by C. D. Baker
Bernard was then instructed to rinse his mouth with warm water and spit into the clay bowl that Wil was holding. The boy wrinkled his nose as Pieter poked about the murky spittle for evidence of the elusive worms.
Pieter repeated the procedure several times over the next hour and at last pronounced the tooth restored. “Ja, ja. ’Tis a proper remedy, I am certain of it. Rest well, sire, your complaint has been resolved.”
Bernard sighed and smiled weakly, grateful beyond measure for the relief. He ordered his secretary to direct his overseer to honor the terms of the agreement. “Well done, Vater, well done. I feel like a new man.” He leaned close to Pieter’s ear and whispered, “I do admire your skills … both of dentistry and of commerce.” Bernard winked. “Ah, but now give me leave for I must sleep. May God’s mercy follow you.”
Pieter bowed respectfully, nudging Wil to do likewise, and the pair followed Dorothea quietly out of the house and to the main gate. The waiting band of dirty-faced children raced toward them and waited expectantly for a full report. Pieter, his own relief equaled only by that of Bernard’s, grinned a happy, mischievous grin and picked his favored Maria off her feet. “God has been good to us this day, children,” he proclaimed. “We have been blessed by this fair lady’s master with provisions enough!”
The children restrained a hearty cheer and circled the smiling Dorothea. Frieda and Gertrude took the graceful woman by the hand and touched her fine garments. “M’dear lady,” offered Gertrude, “such a beautiful gown and cape. I’ve ne’er seen better.”
Dorothea stroked the girl’s tangled brown hair and thanked her gently. “And you, my little one, have such beautiful eyes.”
Gertrude’s round face flushed and she turned away. No one had ever told her she was beautiful before, and the thought of it warmed her in a pleasing, though unfamiliar way.
By nones, two soldiers appeared from around a corner escorting a bent old man and his heavy-laden oxcart toward the hopeful children. “Ja, ja … good day to all. I bring the master’s order to you.” The man stopped and coughed violently. “There is fever about the villages … be warned.” He pointed to the cart and motioned for the children to unload it. “Aye, ’tis yours, children, come.”
“All lend a hand … pack every blanket and satchel … and be quick to it,” ordered Wil.
As the others raced to unburden the cart, Maria approached the perspiring man and offered him a tiny flower. He wiped his face and gave the girl a hug as he wheezed a tender Danke.
It took but a little time for the happy crusaders to properly pack their new provisions, kneel with Pieter in a heartfelt prayer, and bid Dorothea farewell. Then, with the wooden walls of Olten behind them, the faithful children set their course toward the wide valley leading to Burgdorf and the Feast of the Assumption.
Jon I and his brother Jon II, Lukas, Otto, Maria, Frieda, Gertrude, Anna, Georg, Karl, Conrad, Manfred, Jost and Albert, little Friederich, Pieter and Solomon, Wil and all his other soldiers had once again been joined by their wandering, but oft returning companion—Hope. The terrors of Basel were fading quickly, as were the images of the battlefield and the heavy sadness of friends lost. It was as if the band was starting its journey afresh, far from fear and free from the sufferings it had so recently endured. It seemed to most that God was with them after all, and they pressed into the late day hours renewed and encouraged.
The crusaders followed the Aare River south from Olten, intending to march along its comfortable banks until a sharp westward bend that Pieter knew. They soon found a small road to follow in the center of a wide plain leading to Burgdorf. The group was merry and glad-hearted, many singing or laughing along a river somewhat swollen with the heavy rains that Lord Bernard said often plagued the region this time of year.
The day was rapidly shortening, especially with the darkness cast by a bank of heavy clouds sagging toward the company from the south. Pieter cast an eye upward, then scanned the flat landscape. “Bernard’s secretary cautioned me of harsh storms on this side of the mountains.”
About three furlongs upstream, a new mill was standing near the river’s edge. It had been built at an inside bend in the river where the bank had been dug away to form a deep pond, dammed on one end to feed the mill’s wheel. It was a clever way to control the force of the water. Beneath the wheel the water was immediately returned to the river via a narrow, deep ditch. Wil spotted the mill. “There, Pieter. We can weather the storm there.”
