Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (22 page)

Karl listened to a gust rush through a nearby towering spruce and nodded. “Tell Pieter.”

Friederich readily agreed and scampered into the darkness to fetch the old man. Then, with Pieter in tow, he and Karl approached Wil and the others.

“I must confess my own sense of peril on this roadway as well,” said the priest.

Tomas pressed his way into the discussion. “So, would y’be taken by the talking trees of Friederich and the dreams of this old man?” He turned to Pieter. “Would y’have us walk into that black forest filled with witches and spirits?”

The youngest children became anxious. They peered into the daunting forest on either side and feared such a venture. None relished the thoughts of trespassing the realm of haunts, but they also feared what awful fate might snag them along the open road. Wil was confused and Tomas seized the moment.

“So, Wil, methinks we’ve all a problem. You’ve got neither a plan nor the mind to make one … and you’d be listening to trees for answers. Your crusaders show little trust in y’now. Methinks y’be no longer fit to lead.”

Wil was surprised by the ambush. Tomas pressed further. “I think it time, Wil, that I lead. After all, it wasn’t I who let Lothar die, nor I who abandoned John III to strangers, nor I who set fire to a city. ’Tis no wonder Pieter feels danger. Thanks to him we may all get hanged yet. It isn’t me who has us half starved … but it was me who got all this food and it was me who—”

“Shut your mouth, y’snake,” Wil retaliated. “I am in command and you’ll either follow me or find your own way.”

Tomas stood firmly, almost amused by Wil’s cross tone. He folded his arms and leaned into Wil’s face. “Look at them. You’ve given them no choice, have you? They now fear the wood
and
the road, and they certainly cannot go back to Dunkeldorf, and they cannot swim the river.”

Wil looked about the group of faces encircling them. He could not fail to notice their eyes dropping one-by-one to the ground.

“So, Wil,” pursued Tomas, “I take command. You are free to dream of soldiering in Palestine, but I’ll see that these children are properly cared for.”

Tomas turned to Karl. “You there. Take the fat boy and start moving camp over the bank of the river, out of sight of the roadway.”

Karl looked confused and waited anxiously for the befuddled Wil to respond. Pieter immediately recognized the danger of the moment and stepped quickly toward Tomas. “My wise and skillful young friend, I am most impressed with your great wisdom and equal charity. It is most noble of you to offer yourself in the service of others. I thank a loving God above for bending your heart toward us.”

Tomas wrinkled his nose. “I thank Him for nought and I’ve no heart for the likes of you. I be weary of trailing behind this golden idiot. These sheep can now do my bidding.”

Pieter paused to let Tomas’s words cut deeply into the others. Then he eyed the boy and whispered, “Oh, dear boy, how useless it is to spread your net in full view of all the birds.”

Tomas knew the words were not intended kindly. “Stop with the riddles, you old, worthless beggar, and do what I say before I box yer head.”

“Forgive me, lad,” Pieter answered slowly. “But allow me to humbly remind you that a man who controls his temper is better than one who takes a city.”

Tomas felt the sting of that last comment and took a menacing step forward. Solomon’s hair stood along his back and he curled his lips with a deep growl. Unable to restrain himself, Wil jumped between the two and grabbed Tomas by the tunic, pulling the boy’s sneering face close to his own. “I tell you once and only once, Tomas,” he said. “You shut your mouth. Our camp is here tonight and on the morrow it shall be where I say.”

Tomas’s black eyes flashed and he swung a hard blow into Wil’s cheek, staggering the boy but failing to drop him. Instead, Wil struck back furiously with one punch, then another and another, as he pounded Tomas in the stomach, chest, and face. Wil finally struck a ferocious blow on the end of his rival’s nose, sending him yelping into a heap on the ground.

Tomas was not finished, however, and lunged at Wil, clawing and biting and kicking in a furious, shrieking assault. The two battered each other within a widening circle of their yelling comrades. Blood flowed from each grimacing face and oaths flew until, at last, Tomas fell to the ground, bloodied and bruised and gasping for air. There in the darkness he lay listening to his fellow travelers cheering his defeat. Tears came to his eyes as he wiped his tattered woolen sleeve across his bleeding nose. He struggled to his feet, feigning a backward step, then surprised Wil with a hard kick to his side and a quick punch to his jaw. In a flash he snatched the dagger from Wil’s belt and thrust it toward the heart.

Wil stumbled backward to safety, now facing an opponent with murderous intent. The ring of children was silent and terrified as the gladiators faced one another. Tomas’s eyes were swollen and red as he gave way to the years of rage that had burned deep within. With snarling lips raised like that of a wild wolf smelling the pending slaughter of his prey, he slowly circled Wil.

Pieter was stunned by the abrupt change of fortune and felt helpless. He cast a despairing look at his own rickety legs and arms. In frustration he pounded the ground with his staff and raised his eyes in desperate prayer.

Suddenly Tomas lunged again, but Wil stepped deftly to one side and snapped his right leg into the stomach of his attacker as he slammed his fist to the back of Tomas’s head. Tomas sprawled face forward into the weeds and Wil pounced instantly on his back. Before Tomas could gather his thoughts, Wil snatched the dagger from his grip, pulled his head up by the hair, and placed the sharp edge of the blade on Tomas’s quivering throat.

