Quest of Hope: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series)

by C. D. Baker

  “Well, we needs be off. I hope to see you again.”

  Heinrich nodded.

  “I hope we might be friends!”

  The baker’s mouth went dry.

  Chapter 12

  THE BROWN SERPENT

  Father Pious warned Arnold to stay away from Emma’s hovel on All-Saint’s Day. He made it very clear that to interfere in the dark world of spirits and shadows would bring only trouble to Arnold and the entire village. Father Pious insisted that he would keep an eye on the woman and her unfortunate son, and his vigilance would be enough. Arnold mumbled a grudging assent and returned to his drunken brooding.

  Richard was brooding as well. Since the injury to his hand he had not been the same man he once was. The kind words of Emma, the urgings of Brother Lukas, and the sympathies of Heinrich did little to encourage him. Even his new position as Weyer’s forester did nothing to bring him out of his deep melancholy.

  By nightfall of All-Saint’s Day, Richard had left the hovel to go wandering in search of a willing maiden while his father staggered to the mill to find Dietrich. “F-friend, g-g-good and true friend,” slurred Arnold. “We’ve needs to put something to r-rest this night.”

  “Ach, nay … not the old woman!”

  “Aye, so it is.”

  “Arnold, you put yer position with the monks at risk, methinks.”

  “Ja? Then so be it!”

  “Hear me, y’drunken fool. I’ve no part in it. I’ll not have my mill taken in penalty for some hex you bring upon us all.”

  Insulted, Arnold pulled himself upright. “Then I shall settle the matter m’self, y’coward!” Arnold stumbled through the village but soon collapsed and fell asleep on the damp, cold ground about a quarter furlong from the village edge and within earshot of Emma’s quiet hut.

  The November night grew raw and a light drizzle of rain fell through the leafless branches of the trees lining the Laubusbach. A few hours later, Arnold awakened, disoriented, shivering, and wet. He wrapped his woollen wrap tightly around his shoulders and looked about. Remembering his mission, he hurried closer to Emma’s hovel and positioned himself behind a tree trunk just fifteen paces from her door. Now he was certain he would learn the woman’s secret of All Souls’ Eve.

  The dripping rain was the only sound to be heard as Arnold waited and waited, struggling aginst the effects of cold, hunger, and fear. Finally, he thought he heard a snap of twigs to his left. Arnold stiffened and tried to sharpen his senses. He trained his eyes on the muddy footpath leading to the woman’s home and held his breath. He heard another snap, then a sloshing noise. His skin tingled with sudden fright. A large, hooded figure then appeared, stoop-shouldered and hurried. In a moment, the silhouette slouched through the low gate and was at the woman’s door. In an instant it was ushered quickly within.

  Arnold crept toward the fence edging the woman’s croft. Certain he had just beheld an incarnate demon, his heart pounded. His shaking fingers plucked a dagger from within his cloak. But is he made of flesh? Does a demon bleed? Indeed, can it even die? A shiver ran through his body. Arnold stared transfixed on the cottage for nearly an hour before Emma’s door creaked open. Arnold stood still as death as the figure filled the dimly lit doorway and lingered for a moment. The shadow turned and stepped toward the gate with a few long strides. Then, as it passed through the gate and onto the path, Arnold leapt from the darkness with a cry and a thrust of his blade.

  The figure was quick to be sure, agile with catlike reflexes. It had sensed danger before Arnold had attacked and stepped deftly to one side. With a quick kick and grab the shadow felled Arnold into the mud.

  “Aaahhh!” screamed Arnold. He begged and blubbered like a terrified child. “Please, demon … please I—”

  “What?” The figure remained motionless for a second and then demanded, “What be your name?”

  Arnold lay quaking. The demon’s voice sounded like that of a man. “I… I… it be Arnold of Weyer, sir.”

  “Ah, Arnold, your soul will be mine and now I can toy with it as my plaything for all eternity,” hissed the figure.

  “Nay … oh, nay … fearsome demon—”

  “Shut your mouth, fool! Methinks your soul hardly worth the bother. Tell me why you are here.”

  “I… I wanted to see about the woman’s visitor.”

  The figure tightened his grip and Arnold writhed in pain.

