Pilgrims of Promise: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series)

by C. D. Baker

  It had been decided that Heinrich would provide a rear guard by taking a position about a bowshot behind the column with Solomon. From there they might better know if any were following.

  The rain eased, and the pilgrims traveled through the night without incident. The following day brought welcome sunshine and the safety of another small clearing in a brushy hollow, where the children found an ample supply of mushrooms and a few snails. Pieter’s plan was for them to leave that afternoon on a circuitous route. “Children,” he began quietly, “come close. I am leading you to a sanctuary where I believe we shall all be safe. It can only be found by boat or by a small footpath marked by a cross etched into a gray boulder under an ancient olive tree. Very few know of it; even fewer care to make the journey.

  “The path begins about half a league beyond the fortress of the Dragonslayer.”

  All chins dropped. “Dragonslayer?”

  Frieda’s large brown eyes were as wide as Pieter had ever seen, and he laughed. “Ja. The folk nearby call it ‘Dragonara.’ I remember it as a little redoubt atop a rocky cape. I’m told the lords of Genoa are building a castle there now.”

  “Why the name?” asked a voice.

  “Ah, it is named after the blessed St. George, the Dragonslayer of old. But well save the story for later. For now, listen. The castle and the village lie along this same sea road. I fear the garrison must be alerted by now, so we must pass wide in daylight … through the mountains. Then we must circle back to the edge of the road again not far past the village. There we’ll hide until first light on the morrow, then hurry for the marker.”

  The company grumbled. A march through the mountains would be difficult, even in daylight. Their feet were bleeding, and they were wet and cold. Finally, Wil called from his litter, “Hear me, all of you. Trust him. It is the only way.”

  The words of their wounded hero comforted the weary pilgrims, and after an hour’s rest, Pieter raised his staff. “Follow me!” he cried.

  True to his plan, Pieter and his company marched into the mountains east of the roadway, then southward until angling back to the sounds of the sea once more. Shortly before dusk they arrived just south of Dragonara, where they could hear the surf crashing against a wall of rocks. “Ah, good,” cried the old man. “We’re very close now!” They hid in the brush off the roadway for the night and emerged from their woody cover at the first light of dawn.

  As soon as he could see his feet, Pieter burst on to the road with a youthful stride and a happy smile, leading his column in search for the hoped-for footpath. Eventually, the old man slowed his pace as he scanned every rod of the shoulder for the obscure signpost. At last he stopped and raised his hands. “Here! God be praised! Look!” Just as he remembered, a gnarly olive tree stooped over a gray boulder. The rock had been carved centuries before, probably when the remote church was first built to serve some humble community now long forgotten. Barely visible on the boulder’s face was an etched cross.

  The column quickly turned off the road and entered the narrow footpath in single file. Judging by the undergrowth, it seemed the path was rarely used. The forest pressed tightly on both sides, leaving a corridor no wider than a small man’s shoulders. Cutting thorns and brambles crowded the way, a certain obstacle for the merely curious. “The monks prefer to travel by boat,” offered Pieter. A chorus of understanding answered.

  For two hours the children followed the old priest along the meandering footpath. Most grew discouraged, especially when the trail began to fall through steep ravines and then climb over stony knolls.

  The sun was now high overhead, and what sky could be seen was blue. The forest’s green was stale, of course, a thing natural to the season. Wood thrush fluted their throaty song from time to time, and a few warblers added music to the woodland. But, despite their pleasant sounds, Heinrich thought the mountainside to be rather plain and lacking in beauty.

  The baker remembered climbing the Appenines weeks before and wishing for all the world that he could be returned to the heavy oak and massive beech of the noble forests of the northland. Here it was only softwoods and stubby maples, tangles of small-leafed brush and useless stands of scrubby pines.

  The pilgrims pressed on, dragging themselves along the tight pathway in and out of the shadows of the wood. They had climbed steeply for a considerable distance and had begun a partial descent, when Pieter raced ahead. He turned and raised his staff. “Come, my blessed ones!”