The sky suddenly turned angry and the children raced for the cover of the mill, only to find its door locked and its windows shuttered fast. A few heavy drops of cold rain began to drop as Wil and Pieter groused about the secured mill. “There, on the bank.” Wil pointed to a sheep shed set at the base of the dam about a stone’s throw from the turning wheel. “Would be cover enough. Out of the wind and a good roof.”
Pieter nodded and the wind began to howl. “Hurry, then.”
The company scampered along the low riverbank and rushed beneath the short roof of the three-sided shed, grateful, to be sure. The shed had a good thatched roof, recently repaired by the look of it, and its planked walls guarded them from the wind suddenly blasting sheets of rain. Karl retrieved a fresh flint granted by Bernard, and pulled some dry thatch from the underside of the shed. Others darted to the river’s edge and dashed back with float-wood and sticks. Soon a small campfire was snapping and all were happy again.
Night fell upon them like the dropping of a black curtain and a dreadful stillness abruptly blanketed the plain. For a few precious moments only the nervous whines of Solomon and the lapping of the nearby river could be heard. The group stared into the darkness hoping the storm had only been a passing squall.
Then suddenly, as if the night had simply paused to catch its breath, the wind shifted to the east and a stinging rain began to pour and pound atop the river valley in violent torrents. The air turned icy-cold and the frightened children balled together as thunder cracked and lightning blazed across the sky. In the next moment, a horrible gust roared around the shelter’s edge and smothered the pilgrims’ fire like a scoffing giant snuffing a choking wick. The band now sat in utter darkness.
Pieter offered what comfort he could, though few could hear his soothing voice above the howling tempest. Maria quickly squeezed herself tightly between Karl and Wil, pulling her feet away from the rivulets of mud beginning to find their way inside. Each flash of lightning drew a whimper from the girl and Karl took her by the hand. “All shall be well … you’ve no cause to fear….” At the crack of each peal of thunder, Karl desperately wished to believe his own words.
The storm continued for about an hour before the thunder began to fade into distant rolls. Lightning could be seen spidering the sky like fiery veins over the western valleys, but the rain continued to pour as if by buckets and barrels until nearly midnight. Finally, the wind began to ease and the rain changed to an even patter on the soaked thatch above the travelers’ heads and its gentler fall steadied them. Relieved and sleepy, the young soldiers soon fell fast asleep, cold, but feeling quite secure.
Solomon, however, blessed by his Maker with senses not common to his fellows, stirred restlessly. He whined and pawed at his irritated master until ordered sternly to silence. But such cautions ought not have been so rudely dismissed, for the dog’s instinct was reliable and peril was indeed imminent. The faithful beast laid his head obediently, though reluctantly, upon Pieter’s legs but his ears stayed cocked and pointed, his bright eyes wide.
The heavens opened again and once more heavy rain pounded the plain for the next hours. Solomon shifted uncomfortably, wary and anxious as the roar seemed ever to increase. Suddenly he jerked his nose high in the air and tilted his head to one side. He strained to listen with his jaw locked tightly and his keen eyes sharpened. Then, as if jolted by a hot bolt of lightning he sprang to his feet, barking wildly and pawing furiously at the slumbering Pieter. The old man rolled to his side and stretched a calming hand toward his
frantic dog. The yelping awakened Karl.
“Why is he barking?” the boy cried over the crashing rain.
“I don’t know!” Pieter answered loudly.
But before another word could be uttered, a sound like none had ever heard before enveloped them all. It was like thunder, though deeper and crueler, and the ground itself shook and trembled as if cowered by the might of a terrible thing. Then, before a single waking crusader could do more than cry out, a river of mud, tumbling rocks, and surging water crashed over and around the edges of the quaking shed, filling the refuge with the floodwaters of a broken dam!
The sturdy little shelter had no chance at all against the deluge. It collapsed into a tumbling heap of splinters and was swept into the raging current with the hapless pilgrims. Away washed the children, the old man, and their poor dog. Churning midst rocking logs and swirling brush they disappeared into the night. Mouths gaping, limbs flailing, the wretches were lost on the back of an angry serpent.