  “I shall release you on two conditions.”

  Arnold trembled. “Aye … yes, of course, anything you ask … anything at all.”

  “First, swear to me that you shall ne’er tell another of this night. Not of things you have seen or things you have heard.”

  Arnold nodded. “S-su-surely … of course, aye, not a word, none, sir demon.”

  “I’ve heard of your bag of ‘penny sins.’”

  Arnold gulped. “Perhaps such a thing is pleasing to you?” he asked timidly.

  The shadow paused. “Aye, as does all evil. Therefore … your second condition is to leave your bag in the monks’ herbarium by Martinmas.”

  Arnold was confused and suddenly not very pleased. “Sir demon, I do not understand, I… I cannot…”

  “Then I shall take your soul this very night!” shouted the figure. He raised his arm high above his head. Arnold was sure he saw the glint of a devil’s blade.

  “Nay!” pleaded Arnold. “I shall do as you demand! Please spare me this night. I beg you release my soul!”

  The figure jerked Arnold to his feet and peered at him from deep within a dark hood. Arnold’s legs bowed and shook; he clenched his hands at his breast and trembled as he heard the final words.

  “Your soul is released upon news of the bag. First, swear your pledge to keep silence on these matters.”

  “I do so swear.”

  “Good. If you fail I shall steal your soul by night.”

  Eleven days after Arnold’s terror, Brother Lukas entered his herbarium to find a large, leather bag stuffed to near bursting with silver pennies. It was on Martinmas, the twelfth day of November, and Lukas thought the gesture most fitting. After all, St. Martin had given the cloak off his back to spare a freezing beggar. With winter coming, Lukas could now grant warmth and shelter to many.

  A little more than two weeks passed and the season of Advent began. Father Pious insisted that the Sabbath before Christ’s Mass be more solemn than in previous years. Therefore, the wool-clad folk rose well before prime and began the day in a long procession to the church where they crowded into the nave to stand upon the cold, straw-covered floor for a predawn homily. Then, dismissed until the bells of sext, the villagers returned to their green-bedecked homes and ate their mush, breads, boiled meats, and salted pork.

  At the appointed time, the villagers returned to the church to hear prayers and to offer confession. Encouraged by the Archbishop of Mainz to press for the “greater redemption” of his flock, Pious demanded confession now be done at both Christmas and Easter, immediately after which his people would be offered the blood and body of Christ. Souls cleaned and spirits refreshed, the villagers were now free to celebrate the holy day and the three days of respite their masters granted.

  Christmas was a time for the wealthy to help the less fortunate, and the abbot joined in the spirit of the season by delivering sundry tasties to his delighted villages. So, on Christmas morning the whole of Weyer gathered in the churchyard to enjoy large casks of cider, mead, ale, baskets of fresh-baked bread and preserves granted by their benevolent abbot. By midday of Christmas, the glebe was kindled with snapping fires and boiling pots.

  Lord Klothar sent some musicians to add gladness to the celebration and the village sang and danced in the cold December air as though it were the early days of spring. Laughter echoed against the brown, stone walls of the silent church and on it went through Christmas and deep into the night of St. Stephan’s.

  Exhausted from the festivities, Heinrich stood off to the side watching the happy revelers at play. As he scanned the
gathering, his eyes fell upon a slight form at the foot of the church’s bell tower. It was a woman, alone and silhouetted against the rooftops of the torch-lit village. He walked carefully through the darkness, beyond the stretched shadows of the feast straining his eyes to be certain it was she.

  The night sky was moonless and overspread Weyer like a jeweled canopy. Heinrich walked slowly, placing each foot tentatively forward in the darkness. He came within a few yards of the woman when the front of the church was suddenly awash in a brilliant white light. It was as if a thousand torches had burst into flame before him! There, wide-eyed and startled stood fair Katharina, bathed in a white light, smiling and staring at the sky.

  “Look! A falling star … oh!” she cried.

  Heinrich’s eyes never left Katharina’s delighted face, even as the illumination faded.

  “Heinrich?” Her voice was tender and affectionate.

  “Ja, Katharina, it is me.”

  “Did you see the star?”

  “Nay, but… but I saw you and you looked like an angel.”

