drawn closer to Him. To come to that place, I fear, some of us are sometimes allowed to suffer sadness, others sickness, poverty, or pain … or failings. He can turn all evil into good; He offers our trials as paths to His mercies.”
Karl stared at the water. “Why must it be so?”
“Ha! Ha, ha! Good one, lad!” He wrapped an arm lovingly around the boy. “There’s the riddle I shall never solve. I have no answer, boy, but hear me … hear me, everyone: I no longer need one!”
Chapter 23
STARS OVER THE TICINO
Evening was falling when a voice echoed from some distance down the shoreline. Karl and Pieter stood to their feet with the others and peered through the twilight’s mist. Racing toward them was Benedetto, shouting cheerily, “Bambini! Bambini! Pieter! Good news!”
The excited children scrambled toward him, Heinz dashing to the lead. Benedetto embraced his comrades as each met him, panting and laughing and clapping his hands. “God be praised!” He gasped for air. “God be praised.”
“What is it?” asked Wil.
“I have found you transport from the village ahead. I’ve come by two barges that were rowed from Stresa by a crew that has run off. The merchantman’s deputy is desperate to find another crew to take them to Pavia!”
Karl stepped forward. “Rowed?”
“Si, si, ragazzo,” Benedetto laughed. “Rowed. ‘Tis less a task than walking. Each boat holds four oarsmen as well as the cargo of wool bales you must deliver. But there is room aplenty for all.”
Karl complained. “Ha, minstrel. The small ones can row no boat, and—”
“Nay, but I surely can,” said Pieter. “And we’ve enough strong arms for other oars. Aye! Benedetto can row with us. We’ll make this do.”
Benedetto stopped smiling. “I beg your leave, Pieter, but my journey ends here.”
A chorus of objections rose from the shocked crusaders. “Nay, nay, you must needs stay… you’d be one of us … we want your songs!”
Frieda pleaded, “Bitte, bitte! You must come with us.
We’ve come to love you, minstrel… and you know these lands….”
Wil stepped toward him. “Listen to me. We need you.”
Benedetto wrung his hands. “I have learned to love you all more than I can say. But since I have known you, I have lost much: I lost what little respect of myself I had at the siege. I lost my heart here, on these very shores by the graves of those tender ones. And, oh Maria, I feel my faith slipping. Bambini, amici… the cost of this journey is far too great and I am but a poor man. I yearn for my dock where I can simply sing my happy ballads in peace and watch life pass me by.”
“’Tis not a good choice at all,” said Pieter bluntly. “Any man might hide in fear from time to time, but to choose a life of it—ach. What selfish cowardice!”
Benedetto was taken aback by the priest’s rebuke. “I only wish to sit by the water and play my songs and give joy to travelers. I do not need all this … this heartache.”
“Then have your simpleton’s life, small little man. Go! Hide on your miserable dock and deny the world what you’ve to offer.”
“Why do you charge me like this, Pieter?” pleaded Benedetto. “I have served your cause, and at a cost. Cannot I leave in peace?”
Pieter shook his head but softened his tone. He cared greatly for the minstrel and took no pleasure in rebuking him. The children gathered close and waited quietly for Pieter’s answer. “Dear Benedetto, if I prayed God’s blessings on your wishes I would be no friend. Your own words accuse you, not mine, for they make it plain that your heart’s desire is to hide from all that might give you pain. You are not seeking a time of respite, nor are you seeking a better place to serve others. Nay, you are fleeing.”
The priest’s frank words now drew anger from Benedetto, a telling sign of arrows on the mark. “I am not hiding!” he declared. “I only seek a simpler life.”
Pieter countered calmly. “I am not your judge, nor do I know the inward chambers of your heart. Forgive me if I am wrong, good friend, but I think it wise for you to consider your way.”
Pieter paused and set his hand on the minstrel’s shoulder. “Some have said simplicity is a higher way to live. I know, for I once withdrew to an order where I lived by simplicity as well. My life was governed by a simple threefold vow: poverty, chastity, and obedience. But it was for naught. We may seek to live simply but the world we are called to serve is a whirlwind of confusion.”