  The company followed him onto a sunny outcropping, where they gaped in awe at the splendid scene below. There, at the end of their sharply descending trail, was a simple jewel placed by the angels neatly at the edge of a crystal sea. Astonished, the column stared at the little paradise tucked safely away from the perils of a broken world. Below them were the old white buildings and impeccable gardens of the monastery of San Fruttuoso.

  The complex had been built at the end of a narrow bay shaped like a blue finger that probed deeply into the green mountains. From high above, a sandy shoreline looked like a narrow white ribbon rimmed with palms and umbrella pines. On one shore stood a simple church and the monks’ cloister that were set a comfortable walk from the water’s edge. Directly across was an arched arcade that served as the monks’ boathouse. The water was clear and inviting. A more welcoming haven none had ever seen.

  Pieter then pointed the pilgrims’ attention to the larger view. The bay gradually widened in the distance until it finally yielded to the great sea that marked the horizon with a subtle blue line. Its waters were beautiful and shimmered blue-green, hemmed on three sides by steep, rugged mountains covered in pines, softwoods, and heavy shrubs and scarred with stark cliffs and crags.

  The children’s gazes remained fixed on the wondrous scene for long, dreamy moments, and they smiled. A pleasant scent from a landscape of hidden shrubs filled the nostrils of the forty glad-hearted travelers. The terrors of a lost crusade were briefly forgotten. The hypnotic cry of soaring gulls and the hush of distant surf softened the heartaches of comrades lost and of broken dreams. The sight before them was a healing balm, a gift from heaven to little ones who so desperately needed a Sabbath rest. Heinrich and Pieter gazed about their tattered column with the joy of good shepherds. They now hoped the brethren below would be as charitable as the wondrous vision might suggest.

  In the meantime, Wil had been helped up from his litter by Frieda, and he stared at the panorama quietly as she lightly supported him. The aroma of fragrant flora mixed well with the scent of the sea, and he inhaled deeply. The warmth of Frieda’s body faintly heating his own made his blood swim with joy. His belly fluttered and his skin tingled. Yet, despite the power of that moment, a haunting memory suddenly stole the young man’s thoughts, and his eyes began to sting. He shifted uncomfortably, then turned to Frieda, and took her tenderly by the hand. His tongue felt thick and heavy, his throat numb. He hesitated, but as he looked into her face, all fear fell away and his spirit was emboldened. “I must ask you again to forgive my betrayal,” he whispered. “I am proud to stand here with you.”

  The young woman bit her lip and nodded. They were words she had hoped to hear. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted Wil’s hand to her lips and kissed it softly. “I have already forgiven you, Wil. I surely have.”

  Wil smiled. His eyes, so often fired, were now limpid and soft—blue like the quiet water below. He said nothing more but turned his face to the wondrous scene and began to weep. His tears were not of grief—though he had much to grieve, nor were they tears of despair—though he had good reason. The salted pain of past miseries poured from the broken dam within. And as streams of suffering fell from his strong chin, the lad was free to hope again.

  Chapter Four

  THE BAY OF RESPITE

  The monastery of San Fruttuoso had been founded by Benedictine monks to honor the remains of the martyred bishop of Tarragona. Its tonsured brothers had served each other quietly at the remote end of their inlet for centuries, and while gentle serv
ice was their preference, they had also drawn their swords to defend their quiet refuge against seafaring Saracens, who never rested in their lust to replace Europe’s Holy Cross with the crescent of Islam.

  Their community was not yet an abbey—they were not ruled by an abbot. In fact, they were not yet ruled by a prior. Instead, the brethren submitted to a subprior and his deacon and would do so until such time as their order saw fit to raise their status. Numbering some twenty brothers and a priest, they shared both manual labor and the sacred offices. Dressed in their cowled black habits and scapulars, they peacefully spent their days tilling the soil, planting citrus groves and olives, fishing from their many boats, and praying or reciting the Psalms.

  Pieter smiled broadly as he prepared to lead his children down the mountain toward the community below. How could any forget such a place as this? he wondered. “Come, follow me!”

  Eager and filled with new energy, the children slipped and stumbled along the winding descent. Heinrich kept a firm hold on his son’s litter, especially since the breathless lad had been tilted dangerously over the edge of a high cliff during one brief but frightening stumble by Otto! Thankfully, no harm was done and the column hurried on.

