by C. D. Baker
Karl stood to his feet. “Pieter? We have come so far … we’d not be going back now.”
“Ah, you’ve made m’point, my son. You have come far, indeed. It was the journey that has served the Savior’s purpose. The Land has been secured.”
“I understand your words,” said Wil, “but I should like to see if He would have us put our feet in Palestine as well. I wish to raise a fistful of soil from that glorious shore and lift it to heaven.”
The others clapped.
Pieter had done what he could do and it was clear he’d not be altering their course. He yielded them to the mysterious providence of his unseen God. “I cannot command you, beloved. But know this: You are in my prayers always.”
The chirps of wakening birds gently stirred the sleeping crusaders. Pieter rolled and snorted under his blanket. He cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes, and relieved his customary gas. It was not unlike other mornings. The others stretched some, unconsciously aware that another day would soon begin. The camp’s fire had collapsed into a glowing heap of white ash and red embers. An occasional spark escaped from its snapping coals and floated gracefully away, dancing on the thick, gray mist and disappearing in the forest.
Suddenly, hushed laughter rippled across the treewalled clearing and nearby birds rushed from their leafy roosts. The sudden flutter of their wings startled Wil and he sat up with a start. The lad’s ears cocked and he now thought he’d heard muffled tittering from the clearing’s edges. The boy climbed out of his blanket. He stood in the dewy wildflowers and peered intently into the dim-lit shadows of the new day. He nudged Karl and Pieter when a loud, mocking voice rolled over the fog.
“Ho there, valiant crusaders of Jesus!” It was a deep and strong voice, rich and mellow, yet Wil felt a sensation of dread creep over him. The company awakened and climbed to their feet.
“What is it, Wil?” whispered Frieda.
Wil held up his finger. “Shhhh.”
A group of murky silhouettes emerged from the wood and swooped toward the camp, ghostlike and ghoulish. The crusaders quickly gathered together and huddled helpless and confused behind the glowing coals of their night’s fire. The strange shadows drew ever closer until they broke upon the hearth with eerie laughs and wicked jeers.
A sudden flurry of fiery embers flew from the campfire as the intruders dumped armloads of branches upon it. In the burst of light the crusaders stared across the fire and beheld the terror before them, and they gasped.
Pieter, though startled, leaned on his staff and railed at the strangers. “Who comes here?” he challenged.
A large figure loomed from the mist and placed himself at the fore of his fellows. He stood square-legged in the red light of the campfire. “Who asks?” he hissed.
Karl cast a nervous glance at Wil and then fixed a mesmerized eye on the apparent leader of the trespassers. He’s young, thought Karl, but not so young. Indeed, the man was in his prime, both of body and mind. His face was strong and sculpted like the statues Karl had seen in the courtyards at Tortona. A sharp nose divided his square face evenly; thick, black eyebrows arched perfectly over his bright, dark eyes, and a trim, black beard outlined a strong chin and firm jaw.
The captivating man stood there smiling haughtily, his straight, white teeth gleaming in the light of the snapping kindling. A black-hooded cape was draped along his broad shoulders and cascaded over his arms to the rim of his knee-high, black boots. He heaved his chest and planted his fists on his narrow hips.
Frieda pulled her sister close to her side and glanced about her friends’ faces for reassurance. She stared at the sneering man and trembled. He was so very tall, she thought; a full head and shoulders above any man she had ever seen.
“Greetings!” boomed the man. “I say greetings to you, you pitiful band of weak-willed crusaders.”
Pieter stepped forward, keeping one eye on the leader and the other on the company of his followers gathering behind him. “You are not welcome here.”
The man laughed loudly and spun on his heels to address his companions. “Have you heard the news? We are not welcome here.” A chorus of guffaws and taunts sounded. The caped man turned again toward Pieter and scowled. He extended a menacing finger over the fire at the priest. “Who are you, beggar, to tell me where I am welcome?”
Pieter squeezed hard on the grip of his staff. “I see by your dress and manner that you come from some breeding and I should have thought some manners might have come with you. You wake us from our slumber without regard and you have not even the courtesy of proper introduction.”
