Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (The Journey of Souls Series)

by C. D. Baker

  Georg could not resist the old man’s infectious grin and began to giggle at Pieter’s lonesome, yellow tooth. “I do beg your pardon, Father, but sometimes you just make me laugh.”

  Karl approached the two.

  “And, my dear Karl,” said Pieter, “I trust you have healed from your hurts.”

  Karl shrugged but flashed a hint of resentment in his answer. “Yes, I suppose, Pieter … most of them.”

  “Well, ’tis good. And I suppose you are thinking clearly and in the ready for the riddle?”

  Karl’s mood was not nearly as healed as Pieter had guessed. “M’head’s always clear and since you’ve a mind to talk with me, you needs hear m’thoughts of the flood. I have given that matter some time and am now certain of God’s purpose in it. Methinks you to be well served to hear my ‘prick.’”

  Pieter raised his brows. “Ah, well, then by all means … do so.”

  Frieda and several others had been listening to the exchange and they drew near.

  “Pieter,” began Karl. “I heard from Wil of your rather bold negotiations with the lord of Olten.”

  “Ja,” answered Pieter slowly. “I believed that our situation required some measure of firmness. Go on.”

  Karl’s voice rose. “’Tis plain, Pieter, you cheated this man and God punished all of us for it. And I, for one, am tired of you angering God and putting us all in peril. You and all your questions and your strange ways. You burn Dunkeldorf, then pray with the Holy Scriptures so piously. The word ‘hypocrite’ comes to m’mind. It wonders me that you’ve not brought death to all of us by now! Methinks sometimes you ought be cast off like Jonah.”

  Pieter was stunned. He could not answer for a moment; words would not come to his trembling lips. Is it so? he wondered. My hypocrisy does seem oft boundless … but does such error bring judgment to these? …Or could the lad be striking out to guard his own path? After all, if the lad loses his way, he shall indeed lose his way.

  At last he looked at Karl with clear and gentle eyes. “My son,” he answered gently, “it may be that I am a Jonah, for I am indeed self-willed and oft disobedient. It does take hard lessons for me to learn, for I am stiff-necked and surely I am a hypocrite. I do thank you, my young friend, for having the courage to remind me of these things.

  “As far as the other business goes, it may be that I bargained for too high a payment and perhaps God punished us for my greed. Or it may be that I asked too little and He punished us for that. Or it may be that I asked for a just amount and it simply rained a lot that dreadful night. Perhaps God ought be praised for His mercy on those He spared.”

  Karl pressed insistently. “When we do good, we get good, Pieter, and when we do evil, we get evil! On this journey we have gotten good and we have gotten evil and we have done good and we have done evil and that, my good sir, is what I see.”

  By now Wil had moved closer. “It would seem m’brother’s got a good hold of God’s ways. Well done, Karl, methinks such a task a hard one.” He laughed. “You do good, you get good. You do bad, you get bad. Simple, eh?”

  “Aye,” snapped Karl. “’Tis how I see it.”

  “And since you’ve mostly gotten good, you think yourself to be mostly good?”

  Karl hesitated but answered with a defiant, “Aye.”

  “And what evil has ever befallen you, my very good brother, Karl?”

  “So my point. I’ve not suffered evil. I am strong, I am healthy, I’ve a good mind and a kind heart. All would so say me to be gentle to others, obedient…”

  Wil sneered, “And humble as well.”

  A number of the children laughed and Karl’s face reddened. Before he could speak Pieter added, “Lad, have you not seen evil happen to good men and good things happen to evil men? And have you so soon forgotten the words of the yeoman?”

  Karl licked his dried lips. Jon taunted with an angry tone in his voice. “Eh, Karl? We’d be waiting. I should like you to tell me of m’brother’s evil for his broken leg.”

  “Ja, Karl,” quipped Frieda. “Can y’tell me m’brother Manfred was evil ‘cause he wasn’t spared, as you?”

  “And what about that swine, Father Pious?” barked Wil. “He’s a nice house and a fair portion of shillings, I’d wager. Do you think he to be a good man?”

  “He is a man of the Lord,” muttered Karl.

