by C. D. Baker
The dark lord’s anger was growing. By now, he thought, this man ought be bending a knee, not standing in defiance. He flung his arms, his black cape snapping in the light of daybreak. “God has failed you, and you, and you,” he shouted as he jabbed his finger at Pieter and Karl and Wil. “And you, and you there, and you, little girl—what compassions, what lovingkindnesses?”
Pieter was not finished. “‘The lovingkindness of God endures all day long. Thy tongue devises destruction. Beware to those who call evil good and good evil, who substitute darkness for light and light for darkness. Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes and clever in their own sight.’
“You poor, poor deceived man,” continued Pieter. “For all of your finery and all of your wit and wealth of knowledge, for all your strength and power you have an empty soul, a hopeless faith.”
“I have no faith at all!” boasted the lord.
“Ah, there,” answered Pieter, “there is the chink in your false armor. For to believe as you demands greater faith than I would dare claim. But your faith rests on nothingness—a belief with no sound footing. Yet all of your words do suppose something—all words must—but your something is nothing. That makes thee something of a zero.”
Conrad and Karl could not contain a giggle.
“Do not speak to me in riddles, old fool!” retorted the sorcerer. “I will not have it.”
“You shall have what I give!” barked Pieter. “I have listened patiently and unless you fear my words, you shall listen to me.”
“Fear?” jeered the dark lord. “Fear?” He clenched his fists at his temples. “I fear nothing, least of all the words of a half-dead priest of Rome.”
“And to your many errors, you have just added another: I am a priest of Christ, as are my crusaders, and I speak to you as His servant, not the servant of the pope.
“I have listened to your words and weighed them in my mind. I look at you with sadness, sorcerer, for you are blind to the order and beauty and goodness that lies amidst the confusion and terror and evil. For such is evidence enough that there is a hope which waits to vanquish the evil we all see. Love, my friend, abounds and shall conquer in its proper season.
“The earth may groan for a time, waiting for its redemption, but it groans in hope. For wherever there is evil, there is always a reminder of good. I, too, see tears but I see smiles as well. I see clouds and sunshine, death and birth, sickness and healing, hunger and plenty. For every night there is a day.
“I can better endure the darkness in this world than you can the light. The sins of God’s volk are not evidences of a faith gone mad, but rather proof of the very hope of which I speak! Our father Abraham was truly a coward and a liar, and Jacob a deceiver, and David an adulterer and murderer, and Rahab a harlot. You forgot to mention St. Peter, the betrayer of our Lord, or arrogant Joseph, or the ‘chief of all sinners,’ St. Paul. Nor did you remember to mention mine own name, for I stand before you as weak-minded and sinful, hypocrite of hypocrites.
“Aye, it is in our weaknesses and in our failures we do gratefully stand to claim the name of Jesus. It does not prove the futility of our faith, but rather the immensity of God’s love. Can you imagine greater evidence of hope than this?
“As for the rest, I have no answers, no clever philosophy. I simply cannot understand the mysteries of our God, nor must I. I am content to admit that our sufferings seem to be that which do most surely draw us closer to Him. And in that closeness I see love, not madness; hope, not despair.
“We are changed in our sufferings. Like a thirsty tree in drought, our roots grow deeper in the source of our life. Nay, sad fellow, the confusions and miseries in this world are but tools in His workbox; tools to incline us toward Him and the mysterious joy that awaits our meeting. Oh, poor man, perhaps I ought ever suffer more, so that He draws me closer still!”
The sorcerer pursed his lips and shuffled on his feet. The blaze in his eyes had dwindled and he squinted to hide their fade. “Fool’s fantasy, falsehood! Such rantings are beyond a sound mind’s grasp.”
The rising sun now cast thick beams of light into the clearing and the mist began its retreat. Pieter’s face softened, his blue eyes twinkled gently. “Truth is not found in understanding but in the living God. For us it begins in the knowledge that we cannot know all. Ah! But in knowing Him we can know some.