Wil toppled head-for-heels beneath the water. Desperately trying to break the surface with his mouth, he clawed and rolled and vainly lurched where nature bid he try. At last, his head bobbed upward and he gasped and gasped again. He pedaled his feet rapidly along the vanishing riverbed and struggled to keep his head above the water when he caught his ankle in the cleft of a rock. The force of the flood immediately pressed him under again.
The lad frantically clutched at the branches he felt dragging against him and could hear nothing but the muffled sounds of his own panic. He writhed and labored to lift his face for a breath and finally broke himself free to ride the currents toward the bank. There he lunged toward the trunk of a well-rooted tree and wrapped his arms around it tightly.
Relieved, Wil sucked air into his lungs and nearly cried for joy. His relief was short-lived, however, for a heavy limb careened close and snagged one leg. The startled lad held tightly but his burning arms soon gave way to his grasping hands, which, in turn, gave way to clinging fingers. Then, though his fingertips dug desperately into the stubborn tree’s rough bark, they soon failed him as well and Wil was gone.
As swiftly as the unexpected had arrived, it passed. No sounds were heard other than the wash of calmer waves streaming timidly around displaced trees and rocks. The rain had slowed to a gentle drip and an eerie hush now ruled the night. A passing breeze stirred a rustle among the willows but no sound of the crusaders could be heard.
In the ghoulish calm the storm clouds soon abandoned the night sky, granting consent for the moon and stars to shadow the river that was now shrouded by a heavy mist. And so the silver-eyed keepers of the night held fast until finally chased away by the merciful sun that arrived like the shining armor of a valiant knight riding hard from the east.
As beams of yellow light pierced the fog, magpies began to play and flutter about, indifferent to the carnage all around them. Thrush began to sing and wood-chucks poked their whiskered faces from the valley’s edges. Here and there, chamois teetered atop the displaced rocks and snow mice scrambled gingerly from log to log. A soaring eagle rode the cool air on his morning’s flight, giving nothing more than passing notice to the rutted valley below. As it were, the only few who seemed mindful of the night’s tragedy were the groups of vultures now floating in circles with eyes fixed expectantly on the destruction below.
Suddenly, a snow mouse froze. He pointed his little ears toward some strange new sounds. First here, then there, he jerked his tiny head from side to side. Here he heard a cry, there a sob, a whimper, or a cough—finally a feeble call for help, then another and another. The thrush stopped singing and the magpies stood still.
Wil opened his mud-caked eyes and squinted as a ray of sunshine blinded him for a moment. He was confused but regaining his senses. He slowly lifted his head and found himself tangled among broken branches and bound in thick mud. He wiggled and squirmed and toiled to free himself from the rubble to finally crawl atop the soggy bank, grateful for his life. His tunic and leggings were torn; his hands and feet were bruised and cut; dried blood covered one side of his face. He felt no broken bones and found no deep wounds. Satisfied with his own condition, he promptly began the search for his companions.
Wil needed to look no farther than a few paces upstream where he spotted the mud-caked head of his sister. She had been mercifully carried atop the buoyant timber of a broken river willow and, though frightened and nearly buried alive in bramble and mud, she was spared far worse. Wil charged toward her and threw off the debris that weighed on her. He dug frantically with his bare hands through the mud and, before long, he pulled a most thankful Maria to her feet. The two embraced.
Wil surveyed both sides of the river and saw Karl staggering along the bank about a bowshot downstream. “Karl!” he cried. “Karl!”
The redhead waved weakly and climbed carefully over a pile of logs. Near him was Georg, waist deep in a sucking mud-pit and straining to free himself. Suddenly Friederich appeared beside the two of them, rubbing his bruised legs. And, before long, another stood, and then another, each bleeding, coughing, or crying. It looked to Wil like a tedious, sluggish resurrection of sorts as one crusader after another slowly emerged from the ground shrouded in brown.
Pieter was pinned against the bank by a large, broken tree trunk and was holding his bloody nose with a free hand. His lips were split and bleeding badly. Georg stumbled to his side and cried to the others, “Come here, come here! Help me! I’ve found Pieter!”