Wil’s eyes were wild and his hands trembled as he snarled, “Give me one reason to spare you!”

Tomas could not respond.

“Well done,” intruded Pieter, who nervously approached the combatants. “Well done, brave Wil. It is now time to extend a hand of mercy to your fallen friend.”

“Friend?” answered Wil. “This treasonous snake is no friend of mine and his blood ought be spilled now rather than later.”

Pieter laid a gentle hand on Wil’s arm. “My son, please look to me.”

Wil turned his flushed face reluctantly toward Pieter’s firm but loving eyes.

“Please, lad. For the sake of the little ones watching, spare this boy,” he asked quietly.

Wil grumbled an oath beneath his breath and pressed Tomas’s face into the dirt as he stood.

Tomas climbed awkwardly to his feet, brushed the dirt from his clothing, and stared at Pieter with the fire of hell in his thankless eyes. “You shall pay dearly, old man … and so shall all.” He stared defiantly at Wil and Pieter, and then heated a final glare at Karl and Georg before vanishing into the dark forest.

Karl made a step toward him. “Tomas!” he called. “Come back! We forgive you. Tomas …”

Pieter stopped him. “Let him go, son. A hot-tempered man must pay the penalty. If you rescue him, you shall needs do it again.”

By next prime Maria and Frieda tended a bruised and swollen Wil by skillfully bathing his cuts and bruises with rags dampened in the cool water of the nearby river. Frieda’s touch felt especially comforting to the lad. “Tomas is utterly black-hearted, Pieter,” mumbled Wil. “There is nary a good bone in his body.”

The old man paused before answering. “Well, my son, we may all be wicked, but we are not all wicked.”

Karl smiled.

“Young master, if you are to lead men, know this: Though each unredeemed heart shall someday stand unworthy at the throne of a blameless Creator, each yet walks the earth with some mark of the image of his Maker. ’Tis a telling of His goodness. It would go better for you to find that elusive stamp in both friend and foe.”

“Aye, Pieter,” Karl blurted. “We’d all be good at our roots. We’d be like flowers in bloom—some in good soil, others bad, some with rain and sun and some without—but all good just the same.”

The boys waited for Pieter’s answer.

The old priest smiled. “Ah, so I wish it to be, my son, but I fear this garden to have but fouled roots. I have known men of honorable repute, men of upright and honorable station to be sure, who oft—to their own astonishment—do at last wilt in their own evil. Aye, and I’ve seen to my wonder the vilest of scoundrel bloom in kindness or mercy, if but for a brief moment—like a flower on the deserts of Palestine. I fear, lad, all our roots have rot, but God in His mercy, blooms through those He wills, and when He wills.”

Karl was confused and strangely angered by Pieter’s rebuttal. His round face reddened. “I … I do not believe I’ve rotted roots, Pieter, and I’m oft blessed.”

Wil stood to his feet and secured his dagger at his waist. “Pieter, you’ve missed the mark with me as well. I’ve fine roots, clean and strong. Save such sermons for the Dunkeldorfers or the Tomases or the Piouses of this world. I am well served by m’self, and that’d be the only one who’s yet to fail me.” He smirked and stormed defiantly past the priest as he barked his marching orders. “Make your line quick to the foot. We are marching east to the wooded range, then south toward Basel!”

With a stiff breeze to their backs the children followed their confident commander obediently eastward until they reached the dubious safety of a forested mountain range. Yet, despite the uncertainties of their new surroundings, the cool shade of the endless spruce was welcome, and the crusaders were quite cheered to leave the parched roadway behind. They smiled as they set their weary feet on the heavy carpet of soft needles and filled their nostrils with the clean and refreshing scent of the forest air. Squirrels and forest mice bounded at the children’s feet and the sappy boughs above gave rest to birds whose happy songs echoed gently between the barked columns standing proud and straight as far as their young eyes could see.

The children soon turned southward and, to their delight, followed a deer trail over clear, cold streams. The pilgrims journeyed through the dark forest, relying on occasional glimpses of the shaded sun to guide them. Their spirits were higher now than ever and the journey made easier by the singing of cheerful folk songs and the sharing of engrossing stories of myths and legends from generations past.

By now Karl had dismissed Pieter’s admonition and cheerfully approached the old man. “I need a bit of help with that blasted riddle of yours.”

“Then I’ll offer another clue,” said Pieter. “‘To what merry hearthstone speeds the twinkle of an eye and where in solemn duty waits the grayness of the sky?’”

“Yes… go on.”

“Nay, ’tis the next clue as you’ve asked. You need add that to the mix and find your answer.”

Karl groaned. “Let me recite what I know:

To what sun-washed Haven must the dying daisy flee and in what Wonderland abides the snow-laden holly tree?

The songs of thrush and nightingale are borne upon the breeze,

But toward what Country do they drift while passing o’er the trees?

To what merry hearthstone speeds the twinkle of an eye And where …”

Karl froze.

“Ah yes, lad … ‘And where in solemn duty waits the grayness of the sky?’”

Karl shrugged. “It seems you are speaking of a place, a very special place, I venture … a place that receives the soul of a flower, the music of songbirds, the power of the wind … and the hopes of a man.”

“Well done!” cried Pieter. “Well done, indeed. You have a keen mind, lad.”