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

by C. D. Baker

  “Nice and warm in here,” yawned the guard.

  Heinrich nodded. He was surprised how comfortable it was.

  “Aye, no need for hearth fires. … Good thing else we’d choke on smoke!”

  Heinrich grunted and stared about.

  The guard was bored and happy to humor the curious man. “See here,” he pointed to a vein of salt. “We needs not hammer away at it. Look, there.” He pointed to some sawed lumber and then held his torch to a hole recently drilled in from above. “We’d be some furlong into the mountain, and about the same distance ‘neath the church that sits atop. In here’s a maze of tunnels from long ago. … They go all ways. See here, the carpenters build a dam in the tunnel, then the workers’ll pour water in from that hole above yer head. They’ll flood the place in springtime.”

  “Flood it? Why?”

  “Ha … that’s the wonder of the new way. The water dissolves the salt from the walls, then carries it out when the dam is broke into the big vats they’re building down below. Then well boil the water to dry the vats and you’ve salt left on the bottom!”

  “Ah!” Heinrich understood.

  “Methinks it clever.”

  “Aye … very.” Heinrich walked past the guard and moved deeper into the lonely tunnel.

  The guard’s voice followed him. “Glück auf.”

  “Huh?”

  “Glück auf… ‘tis the miner’s well-wish.”

  “Ah. Glück auf to you.”

  “M’thanks … and beware the bodies and the lake.”

  “Bodies?”

  “Aye.”

  Heinrich stopped walking and called back to the dim torch and the hollow voice beneath it. “W-what bodies?”

  “We finds them from time to time, dead men preserved by the salt. You’ll have quite a start if you walk by one with your torch. And up ahead ‘tis the lake. Better if you don’t go for a swim.”

  Heinrich paused, then turned around. Perhaps he had seen enough of the mine!

  News of caravans gathering in Salzburg reached the ears of Heinrich on a rainy day in late April of 1210. Immediately, he set off to inform Ladislav that he would be leaving his position and was ready for his final salary. Ladislav was in no hurry to lose his master baker, however. Heinrich was good at task and had treated both Ladislav and the numerous agents of the archbishop to delicious honey cakes and sweet treats that had lightened the drab fare of winter.

  “I needs permission from Laszlo.”

  Heinrich was agitated. “I needs be on m’way. The caravans are forming in the city now.”

  Ladislav grunted. “Go without your salt, then.”

  Heinrich hesitated. He had been frugal all winter. Actually, he had not converted any of his prior salt payments for coins. A wise old miner had bartered him some wisdom for a pretzel. He told Heinrich that salt was more valuable farther from the mines. He’d get a better price with the Italians. The thrifty baker had lived all winter eating from the bakery and sleeping for free. He had not needed any money, but wanted his final payment.

  “Then I shall go m’self to the steward.” Heinrich was firm. It felt good to him to deal as though he were a freeman.

  Heinrich jumped aboard a cart bound for the city and as soon as he arrived, he climbed the road to the castle once more. He waited all that day and far into the night before Laszlo would see him. At last, he was ushered into the steward’s shadowy chamber.

  “Aye?”

  “Sire, I am Heinrich the baker at Hallein.”

  “Indeed. I’ve heard your work is good. Why are you here?”

  “I’ve come to collect m’salary for I’m to leave on m’pilgrimage with a caravan.”

  Laszlo motioned for his secretary to leave. He walked toward his hearth and motioned for Heinrich to join him. “Sit, Heinrich. There, on that stool.”

  Heinrich sat obediently. A sense of dread began to creep over him. He nervously adjusted his clothing and stared into the fire.

  Laszlo sat close by and stared into the flames. His bony face was etched in deep shadows and when he turned to face the baker his dark eyes seemed to glow. “Have you ever seen a man hang?”

  Heinrich’s mouth went dry and he sputtered an awkward, “Yes.”

  “Look at me, baker. Do you think me a fool?”

  Heinrich felt dizzy. “N-nay, sire.”

  “Hmm. I have employed runaways for many years, runaways from all over the empire. Do you imagine I am such a fool as to not spot one with ease?”

  The long pause was interrupted only by the crackling of tinder. “Nay, sire.”