  “A man of the Lord, you say? Is that what y—”

  Pieter interrupted. “Now lads and ladies, I think we all have a fair question here, but no need to be bitter. Perhaps we should think of this as a mighty riddle: Why do good things happen to evil men and evil things to good ones? I am certain it is a riddle, one for which I have no answer—at least not yet. But dear Karl, what I say ’tis true nonetheless; good does not always follow good; nor evil, evil. Or better yet: Who is truly good anyway?”

  “Enough of this!” shouted Wil. “I am sickened by your silly ideas, Karl. ’Tis fool’s talk and not more. And Pieter, I’m weary of working at sorting through all of life with you. I am content to know that I need none other than m’self and I leave the rest be. I’ve this fair token of my might,” he boasted as he plucked his dagger from his belt. “And I’ve my mind and two strong arms and that’s all I need for this world to be mine. Go, Karl, waste your life at earning favors, and you, Pieter, go live and die with your empty quest. But I’ll cross these mountains and plant my feet in Palestine whether good or not. And as for you, Georg, heed this: You’ll not see me slandering those I call ‘friend.’ Now, on we march.”

  Georg slowly gathered his blanket. He was cut deeply by Wil’s remark and he walked quietly toward the gathering column. He looked cautiously at Karl. “I… I meant no harm. I only spoke what I did for hopes of your seeing yourself some better. My father says change begins in the looking glass …”

  “I’ve not the privilege of a glass and I’ve no need of change,” growled Karl.

  Pieter sighed as if all the world were now sitting on his own feeble shoulders. He stepped between the boys and leaned hard on his staff. “Good lads, enough. I think it time to walk and let silence be a healing balm.”

  The sun had peaked and began to move toward the horizon. Wil was impatient with his company’s slow progress and demanded his fellows shorten the route by venturing off the path. “There,” he barked, “we needs climb straight up yon sheep trail. That shall gain us back the time we wasted winding this valley path.”

  Pieter protested gently. “Good Master,” he offered, a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “methinks it a harsh course and one of some peril.”

  “Nay, old man. You’ve always the right to take your leave, but we climb.”

  With little more than a few grumbles, the faithful obediently followed their leader up the stony path, clutching and grasping at rocks and roots, pulling themselves higher and higher until they emerged from the pines. Having reached the sparse rock-face of the high ridge, they paused for rest before pressing to the summit. Finally, by mid-evening, they gathered around a modest fire and fell to sleep in the cold mountain air.

  The next morning the weary company woke to strong gusts and a hard-driving rain. Wil stared carefully at a treacherous sheep trail descending from the camp and the thin mist snaking through the tight valley waiting below. “Pieter,” he shouted over the wind, “methinks it best we follow that valley toward the south and … there … to the base of that shrouded peak.”

  Pieter looked nervously at the rain-soaked, perilous trail dropping dangerously toward the deep valley. He said nothing but raised his eyes to the heavy sky and begged the angels to bear them gently down.

  The rain fell in stinging sheets and the howling wind blasted over the razor-edged ridge as the column began their descent toward the valley floor. Each little foot was placed warily on the unforgiving mountain’s breast, for every step bore the risk of a punishing slide against sharp stones and jagged rocks. The crusaders picked their way slowly down to the dubious cover of scrubby pines until they finally gathered benea
th a dripping, low-hung canopy for a brief first-meal of dried apples and crusts.

  It was a hurried respite and the shivering crusaders continued their descent, pitching and lurching from tree to tree, until they emerged onto a rocky cleft where they paused to survey the view. Far below was the cramped valley, green and lush and dotted with heavy-timbered huts clustered in tiny hamlets. In the distance stood a brown, stone castle perched precipitously along the rim of an opposing mountain. Despite its rugged edges, the children thought the valley inviting and strangely comforting; perhaps it was the softness of the mists swirled gently on the treetops or the strength of the angular, gray-white rock-face guarding all sides. For whatever reason, it seemed a fiefdom worthy of a life’s stay.

  Wil wiped wet hair away from his eyes and stared at the sky. The rain had eased to a soft shower, but the clouds were heavy and sagging as if straining to contain the reservoir of water within. And no sooner had the children stepped back to their trail than the clouds lost their strength and released a deluge atop the mountain. The children bowed and bent under the sheer force of the torrent but dutifully followed Wil, sliding from tree to tree, grasping at bark and branches, roots or rocks, or any other handle the slippery mountainside might offer. At last, Wil ordered his troop to the shelter of a grouping of large boulders and the wet soldiers settled into the rocky enclave.