The man paused, then smiled broadly. “So? Before me stands something of a cleric, feeble of body but not of spirit. I beg your pardon for my inappropriate and unfortunate behavior.” He bowed deeply, winking at his lieutenants on either side. “Permit me, all, to introduce myself. In my past some have called me, ‘Squire,’ others, ‘Count,’ later, ‘Pater,’ then for a horrid time, ‘Brother,’ and for another season I was dubbed, ‘Master of Divinity’ by the Archbishop of Magdeburg himself.
“But now I am better known as ‘Dark Lord,’ or Wizard,’ though others say ‘Woodland Sorcerer’ and others still, ‘Lucifer Incarnate.’” He threw his head back-raised his hands to the sky. “‘Lucifer Incarnate,’ indeed! I think that to be my favorite.”
Pieter had rallied his courage but now trembled as the man spoke. He was, indeed, a dark lord. There seemed to be a portion of hellfire flickering in those gleaming eyes and the old priest chilled. Around the man swirled an aura of evil that Pieter sensed; some wicked presence, some dread essence. Pieter had never felt so close to the Pit and he felt all strength drain away.
Wil felt the same fear and his mouth dried. Though he had learned to depend on his white-haired friend, he was not so certain the scales had not been tipped against him. The boy remembered the many times all seemed lost, however, only to have Pieter call upon some inner wit to win the day. So Wil looked toward Pieter hopefully for some sign that the man was yet able to hold fast against the power now opposing them. But as soon as Wil’s eyes fell upon their steadfast guide, stooped in his tattered robe and leaning on his staff with quaking arms, the boy grew anxious. Nay … poor Pieter is far too feeble against a force as this.
The intruder continued. “And so as not to offend you any further, ancient man that you are, these are my good companions … my fellow travelers … my brothers and sisters.”
Pieter surveyed the company now bending halfway around the campfire. They were children much like his own; children of each and every size but dressed well and clean. A few wore peasants’ tunics but most were garbed in fine-loomed doublets with wooden buttons and wide leather belts. Their feet were bound with good boots and shoes. Each had thick, woolen, hooded capes and well-stocked satchels slung across their shoulders. He could not count them in the dim light but they seemed to be a host more than five times his own poor band. He cast a glance to the lightening sky and begged silently for the sun to hurry to its place.
The dark lord smiled again. He put his arm around a boy standing beside him and nodded to him. The boy stepped proudly into the firelight and flung the hood off his head. He folded his arms defiantly and flashed a menacing grin at Wil.
“T-Tomas,” Pieter stammered. “Tomas, you’ve come back!”
Tomas laughed at the priest and glared at Wil and Karl. “Come back?” he spat. “Ha! Indeed, old fool, I’ve come back and I’ve come back a different man than when I left.”
“Now that is quite enough of your poor manners, Tomas,” interrupted the sorcerer. He turned to the crusaders. “I am aware of your acquaintance with my lieutenant. This fine lad has just the sort of heart that I need for my crusade.”
“And what crusade would that be?” asked Pieter.
“It is our privilege, old man—Father Pieter, I believe, is what you are oft called?” He smiled. “It has been my privilege to crusade the valleys of my homeland and these warmer parts in the south to, ah, how to say … to rel
ieve many of their burdens.”
“And what burdens would they be?”
“Ah, yes … fair question indeed. And the answer is quite familiar to you, for as a priest you helped many in the same manner. In fact, it was the Church who schooled me in such things.”
“Ja, ja, so what is it?”
“Your pardon. We … relieve the wealthy from the burden of their riches. And we relieve temptation from the poor by freeing them from their small bits of wealth as well. And I relieve the wise of knowledge and the devout of faith.
“But it has been my greatest privilege to relieve these poor children at my side the burden of their dreams. A dream put upon them by others—a dream that has ended in death for most and despair for all. Aye, old priest, I am in the business of relieving people from such burdens; that is our Holy Crusade.”