  “Heinrich, I have it within my power to hang you on the morrow, or to offer you and your heirs freedom. Do you understand?”

  Heinrich wanted to run. His mind whirled. My punishment! he thought. For all the lies, for all m’evil doing, oh dear God! His heart pounded and his belly turned. He had no clever retort; he’d no place to go but to truthfulness. “Aye!” he blurted.

  “I serve the archbishop in many ways, and it is my duty to see that his holiness earns a good profit for his diocese. I suppose that end is hardly served by hanging a good baker in Salzburg’s market square, do you agree?”

  “Ja.”

  “Naturally. So, then. You came into my employ in or around the first day of December in the year past.”

  “Actually sire, ‘twas mid-November.”

  Laszlo chuckled. “Of course. I shall have my secretary set the date for November the fifteenth. One year and one day from that date sets you free. You’ve already served us in these environs for five months! So, you shall remain another seven and may come to me after the sixteenth day of November next for your passport.”

  Heinrich trembled. Another seven months! He groaned. Yet I shall be free … and Wil, Karl, and Marta, and I’d still have the bakery. His spirits lifted. He stood and bowed to Laszlo. “Aye, sire, until November.”

  Honor among men of commerce is a rare thing. For whatever reason, the tinkling of coins is a bewitching music that has the power to incite every vice and cruel ploy of the imagination. It seems that the seductive twins of wealth and power are indeed Sirens whose presence ought alarm both those whom they seek and those who scent their presence. Heinrich, therefore, was without excuse. He had often suffered the wiles of men more clever than he. Laszlo’s odd offer ought to have piqued his suspicions; he should have dared ask others about the man. So, upon his learning of Laszlo’s deception, he should have been neither surprised nor angered at anyone other than himself.

  After spending all the summer and most of the autumn that followed dreaming of his life of liberty, it was drunken, miserable Ladislav who finally dared expose the truth of the matter. “Fool!” slurred the master. “Ha, ha! Dolt, stupid king of idiots!” He laughed. “Laszlo has no authority to grant y’freedom!”

  Heinrich jumped to his feet. “You’d be lyin’, y’ drunken Slav!”

  “No, he’s not lying to you,” answered a sober, well-groomed soldier standing near. “And you’ve not lived in the city, anyway, you’ve been here, in Hallein.” He narrowed his eye at the astonished Heinrich. “Are you a runaway, then?”

  Heinrich panicked. “N-nay, sire. I… I am servile to… to a Lord Dietmar of Gratz.”

  The soldier nodded. Ladislav laughed out loud. “Ha! Good one!”

  Heinrich turned away. It was Sabbath evening, the fourteenth day of November. He wanted to cry, to kill someone, to run. He stormed into his dormitory and gathered his things. He jerked the dagger from his belt and considered driving it into the belly of Laszlo. He stuffed it back into its sheath and packed his satchel. He trotted past the bakery, ignoring the greetings of his apprentices, then paused to return. He chased the workers from view and plunged his hand into the salt bin where he helped himself to a month’s salary. It was a crime that could cost him dearly. “And now some extra for Laszlo’s lie!” Heinrich scooped more salt into his sack and hung it on his shoulders.

  The angry man strode from the bakery and des
cended from the village to spend that night in an abandoned stable. The next morning he decided he would follow the Salzach upstream through the mountains until he crossed paths with some caravan. He was relieved that the month had been unusually warm. “Southern breezes—just as Dietmar said might come.” With that, Heinrich suddenly recalled the ring Dietmar had given him. He paused and pulled it from deep within his satchel. He stared at it for a moment. ‘Take this to the tinker by the well, ’Dietmar had said. Heinrich hesitated. Why? I wonder what this could be about? The man turned wearily for Salzburg.

  Heinrich arrived on Wednesday at noon. It was market day and the city’s main well was positioned in the very center of the square. The ground was covered with colorful tents and booths that offered every imaginable trinket or staple from all ends of the empire. Ells of woven cloth, baskets offish, pretzels, spices, woollens, salted pork, barrels of kraut, kegs of ale; it was a seemingly endless, wonderful blend of color and sound that was nothing like Heinrich had ever seen. He wanted to pause at every table to study the work of the goldsmiths, the leatherworkers, and the glassblowers. He would have lingered over the bakers’ wares, but a sense of fear hung over him like a pall. He glanced up at the castle staring from high atop its cliff and he knew he must hurry.