“Our God is the known and the unknown, together and the same. He is the source of sunlight and shadows, smiles and tears. It is the heart of God which is the mighty keep of all joy and all pain, all triumphs and all failures.
“Mystery is our destined boundary, my son, and we choose to stand before either the mysteries of fear or the mysteries of hope. The former has been your choice, my friend, a place of superstition and darkness. But the latter is ready to welcome you into the light of faith.”
“I am not your friend!” shouted the dark lord. “I look around me and I see no light; I see no hope, no traces of love … none. Your smiles and sunshine, healings and days of plenty I claim as poor proofs; they are either shams of fate or natural effects. We wander through a world formed by our own intentions and we beget our own fruit, whether sweet or bitter. Ach, show me but one thing that bears the seal of a higher will—but one mark that reveals a Creator’s good intent, and I’ll yield to your call.”
Pieter stood silently, wrestling with the man’s passionate assertions and uncertain how to respond. He had, indeed, seen love abound midst the terrible of this world, and such love was surely born from beyond the matter and form of the rocks and waters of the earth. Yet he could not put words to it. He gripped his staff tightly and strained to set his thoughts to order, when a vision of good Georg filled his mind’s eye. He drifted for just a moment to the boy’s selfless act and he marveled in the knowledge that such manifest love might only have been wrought from the image of a good and intentional God.
Before Pieter could speak, Wil bent to his knees and plucked a beautiful wildflower from the dewy grass of the clearing. His heart lifted as he thought of Maria and he boldly stepped toward the sorcerer. He held the tiny flower by its stem and raised it high in the new day’s light. “Here, sire, is our evidence—the simple mark of God’s good intent.”
The dark lord snatched the flower from Wil’s fingers and stared at it, his jaw tightening.
Pieter’s soul soared. Taking sudden pity on his adversary, he said, “Look carefully, sorcerer. I beg you to observe that gentle flower and tell me about the heart of One who might design such a thing. Why, see … even the edges are laced with delicate color so that one’s eye might look and be glad. Seems hardly the workmanship of a monster. And tell me of the weaver who might loom such a wonder only to scatter it at our feet to be enjoyed or trampled at our pleasure. Oh, my friend, can you not see hope in this? Can you not see that the God of the storm yet tends the beauty of a wildflower?”
The sorcerer scowled at Pieter and crushed the flower between his fingers. He glared at the crusaders but said no word. He hesitated for a moment, as if wanting to speak, and looked at Pieter one last time. Then he quickly turned and vanished into the wood.
At first, Pieter and his crusaders stood dumbfounded at the man’s hasty retreat. Then some began to cheer but were abruptly hushed. “My precious little lambs,” said the exhausted old man, “‘be still; do not gloat when your enemy stumbles.’”
Pieter’s heart now ached for the dark lord, for any without hope gave him cause for sorrow. He wondered what miseries in the sorcerer’s past might have so cruelly wounded him. Then he watched the man’s entourage begin to fade away, following after their leader. Pieter called after them, “Kinder! You are welcome to join us. Please join us.”
Tomas glanced over his shoulder and cast an eye at his former comrades that revealed a sudden sadness. But the lad abruptly locked his jaw and turned away. The others ignored Pieter’s pleas, except for three little ones who hesitated at the far edge of the clearing. They looked forlornly at Pieter and the tattered
crusaders standing with him. There was weariness in their expressions, a resignation in their eyes. Pieter slowly opened his arms for them, praying all the while for God’s hand to nudge them. Their eyes lingered for a moment, but they turned and melted away in the shadows of the forest.
A weary Pieter napped through the rest of that hard-fought morn until the company prepared the midday’s meal. He awakened to the familiar snapping of kindling and the rustling of busy hands around the campsite and gladly received a ladle of the day’s fare. The steaming mash of boiled oats and millet seemed particularly tasty this morning, for Otto had found some honey along the trail and stirred it into the pot. But there was another sweetness to the moment, a quiet joy that seemed to waft among the children like the smoke from their crackling fire.
Wil sucked the final dip from his fingers, wiped them on his tunic, and leaned over to Pieter. “You have taught us well.”
