Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (38 page)

The girls squealed and the boys howled with delight as they hurled snowballs at each other. It was not a time to notice the cold or lack of provisions or the steep ascent; instead it was a time to celebrate the beauty of the world below and the good fellowship each shared. By vespers the crusaders had crested the summit and were descending again, dropping out of the snowline, past the scrubby pines and into the thicker spruce. Night was quickly gaining on them and Wil soon ordered camp to be set.

“Wil,” asked Anna as she rubbed her tired eyes before the fire, “we’ve nought to eat—what are we to do?”

Wil shrugged and searched the blankets for food. Conrad called out. “Wil, you’d be looking for this, I’d venture.” The boy held out a final gift from the Frenchmen. “Look here! They hid a wrap of smoked venison and some red cabbage in m’blanket!”

“Ah!” exclaimed Pieter. “Who would have ever thought to hear m’say ‘God bless the French’!” He laughed. “So, God bless the French….
Oui?
Let us eat.”

Soon all had filled themselves with the Waldensians’s kind gift and each had nestled into his blanket atop broken tree boughs for another night’s sleep. Maria was snuggled against Pieter’s back and the old man beckoned Karl to his side with a finger. “I’ve another clue for my riddle if you’ve such a mind for it.”

Karl winced. “I’ve some doubt I’ll ever guess it!”

“Then you’ve need of a few extra clues to sleep with. Are you ready?”

Karl shrugged.

“Good: A misty dewdrop sparkles well upon a tender blade, but soon it melts to gleam again in which enchanted glade?”

Karl shrugged again. “I’ll never …”

“Be patient, lad. Here is another: Through what canyon walls resound and to what castle bound the whimpers of a frightened child huddled on the ground?”

Karl strained and groaned, eyes squeezed shut. He mumbled past clues and then shook his head.

Pieter smiled. “I’ll ponder your good riddle if you vow to work at mine. But now it’s time to sleep. Who knows what waits on the morrow?”

Chapter 17

REFLECTIONS AND THE MINSTREL

W
hat day of the month do you think it to be?” Karl yawned as he prepared for the next morning’s march.

Pieter rubbed his red eyes. “I judge by our French friends this to be the first days of September. Why do you ask?”

“Did y’not claim your birthday to be at the end of August?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, indeed, ‘twas on the twenty-seventh day of the most pleasant of month of August.”

Maria was listening as she gathered wood for the fire. “But Papa Pieter, we failed to wish you blessings on that day.”

“Ach,
give it no thought, my little dear.”

“But Father,” Otto added, “birthdays are to be special … most specially when there are as many as you have!”

The company laughed.

“Aye, well said, my son,” said Pieter. “That was my seventy-seventh year … and I expect to add no more.”

“And why so?” asked Karl.

“Truth is, I was told once by a Jew in Milan that seven is the number of perfection. And now that my sevens are doubled, why not hold fast?” He threw back his head and chuckled.

Wil ordered his crusaders to hurry their first-meal and begin, at once, to press their journey against the difficult trail ahead. So, after rubbing their hands over the morning fire and swallowing hard on a few stale crusts, the young soldiers dutifully tied fast their blankets, bowed to Pieter’s customary prayer, and fell into the familiar rhythm of their determined march.

The troop was now high in the mountains and approaching the bare-faced, snowy Grimsel Pass which would lead them to the Rhône River and closer to the lands called Lombardy. After several hours of hard climbing Wil halted his company and surveyed the landscape ahead. “See there, Pieter, see … there … snow is blowing hard against that ridge, and look, look beyond to the heavy gray clouds lowering toward us.”

“You’ve good, strong eyes, lad. We needs find shelter, quickly.”

Wil stared anxiously at the threatening clouds and then turned kind eyes toward his shivering crusaders. Maria’s lips were blue-white and trembling. She looked so drawn and pale, he thought, but then so did the rest of the band. Setting his fists confidently on his hips, as if to inspire courage, he ordered his troop to follow him as he leaned into the stiffening winds. His faithful obeyed without complaint, shuffling and shivering close behind. They panted puffs of smoke into the thin, icy air while squalls of stinging snow blasted hard against their freezing faces.