Pieter stepped toward the sorcerer. “You, black-hearted fiend, relieve none of but things earned and things hoped. And you shall not relieve us of either. I perceive you to be a merchant of deceit and a peddler of fraud. By your own tongue you leave people in the bondage of poverty, ignorance, and hopelessness.” Pieter’s voice emboldened him to continue. “You would do well to leave us with our scanty means, our moderate temptations, our humble thoughts, and our modest dreams. I bid you farewell.”
The dark lord came closer, outwardly angered at the old man’s impertinence. “Think not, fool, that I am some dung hauler that you can so easily dismiss!”
“Your deceptions leave a stench in the air. You are a conjurer of foolishness and corruption.”
“Conjurer? Conjurer, you say? Ha! Indeed, I am a conjurer, and you as well. You priests conjure angels; I conjure demons. They are one and the same. All of them exist in the same place as your God—in the mind.
“I implore you, priest, beckon your angels and I’ll summon my demons. But, wait! Perhaps you speak truth, for your angels ought indeed be feared … for they are mere figments! Ah. But my demons—never. The demons I conjure, fool, are ideas, knowledge of the world we see. These be truth-bearers and your wicked Church names them ‘demons.’”
The dark lord now stood with his toes at the edge of the fire. “Understand these ‘demons,’ old man, and you shall understand indeed. It is what is meant by, ‘The truth shall set you free.’”
Pieter set his own feet on the fire’s edge. He peered across the rising flames. “‘The fool has said in his heart there is no God.’ Poor sorcerer, ‘lean not on thine own understanding.’ You are not made of the stuff that can grasp the eternal. You are made of dust and nothing more.”
“You wish to exchange Scriptures?” the sorcerer scoffed. “I have no fear of your holy words: ‘discretion shall guard me,’ ‘understanding shall watch over me.’”
Pieter set his jaw and drove his staff securely into the sod at his feet. “‘The advice of the wicked is deceitful.’”
“‘But by a man of understanding and knowledge endures.’”
Pieter countered, ‘“An evil man is ensnared by his own lips.’”
“Ah, fool, but ‘the lips of the wise shall preserve him. The folly of fools is deceit.’”
“‘Answer a fool as his folly deserves.’”
The lord threw his head back and roared in laughter, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked around the fire to circle Pieter. He smiled and winked at the spellbound crusaders. “Father Pieter,” he began, “you believe me to be a deceiver. You accuse me of folly and foolishness, even evil and corruption; yet you have not even heard my words.
“Listen well, old man. You use the words of King Solomon. It is he, not I, who said, ‘I looked at all the acts of oppression that were being done under the sun and behold, I saw the tears of the oppressed and that no one had come to comfort them.’
“It is he who said, ‘For what does a man get in all his labor? All his days are painful and grievous. Even at night his mind does not rest. This is meaningless.’
“It is King Solomon, Pater, who said, ‘Who knows what is good for a man during his lifetime, during the few years of his futile life. He shall spend them like a shadow … for all is vanity.’ These are not the words of pleasant dreams, are they, dreamer? These are not the words of faith, are they, priest? But they are the words of truth. Your suffering and your agonies, the death and despair that follows you and your pathetic children; your hunger and cold are without meaning.
“You herd these little ones toward the sea for naught. You’ve buried many along the way for no purpose. And you fill their minds with nothingness, empty words, lies.”
The sorcerer strode back to Tomas and put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “My lieutenant tells me of your instruction and you, old man, are the deceiver. This world is without the hope you conjure. Look, look at yourself and your litter. You are tattered and worn, hungry and weary, empty of body, empty of soul, longing for friends now rotting in their graves. You are without laughter, without peace. You are all driven by madness, led by angels. Or rather, pushed by the shadows in your own tiny minds! Yet you hope in some good God above!
“What sort of a God do you have? Where is He? Where does He hide? Or is it impotence that keeps Him from defending the littlest among you? ‘Almighty God’—ha! You claim Him to have the power to heal, yet pestilence reigns. He has the power to speak, but He remains mute; to forgive, but He demands an indulgence of blood. He has the means to prosper, but the world wallows in poverty.