Benedetto pulled away. “I was happy on my dock. I suffered no confusion until you and these entered my life. I wish to stay by my simple ways.”
“Truly, truly, simplicity may bring joy. But two ways of simplicity exist. The first way understands that simple truths do govern the world—and this I admit readily. But this way leads us through the whirlwind first so that we may drink of the simple things more deeply on the far side of struggle.
“But I fear the simplicity you run to, Benedetto, is of the other sort—the simplicity of ignorance. The joy gleaned from this is but fleeting, for the press of life ever squeezes against it. Ignorance lives by blindness and blindness is ne’er a virtue. It shall suck you deeper into itself and, in time, leave you in a different sort of misery.”
Benedetto was neither willing nor able to yield to Pieter’s instruction, and it made him ill-at-ease and anxious. At last he replied, “I … I am not able to live in the world as others, Pieter. I cannot bear the shame of myself. Look at me. I am little and foolish. I told you of the day the priest took me to the castle? I did not tell you all: It was not a kindly act—my father was offering me to the Verdi as a jester for their court. A jester!” The minstrel’s chin quivered.
“I’ve no keen mind. I’ve little arms not suited to throw a fishnet or lift sheaves of wheat. Nay, I can do little else but hide in my music.” Benedetto fought back the tears.
Compassion filled the hearts of all listening and many eyes watered. Pieter stood silently and groaned within himself. He did not regret his rebuke but wondered if he had pursued the little man with more earnestness than he ought. Perhaps, had he known of the Benedetto’s past, his words might have taken a more kindly tack. He reminded himself that he was called to encourage, not destroy.
Pieter smiled kindly, stepped forward, and embraced the minstrel. “Ah, Benedetto, go as God gives you strength and consider my words as you can. Do whatever you must—we’ll always love you.”
The children circled about the tearful Benedetto and some held his hands. “At dawn,” he choked. “I told the merchants you would meet them at the dock at dawn.”
Well before daybreak, Wil roused his crusaders for their short journey along the lake’s western shore to the nearby fishing village. “Up, everyone. Up! We’ve need to move—quickly, qui
ckly.”
Like so many mornings before, the children were soon standing in a quiet column, yawning and rubbing faces, gnawing on a few bread crusts or chewing hard on strips of fish and smoked bacon. Once properly ordered, they slipped silently through the fog of predawn darkness, following the silvery edge of the lake until the first light of day grayed the sun-baked bricks of the unnamed village ahead. Benedetto led the children to the single wharf, where a grumbling clerk surveyed the little band. “What did you bring me, minstrel?” he growled.
“These children are strong and trustworthy.”
The clerk pulled on the wide sash that girded his round belly and ran his fingers through his hair. “I am not sure of this. I’m on m’way to my office in Stresa and I think I might find a better crew there.”
Benedetto whispered, “As I said, my friend, these children will row your master’s transport all the way to Pavia for no payment other than the use of your boats.”
The clerk looked at his would-be sailors warily. “I see a few strong lads, but what of the little ones?”
Benedetto pressed. “Ah, signore. The lake … she is quiet and the Ticino is smooth. And I have traveled with these children down the rushing Rhône.”
“I have never been on the Rhône.”
“Never have you ridden the Rhône?”
“No.”
“Ha! The Ticino and this flat lake of yours are like bathwater compared to it.”
The clerk hesitated. “My master has a heavy hand. I’d not fare well if this idea goes amiss.”
“Come, good fellow,” urged the minstrel. “They are on Holy Crusade. They have the hand of God on them. Surely you can see that. They have been sheltered by the angels since they left their villages in the far north. They were protected over the great mountains, and you fear to give them charge of two pathetic barges? The angels are offering to guide your cargo at no charge … and you hesitate?”
“What assurance do I have that they shall arrive safely? My master is waiting in Pavia to return them with barrels of broadcloth from Rome and …”