  Karl, however, withdrew from his fellows to the wide trunk of an ancient spruce. He drew his hood over his dripping, red hair and squatted in the mud. He pulled his treasured necklace from under his tunic and followed its steel links with callused fingertips. His mind drifted to memories of his mother—her warm suppers by the hearth fire and the sounds of her rush-broom sweeping stones and sticks from the doorsill and yard path. He closed his eyes and suddenly saw her lying on her bed ghost-white with blood oozing between her lips. Her gaping eyes stared at him vacantly. He covered his eyes with his fists. “Leave me, visions!”

  But such images rarely honor such demands and poor Karl’s mind flew him to a scene of his mother’s shrouded body being carried stiffly toward a simple earthen grave. He could see the miller and the weaver, the dyer and his wretched Uncle Arnold tilting her corpse awkwardly toward its dark and rooty hole. He shook his head and pressed the tears from his eyes.

  The boy thrashed about the wet forest, whimpering and rasping across the pitch, warring valiantly against what sanity demanded. Finally he fell across a log and yielded with a loud cry. “There is no miracle; Mother is dead.”

  Wil’s commanding voice was hard to hear above the din of the rain and wind but he reassembled the crusaders and ordered them forward. Karl stumbled halfheartedly to the rear of the reluctant column and followed his fellows down the mountainside. The pilgrims eventually reached the valley floor and their hearts lifted as they followed their trail over easier terrain.

  Feeling safe under the thoughtful faces of the peaks rising sharply on all sides, the pilgrims relaxed into a contented, though spirited gait. But before long their quickened pace brought them to the base of their next ascent and all faces fell as they prepared to climb among the cliffs and clefts of the difficult Brunigpass.

  Wil wisely ordered camp to be made and the relieved crusaders scurried to their duties. The children found dry kindling by stripping bark off fallen trees and soon a smoky but adequate fire was burning. Were it not for their inordinate fatigue the soaked travelers would have found it difficult to sleep in the cold rain, but eyes were heavy and quick to close.

  For most it seemed that they had barely set their heads to pine-bough pillows when they were awakened to a drizzled dawn. First-meal was a cold, rainwater gruel, but the crusaders ate it without complaint. They then gathered in their customary column and waited for Wil’s command. The drizzle gave way to another heavy rain as the boy led his company toward their difficult ascent and a troubled Pieter took Wil by the shoulder. “Take good care, lad, m’spirit chills with a dread. Give thought to each step for the sky has not been kind to our way.”

  The crusaders struggled upward through the rain toward the high pass for most of the morning. The air was damp and pungent with spruce and pine; the pathway rutted and wet. Just before ordering a midday rest, Wil suddenly slipped on a loose rock. He landed hard on his stomach and began to slide helplessly past his surprised comrades, hurtling toward the edge of an unseen cliff not far below. The boy grasped wildly at the rocks and underbrush passing him by, but the mountain simply yielded him hands full of mud and torn roots. Then, as if the angels heard the cries of poor Pieter, Wil’s foot abruptly wedged against the trunk of a stout bush and his fingers grappled through its strong branches. To the relief of his comrades above, Wil held fast and, after composing himself, he struggled to his feet. He looked over the edge of a cliff not more than a few paces beyond him and closed his eyes.

  The boy clawed his way back to his cheering friends and collapsed. “Aye,” he panted. “’Tis good to be alive.” After a brief rest he ordered all forward. “Climb with care,” he chuckled. “This mountain has a face I liken to my Uncle Sigmund … holes, scars, humps, and bulges—a terrible thing to meet!”

  The tiring crusaders trudged upward until topping the mountain by late day. And, after a brief rest, they immediately began a hard-pressed descent in the hopes of reaching a reasonable shelter for their night’s camp. The grade was steep and the trail dropped fearfully between precipitous cliffs. Such danger kept the children’s senses piqued but their weary legs had been pressed beyond all reasonable limits.