  If he could have seen her face he would have noticed the color fill her cheeks. Heinrich felt suddenly uncomfortable and a weight of guilt came over him. “I-I ought get back to the others. Methinks the round-dance shall start soon and Marta may want to …”

  “Ja, and Ludwig shall be looking for me. But, first tell me, Heinrich, are you well?” Her voice was earnest, almost pleading.

  The man wanted to weep, for he was surely not well. His heart had ached for Katharina since the day he first met her. “I am well. And you?”

  Katharina’s heart sank. She wanted to hear him say that he was miserable or angry, empty … thinking of her each day. In the darkness she ran her fingers lightly over the bruises her husband had raised on her arm. “I? Yes, Heinrich, ‘tis well with me.”

  The two paused for a brief moment and stared at each other in the blackness of the churchyard. Heinrich could hear her breathing and he closed his eyes. He could yet see the vision of her emblazoned by the star. A sound startled him and Heinrich’s eyes opened. It was time to return to their worlds, apart and forever alone.

  Heinrich could hardly bear Marta’s touch as she grabbed his arm and scolded him. “You leave me with this brat! Where have you been?” Her voice was grating and harsh, like a blast of sleet.

  Heinrich shrugged.

  “Ha! Methinks you off with another! Listen to me, husband. If you stray I’ll have you beaten by the bailiff and you’ll be doing more of your pathetic penances for all the village to see!”

  Heinrich sighed—he had much practice. “Give me m’son and go see your friend Anka.”

  Marta bristled and threw a tankard of warm ale into the man’s face. He stiffened but stood quietly as others laughed, then wiped his sleeve across his face. He stared blankly at his wife as she disappeared into the torchlight, then picked up his crying son from the ground. Without a word he turned and walked away; he could no longer bear the joy of Christmas.

  Lent was calculated to be forty days before Easter, Sabbaths not counted. Since Easter was to be on the second day of April, Lent would begin the fourteenth day of February in this most dreary and snowy winter of 1195. It was a reckoning that Father Pious dreaded, since the season of Lent was his least favored time. While time still remained, the overstuffed churchman hastened to indulge himself in heavy breads, dark ales, and, according to the rumors, companionship unbecoming a man of the Church.

  The priest’s ambition would be also fattened, for Oberbrechen’s priest had died a few weeks prior, and Father Pious had quickly petitioned his superior in Mainz. He hoped to be awarded that parish, including its prosperous glebe lands, as his own. Furthermore, Father Johannes was deteriorating and it would surprise none to find him cold and blue in his bed at any time, leaving Pious positioned to claim the parish of Weyer as well. Despite the looming severity of Lent, life for Pious was suddenly brimming with opportunity.

  Life was not as happy for Richard. The young man was disgruntled and sullen, and his handsome face was beginning to show signs of the misery of his soul. He simply rose each day to go about his tasks despondently as a broken, woeful soul. To add to his miseries, Richard’s father had pledged him to marry a woman the lad had never met. It was a profitable exchange for Arnold, negotiated in the quiet chambers of the abbot’s residence and serving the secret purposes of many.

  Heinrich nearly wept at his friend’s wedding and thought Richard’s fate to be as bad as his own. The couple had no feast, no merry-making, or the slightest pretense of joy. Richard had only met the girl one hour beforehand and was suddenly sure he would have been better off being chained to a mad cow. Brunhild was more attractive than most—thin, brown-haired, blue-eyed, and fair. But it took only a few moments to discern a heart hardened with anger. Heinrich was certain she must be blood-kin to his own Marta.

  By mid-April the village was deluged with rains unlike anything seen before. Great sheets of water poured from heaven day and night and this, coupled with the melting snows, made life unbearable. The mud along the footpaths and roadways was shin deep in most places’, knee deep in others. Several huts’ roofs had collapsed and their occupants had little choice but to crowd into neighbors’ hovels.

  Rivulets poured from the high ground surrounding the village into the surging Laubusbach. Swollen with more water than it could contain, the faithful, cheerful Laubusbach had become uncharacteristically fearsome and untrustworthy. It quickly turned into a brown serpent, swirling and churning, swallowing great gulps of earth from the banks that were once its gentle shoulders. It bore atop its rolling back huge timbers and debris from places afar, and soon it carried death, as well, for drowned sheep from unknown pens began to tumble into its angry course.