  The farther they descended, the sweeter the air seemed and the warmer it felt. Overwhelmed with joy, a few began to sing, then others, and soon all were singing their Crusaders’ Hymn, “Fairest Lord Jesus.”

  As the beautiful, haunting melody floated tenderly down from the woodland, the monks of San Fruttuoso stopped their chores. Hoes were set aside, baskets set down. They looked at one another with stupefied expressions until old Pieter emerged from the wood with a host of dirty children following. The company assembled in full view and stood squarely before a knot of astonished brothers. “Buon giorno!” cried Pieter with a great smile. “We come in peace, in the name of Jesus Christ and all the saints.”

  The cloister’s guest master hurried forward and strained to remember the formal greeting prescribed in his Rule of Benedict. He had never received a guest before! “Thanks … thanks be to God!” The brethren nodded their approval.

  Pieter bowed as another approached. The subprior had been summoned, and he now hurried toward the new arrivals on shuffling sandals. “Thanks be to God!” he cried with a smile. “You are welcome here, my children.” His voice trailed away as his glance fell on Heinrich. Suddenly a bit unnerved, he turned a hopeful face toward Pieter. “I must pray over you.” The man raised his hands in the air and presented a generous supplication to the Lord on behalf of the half-starved children standing quietly before him. He then embraced Pieter and kissed him as well as every member of the flock. “I am Brother Patroclus, the superior of this cloister. These are my brothers; each is here to serve you.”

  The twenty monks had now all assembled and bowed respectfully. They were delighted by the appearance of their unexpected guests and rejoiced to see needful souls to serve.

  “Brother Timotheos, bring food for our guests—and plenty of it! Brother Simeon, fetch buckets for feet washing, and prepare a bed for the sick lad.”

  As the monks scurried to their tasks, a light-haired one stepped forward with a bowed head. He was about thirty years of age, sharp featured, and lean. He whispered to Patroclus, who motioned him forward. With a smile, the monk addressed the company. “Wilkommen! Alles gut!”

  Hearing their own tongue, the pilgrims cheered.

  “My name is Brother Stefano. I was born in Charlemagne’s great city of Aachen and baptized as Leopold, third son of Lord Jurgen von Baldemar. However, like the other monks, my name was changed when I took my vows. But that is quite enough about me!

  “Since I speak your language, I shall speak for you and to you on behalf of the brethren. You are welcome here, and we shall try to serve you.”

  Pieter spoke to the monk for a few moments, introducing himself, Heinrich, and the children. He explained their predicament and their needs. Stefano listened carefully, then bade all to rest by the water’s edge while he sought Patroclus and the deacons.

  The company lounged happily in the shade of tall palm trees that a monk claimed were brought as seedlings from a pilgrimage to Rome some thirty years prior. Soon generous portions of food and buckets of fresh springwater were delivered. Nearly undone by their good fortune, eager hands plunged into baskets of bread, trays of smoked fish, and platters of fresh-picked grapes. The children gorged themselves on pickled olives and zucca, artichoke and berries. Heinrich gnawed cheerfully on salted rabbit and a handful of scallions as Pieter nearly danced for joy with his own tray of mussels, crab, and buttered anchovies.

  The sun smiled from above; the air was gentle and warm. The water at the company’s feet was clear and inviting. Soon, with Patroclus’s laughing permission, most were racing across the sand to plunge into the crystal waters of the bay.

  Wil was carried to the monks’ infirmary, where the herbalist and infirmer removed his bandages and studied his wounds. Heinrich, Frieda, Pieter, and Otto hovered nearby, offering bits of history as to the lad’s condition over the past days. Wil grimaced a bit, then smiled at Frieda as the nimble fingers of the monks lightly ran along his many stripes. They mumbled and nodded, shrugged and wrinkled their noses until the infirmer turned to Pieter. “You’ve done well!”

  The old man nodded and tilted his head toward Frieda. “We’ve done well.”