“You say He tends the world as His garden; the fields bend heavy with His grain, the orchards and vineyards bear His fruit, the seas are His fishpond. If so, with a single word He might keep His garden watered so that the harvest would be bountiful each season. Yet, instead, all Christendom struggles against the land. He has the power to quiet the raging sea, but sailors drown each day….”
Pieter could remain silent no more. “‘Why do you boast in evil, oh, mighty man? The lovingkindness of God endures all the day. Your tongue devises destruction like a sharp razor, oh, worker of deceit. You love evil more than good, falsehood more than truth. You love all the words that devour, oh, deceitful tongue.’”
The sorcerer flung his arms in a wild rage. “Silence! Silence! You will let me finish my words or I’ll destroy you where you stand!” His face then softened and he laughed loudly. “Can you not see your own folly, priest? You’ve no answers to my words so you attack me, which of course, makes my point: ‘Foolishness lies in the tongue of a man who slanders without answers.’”
Pieter stood quietly.
“What confounds me most about your kind, priest,” continued the sorcerer, “is why you pursue this absurdity of yours. Your God is foolishness. If there is an evil afoot in this place, it is to be found in your black religion.
“Have you given no thought to your persuasions? Have y’not wondered why God would allow His first creatures to be tempted, all the while knowing of their certain failure? And, once fallen, have y’not considered why your God did not simply forgive?
“And what of those you call ‘His Church’? Consider that blessed collection of hypocrites, liars, and thieves! You, priest, and your ilk prey on the ignorance of others. The fear you wield is the bit and bridle in the suffering mouths of all Christendom. What sort of demons barter fantasies of love and forgiveness for a man’s last penny?”
He pointed a long forefinger at the huddled crusaders. “And you, little ones, why would you follow a God who would kill His own Son, only to have His priests press His flesh between their teeth and swallow His blood! ”
The wild-eyed man returned his focus to Pieter. “What insanity drives you?” he demanded. “Have you ne’er considered what madness it must surely be to call the men of Scripture ‘great men’ of your contemptible faith? Ha! The ‘great men’ are those named Abraham and Jacob, Moses and David, and even the woman Rahab. I tell you this: Your God demands perfection, yet you give honor to a strange family of failures. Abraham was a liar and a coward. He gave his wife to Pharaoh’s bed not once but twice to save
himself. Yet your God calls him ‘righteous.’
“Jacob, the deceiver, cheated his brother from his rightful inheritance and laid claim on it for himself. Yet your God made him the namesake of His special people. Moses was a murderer and an angry man all of his days. Yet your God gave him charge of all the Hebrews. And David! Oh, blessed King David, adulterer and murderer; a man who would steal another man’s wife and then send him to his death. Your God called him ‘beloved’! And even Rahab, the lying harlot, is exalted as one of the great women of your faith. What a pathetic roll of weak-willed, treacherous, and despicable hypocrites.”
Pieter begged God for wisdom and strength, for his mind was cloudy and his heart was pressed within him. He looked at the eastern sky and was grateful to see the red edge of the rising sun.
The sorcerer cackled. “Old fool! I perceive you are crying to your Lord for help? ‘How long, O Lord? Wilt Thou forget me forever? How long wilt Thou hide Thy face from me? How long shall my enemy be exalted over me’?”
Pieter answered him calmly. “‘O Lord, my God, I cried to Thee for help and Thou hast heard me.’”
The lord returned to Tomas’s side. “‘The anger of the Lord has burned against His people and He has stretched out His hand against them and struck them down.’”
Pieter kept the shield of Scripture about him. “‘I will give thanks to Thee, O Lord, for although Thou wast angry against me Thine anger is turned away and Thou dost comfort me. I will trust and not be afraid. For the Lord God is my strength and song.’”
“Behold, old priest, the ‘Lord lays the earth waste, devastates it, distorts its surface, and scatters its inhabitants. The world fades and withers. The exalted of the people of the earth fade away.’”
Pieter now smiled. “‘He shall swallow up death for all time. And the Lord God shall wipe tears away from all faces and He shall remove the reproach of His people from all the earth, for the Lord has spoken. The Lord’s lovingkindnesses indeed never cease. His compassions never fail.’”