The sky thickened and lowered and the snow fell hard through the day. By evening the travelers found themselves in a most difficult predicament. Wil called a halt and stared through the twilight as he strained to find his way.

“If only these c-c-cursed clouds would open,” he shivered. “We might yet f-f-follow m-m-moonlight to shelter.”

The group silently waited for Wil’s orders, huddling tightly to protect themselves against the wind. Pieter whispered to the stubborn lad, “M-my son, we are in grave danger. The snow is lying above our knees. These childrens’ feet are freezing and they will soon s-s-suffer blacktoe. We’ve no wood for a fire—both coal buckets have spilt… we’ve little f-f-food …”

Wil snarled, “I’ve eyes. Have y’not a better thought in yer old head?”

Pieter wrapped his blanket close about him and pulled his hood hard against his cheeks. The blanket-bound faces gawking at him in the deepening darkness tried to detect some degree of hope. Yet the priest could see little as he looked ahead. Drawing Wil closer he whispered, “I heard once of N-N-Norsemen who’d lost their way and c-c-crashed their V-Viking ships against a snowy island. They were wet and near death with nary s-s-shelter or f-fire. It is t-told they dug a cavern in the s-s-snow itself and pressed their bodies close together. They were sh-sh-shielded from the wind and w-were … warmer than … outside. It seems we ought do the same?” His trailing voice exposed his doubts.

Karl had shuffled close by to listen. “But Pieter …” he began to whine. “We …”

“Enough!” barked Wil. “There is no other way.”

Wil shouted the plan over the wind to the incredulous pilgrims. But they stood motionless as if waiting for a better plan. “Did y’not hear me? Do as I say. B-begin digging here.” He pointed to a deep drift on the leeward side of a jagged outcropping and threw Otto toward it. “Dig…. All of you … dig and dig quickly.”

The children reluctantly began to scoop a hollow in the snow with nothing other than the cups of their numbed, bare hands. Fresh snow drove hard against their faces as Wil kicked and fisted his comrades deeper into the icy drift. But it was the fearful roar of the wind that served to be the better whip, and the desperate crusaders, at long last, carved themselves an adequate nook and piled safely inside.

As they awkwardly shifted and settled in their dark cavern, Pieter calmed them. “Ah, my little flock. Be still and quiet.
Alles klar
.” His voice was soothing to the crusaders. Even in the utter blackness of their frozen cave, his soothing voice was reassuring and comforting. “We are all little hearths, you know,” Pieter continued. “Truth be told, we are little hearths with large hearts.” He chuckled, but the children were not amused. “Ah, no matter. Each of us is like a wineskin filled with hot water. If all snuggle close, I think we’ll find the miracle that some are hoping for.”

The seventeen children and the old man nestled together like a large, woolen yarn and before very long Pieter’s words proved true. The pilgrims became as warm as if they were home in their own beds, covered by their mothers’ quilted blankets, safe and secure. Reassured by such warmth and so sheltered from the howling world without, each fell to sleep until dawn’s touch filtered through the walls of their worthy nest.

The early sun glistened across the rippled mounds of snow, shimmering red and pink. The mountain peaks looked down on the buried trail and waited silently for the crusaders to emerge from their snowy cocoon. The children had slept peacefully but were beginning to stir in their unfamiliar surroundings. Maria was in the very center of the pile and awakened first. “I’m hot,” she complained. “I’m hot and cannot breathe!”

Anna was pressed hard against her and woke with a start. “Let me out of here. Hurry, let me out!”

The others woke in some confusion. They could see a little, but very little, and the entrance had been sealed overnight. “I cannot breathe!” hollered Maria again.

“Me neither!” screamed Otto, who began to wrench and writhe in the tangle of crusaders around him.

“Nor I!” cried another.

Soon the woolen ball began to twist and turn in panic as the children pushed wildly against their frozen tomb. Pieter’s face was smashed against an icy wall and he was unable to speak. Wil frantically kicked and thrashed with the other anxious crusaders until he broke through a wall with one foot. Finally, the children burst out of their cave and into the deep snow covering their path.