  Some thought the Easter confessions to be the cause; either they were lacking in truth, as some said, or were so forthright that God needed to exact a special penance of His own. But now, just two weeks later, it mattered little what the cause. The abbey’s bailiff ordered Oberbrechen and Weyer to remove their residents to the safety of their churches’ high ground.

  The floodwaters brought more than mud, debris, and sheep carcasses into Weyer. When the rains finally stopped and the Laubusbach returned to its gentle course, a pestilence emerged from the many pools of stagnant water and spread its invisible terror from hut to hut. Many suffered and died, but to Heinrich’s indescribable distress his good friend Ingelbert lay ravaged and tormented by fever.

  Poor Emma sat by her beloved son’s bed both day and night, refusing sleep and all but the most meager bits of bread for three days. Lukas often sat with her, pleading with all heaven to spare the simple-hearted lad. Ignoring the blistering complaints of his wife, Heinrich hurried about his tasks only to fly to Emma’s badly damaged cottage where he kept vigil with his beloved friends and hoped for God’s mercy. But, alas, it was not to be. On a sunny afternoon gently warmed by soft southern winds, Ingelbert left the embrace of those he loved to discover the wonders of a new world.

  The death of a friend is a loss rarely recovered and those privileged to know and love Ingelbert recognized the beautiful soul contained by his imperfect vessel. Heinrich returned to his flood-damaged bakery deeply grieved, but determined to continue. The monks had sent extra flour from their granary but encouraged the bakers of each village to stretch their goods with sawdust and chaff—an act punishable by heavy fines or flogging at any other time. Those villagers who had secret handgrinders were granted pardon if they would give them to the bailiff or his deputies. Several surfaced in Weyer and these were put to quick use by the miller for grinding what grains had survived in the upper reaches of his storehouses.

  The young Gunnar named Alwin had come to aid the village’s recovery. Weeks before, Alwin had taken his vows as a Knight Templar. In so doing he asked for a new name to confirm his change in identity. He was to be called Brother Blasius, a name chosen by his marshal in memory of an Armenian martyr who had lived nearly nine hundred ye
ars earlier. Given his lowly birth, many were displeased when he was conferred as a full knight and not merely a sergeant. However, his piety and uncommon spiritual gifts had inspired his superiors to drape a white robe with the Order’s distinctive red cross over his broad shoulders.

  Blasius brought a quiet strength and calm to the distressed village. The sixteen-year-old spent hours each day on his knees weeping and praying for the folk, and his sincerity and devotion did not go unnoticed. As the peasants huddled for their portion of bread each morning, they found great comfort in his earnest prayers and kind words.

  Another knight that caught Heinrich’s attention was an elderly man in service to Lord Klothar. The man was heavily bearded, and his long, gray hair hung loose across his shoulders. He was broad-shouldered and tall, lean and strong, but had uncommonly sad and compassionate eyes.

  “Good knight,” apologized the baker one morning, “I’ve but a bit of barley bread for you.”

  “Aye, lad … shall do well enough,” he answered.

  Heinrich hesitated. “I… I am called Heinrich.”

  The man looked at the baker squarely. “Yes, so I have been told. I am Gottwald, vassal to Klothar.”

  “You’ve lands by Runkel?”

  The knight paused. “Nay, lad. M’lands lie elsewhere, but I journey to Runkel from time to time as duty requires.”

  Heinrich nodded. “Forgive me, sire, but I cannot help but wonder what interest brings you to our suffering village?”

  Gottwald’s face turned to stone. “I’ve interest in any who suffers plight!”

  Heinrich knew the conversation had ended.

  The warm sunshine of May gently coaxed green from the drying ruts of Weyer. Sprouts of grass quickly covered the village paths, and crofts now burst with springtime shoots and blooms. The fields surrounding the village were alive with grain and with workmen laboring to weed and harrow their precious furrows. Despite the land’s return to life, Emma now found smiling more difficult, especially as she kneaded the earth to plant her flowers. Her hut had been repaired, but not her heart.