“Not I, dear boy, but the lessons themselves.”
“Aye, but you’ve pointed us to places in the midst of troubles that others would not have known.”
“Ah … perhaps. But I, as well, have learned from others and you shall teach many of the journey your heart has taken.”
Karl was whistling as the crusaders prepared to leave. The sun had brightened the marvelous colors of the wild-flowers dotting the clearing, and the boy took care to receive the moment of beauty as a gift. He ceased his tune when he noticed Pieter staring at the sky. “You are thinking of Georg, are y’not?”
“Ah, that dear lad.”
“And I, too. When that sorcerer claimed our world to be but darkness and despair—that there were no proofs of love anywhere—I thought of Georg … and of Maria.” Karl secured his few remaining provisions and tied his blanket. He looked at Wil. “And your thoughts were with our sister when you picked that flower.”
Wil nodded sadly. “I could see her golden hair in the sunlight. I could see her bending and stooping … picking flowers for us all.”
“Do you think she has two good arms now?”
Saying nothing, Wil set his company in their familiar column and began the ascent of the last mountain ridge that separated them from the sea. They trudged up the dusty trail until, just before twilight, Karl got a pleased look on his face and began to hum. Pieter had seen that impish glint in the boy’s eyes before.
“Ah, Father Pieter, you could never guess what I have discovered.”
“I yield, Karl. I’ll never guess.”
“Could you try?”
“Fine. Uh … I believe you have discovered a pouch of deniers de Provins?”
“Nay,” laughed Karl. “You think too small.”
“Ah, ja, ja, most surely.”
“Ach. I am only playing with you. But hear me. I have discovered something more important to me than a mere bag of pennies, even of the best quality.”
The other children drew closer.
“What might be better than a bag of good coins?” asked Heinz.
“Many things,” answered Karl proudly. “But especially this.”
Wil ordered a brief respite and the tired band collapsed by the side of the trail in a curious circle around Karl. The redhead was flushed with excitement and grinned a wide, happy grin.
Otto grew impatient and scolded the boy. “Speak. We’ve places to go, Karl!”
Wil agreed. “Aye, say what you must.”
“Ja, ja. Always making haste, aren’t we? Ah, no matter. Listen all—I have solved Pieter’s master riddle.”
“Ah?” exclaimed Pieter. “This is a lofty matter. I was not sure you would ever solve it; even I lose the answer daily.”
“But I have,” retorted Karl. “I have. ‘Twas a good riddle. A bit difficult at first, I do admit.”
“Aye, aye, lad, get on with it then. Though do not be angry should you be off again.”
“Nay, not this time, Pieter. You yielded an important clue in your challenge with the sorcerer.”
“I did?”
“Indeed you did. I was listening to every word you said. When you held the little flower I suddenly saw a whole valley of them spread before me in m’mind’s eye. I then remembered the clue: ‘Where can be the valley where the fragrance of a rose, can linger centuries after it has bathed a maiden’s nose?’
“I thought and listened, and then you said the words.” Karl became suddenly serious. “You said there is something ‘that holds both sunlight and shadows’… and I knew at once that was from your riddle.”
“How did you know that?” blurted Otto.
“Remember the one verse, ‘Where do shadows gather after they have lost their light’? ”
“Not really.”
“Nay? If you gave attention you’d have remembered it.”
“I gave attention.”
“Not as much as I. That is why I am solving this riddle.”
“Well then, solve the cursed riddle!” yelled Heinz.
Pieter cast a scolding look at the frustrated youngster while Karl cleared his throat in dramatic fashion. “The question of your riddle is, ‘What is the Haven’?
“And the answer is: the heart of God.”
Pieter stood silently for a moment and clutched his staff to his breast. Tears filled his eyes. He looked at the bright-eyed boy proudly. “And … and why do you believe it so?”
“Your riddle was about a place. A place where everything goes to and where everything comes from. It is a place that holds all things together and heals and maintains all things that are.”