Pieter came out last, dragging himself on his stomach with shaking arms. He lay still for a moment, then struggled to his feet like a fresh chick from its egg. He stood in the bright sun and squinted at the blue sky. A smile broadened and stretched the icicles hanging from his scraggly beard, bringing squeals of laughter from his relieved fellow travelers.

Wil brushed the snow off his blanket and scraped at the ice hanging on his leggings. “My God, that was something I care not to do again.”

Karl laughed. His red curls, weighed down by clinging ice balls, hung heavy by his flushed face. “I hope not, as well, brother, but what a legend we’ll become!”

The sun rose high and the frigid air began to yield to its warmth as the children dropped through several short descents, jaunted over a modest ridge, and entered the barren Grimsel Pass. “Now children,” announced Pieter as they crested an overlook, “let me show you something. There, a quarter off the horizon.”

Maria squinted. “I see only white … a white river of sorts?”

“That, my precious one, might be called a river by some, but ’tis a river of ice and snow. It is the Rhône
Gletscher.”

“And what might be a
gletscher
?” posed Jon.

“Were we to be a bit closer, we’d see it to be a magnificent moving wall of ice and snow that creeps its way through the valleys like a giant slug. It moves but a little and as it melts it fills the river below with good water. It is a splendid sight indeed, is it not?”

Wil stared for a moment, unimpressed but curious nonetheless. “It is but a long white valley to me, Pieter. Odd, perhaps, but of no consequence to us.”

“Nay, lad, nay. You’d be about to enjoy its fruit!”

“How so?” asked Frieda. “What sort of strange fruit might snow bear?”

“Water!”

“Then I’ve seen enough fruit for a lifetime, Pieter,” countered Wil.

“Aye.” Pieter’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “But this water is the sort that moves quickly and might carry some weary crusaders for a good stretch.”

“You mean we can float on it?” exclaimed Otto. His green eyes widened.

“Indeed.”

“But does it not move north, like the Rhine?” challenged Karl.

“Would seem y’to not trust me, lad,” said Pieter. The crusaders shrugged, uncertain of such a plan, but as they marched on through the difficult pass the thought of it began to cheer them. They soon descended past the scrub pines and watched the snow disappear from beneath their feet. “At last!” rejoiced Frieda. “No more footprints.” Before long they arrived at the forest village of Oberwald, whose residents offered hospitality as chilly as the Rhône River rushing near their timber walls.

A party of children entered the village in pairs, hoping to find a willing population. But these woodland folk were wary. Wil and Conrad were greeted with oaths and threats, and Anna was thrashed by the stout broom of an angry
hausfrau
. But Maria, Frieda, and Gertrude found one worthy household who filled a blanket with smoked mutton, three large loaves of fresh bread, and a cheese.

While others were begging, Karl and a few fellows had set camp and flinted a promising fire. They waited expectantly, hoping for charity, and chattering of the proposed ride on the narrow river. Through the towering spruce they could hear the sounds of the water surging over its rocky bed and they squirmed with excitement.

The sun was nearly set and all but Pieter had returned. The crusaders, disappointed but thankful nonetheless for what was received, waited patiently. And, to the relief of all, their priest’s voice was soon heard crowing through the dark forest as he made his way toward them. Pieter entered the firelight with a huge smile on his face. “Wil, my lad,” he said, “a
few
good folk do walk this earth; y’needs take the time to seek them out. I happened upon four timbermen who have agreed to lash two rafts together for us.”

Wil looked at the old man suspiciously. “I fear to ask how y’found them so agreeable.”

Pieter chuckled and squatted by the fire to warm his hands.

The next morning the children walked tentatively toward the enticing sound of the nearby river, quite uncertain as to what adventures this particular day might bring and especially wary of Pieter’s grand scheme. But before reaching the rocky bank they came upon a small fern-draped clearing set neatly in the needled wood. It was a wondrous place; a magical place, cool and fresh, dappled with tints of brown and soft green. Here shafts of sunlight reached between the timbers with ease as if stretching to touch the earth tenderly and warm it with kindness.