  Heinrich arrived at the tinker’s door and entered. A woman greeted him. “Grüss Gott.”

  “Grüss Gott, m’lady.” Heinrich spoke slowly. He was startled by the woman’s appearance and found her hard to look upon. He then remembered her from Dietmar’s burial and he asked curiously, “Is the tinker about?”

  “Ja. ‘Tis me.” She giggled.

  Heinrich was surprised. Tinkers were something of jacks-of-all-trades. Generally poor, they primarily mended pots and kettles and the like, and were rarely women. “Well, I see.” He fumbled for his ring and presented it to the woman.

  The lady studied the ring quietly for a moment and as she did Heinrich ventured a look at her pox-scarred skin and homely features. He felt sad for her, yet quite taken by her manner. “Lord Dietmar gave this to me ‘fore he died.”

  The woman studied Heinrich for a few moments and became slightly wary. She remembered him, too, but his appearance gave her some pause, for his hair was very long and shaggy, and his beard had grown bushy and wild. The eye patch and stump did not help his cause. She thought he had the look of a highwayman. “I remember you from Dietmar’s burial, but I had m’doubts then as I do now. Tell me about him,” she said quietly.

  Heinrich was in no mood for this. He wanted out of the city as quickly as possible. He sighed and recounted his times with the man. As he told his story, however, he relaxed and the pleasant memories of his brief friendship brought an earnest smile to his face. “And he told me … he told me that freedom and hope are found beyond ourselves. ‘Twas at the last.”

  The tinker’s eyes twinkled. The stranger had indeed known Dietmar. The woman stood up and asked Heinrich to wait. She climbed past crates of tin pots and stumbled over a basket of ladles before disappearing into the darkness of a back room. She returned in a few moments with a flask of wine, a roll of rye, and a heavy pouch. “As a child I was a friend to Dietmar’s mother when she came to the city. ‘Tis a long story I’ll not burden you with. Dietmar fell from fortune, as you know, but he saved this pouch that he hid here. A tinker’s shop is ne’er thought worthy of thieves! He asked me to give it only to the presenter of the ring. But, the ring, sir, I shall now keep … I made it for his mother, and Dietmar promised I could have it.”

  She reached two warty fingers into the embroidered leather pouch and retrieved two gold coins. “Dietmar also promised me two. I swear by the blessed Virgin I’ve not scrumped a single other. The rest, stranger, are for you.”

  Heinrich stared wordlessly at the woman as she set the pouch in his outstretched palm. She smiled and nodded. “May God protect you from the dangers of this little bag and those who would take it from you.”

  Heinrich still could not speak. He had never held a gold coin other than his mother’s relic. He believed a ducat was worth about two shillings, or twenty-four pennies. The pouch probably held over fifty ducats. At a laborer’s wage of three pennies per day he quickly reckoned he was holding nearly two years’ wages in his hand! “I do not deserve this!” he muttered.

  “Probably not,” answered the tinker. “But there you have it. Now beware to use it wisely and keep it hidden in your satchel. You have the look of a traveler.”

  “Aye. I’m on a pilgrimage to Rome.”

  The woman smiled. “Ah, Rome! I was in Assisi for a time and I did a pilgrimage with some sisters.”

  Heinrich was surprised. He looked about the shop and then at her.

  “I see the questions on your face. Dear man, as I’ve said, my story is far too long and I’ve the sense you needs be on your way.”

  “Where is Assisi?”

  “In the countryside north of Rome.”

  “Ah. Did you like it there?”

  “Indeed. The valley is broad and beautiful. The sky is pale blue and warm and the flowers bloom bright. I had the feeling it was a special place. Now, tell me, why do you go?”

  “For a penance.”

  “A penance. Hmm, ‘tis a good place for that. The only place better is Jerusalem. How long a penance?”

  Heinrich shrugged. He hadn’t thought about that.

  “What are your sins?”

  Heinrich was a bit annoyed at the woman’s sudden directness. “My story is too long,” he answered.