At the sound of the old man’s name, the company forgot their own troubles and clambered over all obstacles to his rescue. Many hands dragged Pieter from the quagmire and Maria gently wiped the mud and gravel from his squinting eyes. The priest lay shivering in the cold morning air but raised his hand limply and offered a faint smile. He strained to speak but could only whisper. “The others, the others …” Pieter laid his quivering head down and closed his eyes.
Maria and Frieda placed some leafy willow wands over Pieter to help warm him as Wil ordered the others to continue the search for more survivors. The children dutifully spread across the terrain and hunted in earnest for any hint of a comrade. Karl forded the lowering river and his eye caught the bottom of a foot protruding from a huge heap of debris. “Here! Come … A foot, I’ve found a foot!” The boy yanked and tugged at the stubborn tangle as his fast as his hands could move. In a few moments Wil and Georg joined him and with a grunt and a heave, the unnamed fellow was tumbled out of his muddy prison. Georg hastily wiped the mud off the boy’s face.
“’Tis Albert,” wheezed Georg.
Wil and Karl stood stone-faced and silent as they stared at the mangled corpse beneath them. Wil lifted Albert and held him compassionately in his arms, but he had only taken a few carefully placed steps when he nearly tread on an arm sticking from the ground. “There. Karl… dig there,” he hoarsed.
Karl and Georg were joined by Jon I and burrowed furiously into the river muck around the limp arm. Wil laid Albert gently aside and joined the others until the lifeless body of poor Jost stared vacantly at them from opened hazel eyes. Were that not horror enough, yet another body lay another few feet downstream.
The three were carried to a large, flat boulder near Pieter and set in a solemn row as others in the company continued their search. A voice was suddenly heard drifting from the valley below and Wil raced upstream to find Frieda struggling out of another clump of broken branches and rubble.
“Wil,” she sobbed. Tears ran down her bruised face as she embraced her friend. Trembling, Frieda’s brown eyes suddenly widened in fear and she began to scream for her brother and sister. Tearing herself away from Wil, she tripped across the rutted bank sobbing and crying desperately. Wil joined her search and the two clambered along the bank in hopes of finding either.
Slowly, more and more stragglers appeared, crawling up both banks from either direction. They joined their tearful comrades gathering around Pieter. “Could someone help me to m’feet?” whispered the old man.
Ge
org steadied the priest as he rose. Pieter surveyed the landscape until his eyes locked onto the casualties lying on the rock. “Have you taken a count yet?” he groaned.
“No,” answered Karl. “But we’re missing many. I’ve not seen Manfred, Gertrude, Lukas, Otto, and Jon II.”
“Conrad and Jon I are searching over there,” pointed Maria. “But… but where’d be Solomon?”
Pieter collapsed on a rock and began to weep. “Chil… dren. Chil… dren,” he wailed. “Sol… o … monnnn.”
Karl ordered all to scour the valley one more time. “Go, go quickly and look carefully. Go farther downstream, and find what you can.”
Upstream from Pieter an exhausted Wil sat atop a broken hornbeam. Beside him poor Frieda was wailing hysterically and pulling futilely on the limp arm of her brother, Manfred, buried in the rocks at her feet. “Frieda … he is gone,” Wil spoke gently. But his words fell on mute ears until others came to help Wil dig Manfred’s body from the mire. Frieda collapsed on the ground.
In the meantime, Karl and Conrad found Gertrude wedged in the base of an uprooted willow, unconscious but breathing, and they quickly carried her to safety. Otto, however, plodded stiffly across the hillside bearing the broken body of his good friend and fellow traveler, Lukas. He tearfully laid little Lukas alongside Manfred, and Wil sadly recounted his company.
“All are reckoned.” The boy fought the swelling in his throat. The faces of the dead had not become so habitual, or so very familiar, that the sight of them open-eyed and white-faced did yet pierce his heart.
“All, save Solomon,” blurted Maria.
“Aye, sister, all save poor Solomon.” Wil paused and cast a sympathetic eye toward Pieter and continued. “We must bury our friends here, by this rock, which shall mark them. We all know what to do.”