Pieter nodded his old, white head and laid a hand on Karl’s red curls. “God has blessed you, my son, with a tender heart for Him. May you delight in Him for all your days. Ja, ja!” he cried. “It is the heart of God!” Pieter embraced Karl. “I am so very proud,” he whispered, “so very proud.” Pieter wrapped his spindly arm around the beaming boy and turned to his children. “This child of a baker has grasped more than that learned sorcerer who now hides in the darkness of the forest. The heart of God, children, is our Haven. It is that which holds all things in its loving keep … our joys and our sufferings, our victories, our failings, our dreams, and our disappointments. It is that sure place that holds us fast.”
Pieter bent over and plucked a white wildflower from the ground and he asked for Frieda’s applewood cross from her belt. “The flower, my children, is our symbol of the presence of God, and these crosses we carry a symbol of His love. By them, my precious lambs, know these two things: that God is there and that He cares. Know these and you needs know little else.”
Chapter 26
THE GARDEN OF WILDFLOWERS
That night the children circled their campfire at peace with themselves and each other and excited to be near the sea. They laughed and sang and shared memories of their journey—some joyful, some heart-wrenching, some yet terrifying. Pieter leaned against the broad trunk of an old tree and looked wistfully at the snapping flames. His solemn face revealed a pain in his heart. Frieda and Gertrude tugged on his sleeve and looked into his sad eyes.
“You are thinking of Solomon, are you not, Pieter?” asked Frieda softly.
“Yes. I do truly miss m’old friend. I miss him so very much. And I miss my other friends as well. ‘Tis the way of life.”
Frieda smiled. “I remember watching Solomon spin with you in Dunkeldorf.”
“The signal that called you to trust me?”
“Ja,” recalled Wil from across the way. “I remember watching you turn on that old barrel. I’d wager y’d fallen ten times.”
Karl laughed. “Can y’not see him flopping in the dust only to get up and spin some more, with Solomon chasing his tail by his side? Methinks the marketplace thought him to be a madman.”
“Ja, surely it was so,” said Frieda. “But it was a good signal and it rescued us from danger.”
“I was so very proud that day,” said Pieter. “You believed me. You obeyed because you trusted my care for you. I think I never thanked you all.” He put his whiskered chin on his
chest and let his thoughts drift. He wandered to the mountain passes and the snowdrift, the Waldensians, the flood, the field of dead, the bier of children, Domodossola, the baths of Pavia, the death of Georg, Maria and her wildflowers, and so much more. He grunted and sniffled, leaned over onto his bough bed, and soon fell fast asleep.
At dawn Wil reminded his company that, at the very latest, on the morrow next they ought enter Genoa. The crusaders were so excited by the very thought of it that they could barely assemble in proper order. But, after a few stern commands and a good scolding for Heinz, Wil gained control and the band continued their march toward the elusive city.
By midday they had come upon a roadway which wound its way down the sloping shoulders of the mountains bordering the port. The dusty road was easy to walk and the descent was gentle, though rolling since the ridges were aligned in parallel to the sea. At each rise the eager crusaders strained to claim the first view of the water, and from time to time this pilgrim or that would cry out in joy. But the fanciful hopes of young minds do tricks on the impatient.
So the stubborn band pressed on, each eye peering over every change in the horizon until, at long last, a voice cried out, “There. Ja. ’Tis so. The sea, the sea!”
And it was so. A sparkling light from the waters of the sea shimmered through a tiny space framed by two distant slopes and the crusaders wept for joy. Pieter fell to his knees and raised his hands to his triumphant Maker and sang songs of gladness as his children danced.
Jubilance finally gave way to quiet awe and a voice chirped, “Shall the sea truly part for us, Pieter?”
“Eh? Well, by truth I do confess that am not expecting this to happen, but…”
“But the vision said it surely would,” insisted another.
“Aye, but the sea does not obey visions.”
“Nay, but it obeys Jesus!” boomed Karl.
“Well said, lad, of course. But it may be that Nicholas’s vision has been misunderstood or perhaps it was but a symbol; after all, what about the poor fish?”