  Suddenly, Karl lost his footing and tumbled headlong off the narrow trail, screaming down the mountain in a wash of tumbling gravel and stone. His shocked companions stood helpless as the boy cascaded toward the edge of a cliff. He desperately plunged his fingers into the rubble rushing all around him and pressed his thin-soled shoes hard against the mountain’s breast—but he found no hold. Then, with a loud shriek, he was gone!

  Karl’s companions stood paralyzed in disbelief. Unable to move, unable to speak, they simply stared at the silent edge of the precipice. All, that is, save Wil who dashed, wide-eyed and panicked down the mountain, crashing from tree to tree, slipping and reeling, frantically sliding down the mud-washed slope to the rim of the cliff. He grabbed hold of a stout branch and inched his eyes over the edge to gape fearfully into the abyss below.

  Above, the crusaders shouted, “Karl! K…a…r… l!” To a soul, each faithful comrade stumbled and lurched their way down toward the cliff-top. Wil suddenly pointed and shouted, “There! There! He’s there—in a tree!”

  Some three or four man-lengths below, growing from the side of the cliff, a gnarly tree extended over a flat ledge some three lengths further beneath. Karl was miraculously cradled in a cracking tangle of its old limbs and wet leaves, too terrified to make a sound.

  No sooner had he been spotted, however, when a few dead boughs gave way with a loud snap and Karl dropped through the branches. As he crashed through the limbs his necklace snagged a stout branch and he was suddenly hanging by his neck, choking and gasping for air. The steel links cut deep into the boy’s throat pinching any passage to his lungs. He desperately grabbed at the leafy gallows that suspended him! He kicked and flailed his legs wildly and lurched toward the branch, but the twisting necklace soon squeezed all breath from the boy.

  The hysterical crusaders lying prostrate on the cliff’s edge above screamed in a frightful chorus. Wil stared helplessly at Pieter in hopes of plucking a quick plan from the man’s nimble mind, but the poor priest was stalled and blank-faced. Instinct, however, seized the lad and he bolted to the far edge of the cliff and slipped his way down the bordering slope toward a point in line with the ledge below Karl’s legs.

  Karl’s arms now hung limply at his side and his face was beginning to bloat and grow purple. He twitched and jerked slightly, then hung motionless, swaying a little in the wind.

  As the rest of the children howled and groaned to the angels for help, Maria clutched Pieter’s robes, begg
ing and pleading for the old man to save her brother. None knew what to do.

  Then Georg stood abruptly to his feet and set his toes at the very brink of the cliff. He closed his eyes and muttered a few words, then looked briefly at Pieter who gaped at him speechlessly. The boy smiled a quivering smile, kissed his wooden cross, and leapt off the edge.

  His startled fellows gasped as Georg plummeted through the air, tucked tightly in a ball of pink flesh and brown wool as he hurtled toward Karl’s tree below. “Nay! Georg, na—!” But it only took a moment—a frightening, horrifying, virtuous instant—for Georg’s falling body to crash upon Karl’s leafy gallows. The tree dared not resist such valor and yielded with a loud crack, dumping the two lads into a tangle of arms, legs, and broken branches on the unforgiving rock shelf below.

  Above, the company stared breathlessly, watching for some movement, some sign of life from either boy. At last Frieda cried out and scrambled down Wil’s path. “Hurry Wil! Hurry!”

  Indeed, Wil had almost reached the ledge and on his heels were Otto and Conrad. Pieter squinted anxiously at the scene below and whispered a prayer. He held Maria by the hand as they waited for word.

  It seemed a lifetime before Wil finally reached the boys and he furiously tore away at the clutter of branches covering them. “Karl!… Karl!” he cried through tear-blurred eyes. “Georg! … Karl! …’tis Wil… I’m here!”

  Wil reached Karl first and lifted him out of the debris. He quickly laid him on his back and yanked at the clasp of the necklace until it finally yielded. He pulled the steel off his brother’s bloodied throat and stared helplessly at his placid face. Wil groaned and embraced the boy as Frieda collapsed at his side.

  Suddenly Karl began to stir. He gagged and coughed weakly, then wrenched himself from his brother’s hold and rolled on his belly, gasping for air and crying. Wil wiped his eyes and laughed for joy.