  The tinker laughed and poured him a goblet of wine. “Good sir, I am not easily surprised by the sins of man. My father was a bishop. Aye … a bishop.” She chuckled. “And m’mother was a nun! Some say ‘tis why I look the way I do. So, you’ll not be shocking me and I may be able to help you determine a proper plan.”

  Heinrich thought for a few moments, then yielded to the woman. She seemed trustworthy and wise, though he was not certain she was the well of wisdom that Emma had been. He proceeded to tell her of his theft and lies, of misplaced desires, of sloth, of envy, greed, and hatred. The more he revealed, the more he wanted to reveal. He told her of his vow. He whispered of his fight for the Stedingers, and even of his recent pillage of the salt box. By the time he had finished he was melancholy but lightened of a great load.

  “Hmm,” mused the tinker. She closed her eyes and sat quietly for a few moments. At last she moved. She lit a candle by a coal and turned a tender eye toward the curious baker. “I spend my days with broken things.” She took Heinrich’s hand and held her candle by his eye. “You are a vessel within a vessel. Each is cracked, but each is yet filled with darkness. Both must be broken to let the light in.” She paused and squeezed Heinrich’s hand hard. “If you must go to Rome, expect that which you do not.”

  She released her grip and leaned forward. Her tone was firm but kind. “Now hear me. For each of the Commandments do penance for one month; for each of the seven deadly sins, one month; for the Golden Rule, one month. Serve in Rome for eighteen months. Suffer the bells, suffer the smoke, suffer the suffering… it is the only way.”

  Chapter 23

  PENANCE

  Heinrich hurried from the tinker’s shop somewhat confused by the proprietor’s riddle but decidedly purposed and his mind fixed on the plan. He strode the roadway with a chin set hard in defiance to both the archbishop and his miserable steward, and as he climbed the rising slopes he felt all the more relieved to be leaving the waste of that foolish year behind.

  He was determined, yet troubled. Though he had been lied to, Heinrich was well aware that he had been blessed beyond measure. Over his shoulder was slung a satchel stuffed with provisions and coins, and on his back hung a well-waxed rucksack filled with precious salt. He had left home to suffer, yet it seemed he could not escape mercy. Even m’boots don’t fail me! he thought. Indeed, the boots Lord Niklas had given him years before were worn, but neither torn nor leaking. They had become comfortable like two old friends sitting close by
a warm hearth.

  Heinrich filled his thick chest with clean mountain air as he followed the sparkling Salzach southward. His thick legs stepped lightly along the dirt road and his broad face beamed under the cloudless sky. The man was not ignorant of the risks involved in daring the Alps in November. It was already the third week of the gray month, yet fortunately, the southerly wind continued to rule the air. With continued good fortune he thought he might enter Rome by Christmas Day!

  The pilgrim traveled alone through a landscape that filled him with wonder. He dared lift his eye from time to time to marvel at the towering mountains rising to touch the floor of heaven itself. Grand valleys of mist curled and lapped along these giants’ feet and disappeared midst the mixed-hued greens of ancient forests. Heinrich’s nostrils were filled with the intoxicating scent of pine and spruce, and he rejoiced to hear the screech of eagles and hawks soaring bold and free above.

  He reached Bischoffen in good time. There, where the river bent westward and narrowed, he joined a small caravan of Syrian merchants hurrying home with a summer’s bounty earned at the fairs in faraway Cologne, Champagne, and Frankfurt. They spoke enough German to barter food for Heinrich’s services as a cart-driver. It seemed they had lost a young Bavarian carter who thought their late rush through the passes unwise. In any event, Heinrich was glad to rest his feet and grip the reins of a two-horse team.

  The caravan consisted of two score of men; most were pagan followers of Mohammed. Heinrich found the company of these dark-skinned men to be somewhat uncomfortable, but not totally disagreeable. He had spent his life, as had his forebears, instructed in the evil ways of these infidels. They seemed ever poised to seize upon the lands of Christendom and had ruled Spain and half of France. They were a constant menace in the Christian east and for centuries had persecuted the Christian faithful in Palestine. In Jerusalem they now required Christians to wear leather girdles as a symbol of their servitude and forbade them to learn the Arab tongue, for to do so would be to defile Allah’s people.