  “With permission, we would like to treat him with our own herbs and methods. We would like to start by laying him on that reed bed without bandages so that the wounds may dry. Later, we may soak him in the bay for an hour a day.”

  “The salt.”

  “Si, Pater. The salt and the sunlight. The water is as clean as any on the earth. It shall heal him like no other balm. In the night we shall wrap him in fresh compresses soaked in our own herbs. For most of the day we need to leave his wounds dry in the shade. In the meanwhile, he needs much citrus and vegetables. We abound in lemons and have a few struggling citron groves. Our gardens yield every green thing one might want.

  “In any case, the lad is keen eyed and strong. His fever’s nearly gone and his mind is clear. I’ve great hope for him.”

  Heinrich wiped his eye and nodded gratefully. “He’s m’son…. Pieter, tell them he’s m’son.”

  It was true that Eden’s gates had been long since barred, but the pilgrims agreed that no place on the earth could have served as a better reminder of what had been lost to man’s sin. “A taste of what’s to come, my children,” said Pieter cheerfully on the second day. “These men of God have shared their food, their shelter, their kindness. They give us charity beyond what we deserve. It humbles me.”

  Indeed, Brother Patroclus had provided more food than any had seen since their failed crusade had begun and most likely more than any had enjoyed in all their young lives. He provided them a dormitory once used as a temporary garrison in the wars against invading Muslims and was already busy having his monks gather ells of their own black cloth for the sewing of new clothing for all.

  For the next week, Wil’s company rested comfortably under the swaying palms. They swam naked in the clean waters of the bay, explored the groves of lemons and olives that were planted deep in hidden clearings, and began to explore the monks’ boats. The place was a place of healing—of new beginnings. In just these few days, the bellies of all were already beginning to swell and faces fill. Soon ribs would disappear, and black rings would vanish from under sparkling eyes.

  By the end of the month, many were boasting new clothing, caring little that it was only black. Sandals would come later, but few minded. The superior had discussed the general situation at some length with Heinrich and Pieter and had generously offered to care for the children until the season was right for travel. “Truth be told, my friends,” Patroclus said, “we could surely use their hands about the place. The lemons are ready again, grapes need harvesting for wine, the olives are soon ripe, fish need to be netted, wheat needs threshing, pigs need to be slaughtered—”
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  Pieter beamed. “God bless you, brother, God bless you indeed!”

  Patroclus bowed. “We monks claim we are here to serve, yet I fear we have hidden ourselves from the world. There is one Francis of Assisi of whom I have heard. He thinks we ought to venture forth and serve the needy where they are. It is a teaching that intrigues me.”

  Brother Stefano translated for Heinrich, who immediately thought of Brother Lukas in faraway Villmar. The baker nodded approvingly.

  “So,” Patroclus continued, “it is good for us to serve these children as we may. We are happy for them to remain with us until you are ready to lead them away.”

  Heinrich and Pieter clasped the man’s hand and thanked him again. A voice interrupted the meeting, the voice of a very old man who had spent the past weeks studying Pieter from a distance. “Peace be unto you,” he said with a weak grin.

  The four turned and received old Brother Nectarios. He was nearly as old as Pieter. “You were here once!” he said as he pointed to Pieter. “Smile for me.”

  Pieter was confused.

  “Si, smile for me, please.”

  The priest shrugged and offered a halfhearted smile.

  “Si, si! Ha! I remember you, and so do some others. ‘Twas nearly twenty years ago. I remember, for I had just arrived myself.”

  Pieter nodded. “I was here long ago. I remember it well.”

  Old Nectarios threw back his head and roared. “You came here with four teeth and left with one!”

  Pieter raised his brows, then chuckled. “Aye, old brother. I am not proud of that moment. I thought to keep it a secret!” The priest turned to Heinrich. “Ja. I wandered here for a forgotten cause and was kindly invited to share in a barrel of red wine brought from Rome by some clerk sitting at the head of the table. When asked my opinion of the wine, I unwisely complained that it was rather sour to my taste. ‘Leathery vinegar’ I believe is what I said. Well, having spent most of his time in Rome, the clerk was unaccustomed to truth, and before I knew it, we were quarreling loudly.