Pieter, “only your feet.” The priest stepped boldly into the chilly waters of the Po and raised his staff triumphantly. “Now, lads, follow me!” He took three confident strides, then stumbled forward with a loud oath. To the wild acclaim of his comrades, the old man heroically regained his balance and took a deep breath. “Ha! Almost!” he cried. He ordered his fellows to follow, and he took another step—only to slip off an unseen rock and plunge headlong into a swirling pool!
Shouting every blasphemy the howling boys had ever heard, the old priest found his footing, then thrashed through the water toward the far shore.
“Only yer feet, Father!” roared Heinz. “Only yer feet!”
The Po was quickly left behind, and the trio spent the fifth day of its journey marching past the brown soil of the northern Piedmont’s fallowed fields. Soon they were within earshot of the graceful herons of the Sesia and then finally entered the town of Vercelli, where a church gave them shelter. Grateful, they stretched out comfortably before a generous hearth and accepted a meal of fresh wheat bread, olive oil, chicken stew, and a large platter of boiled vegetables.
The following night was spent farther north with some French pilgrims traveling from distant Lyons to the grand cathedral in Milan. At first glance, the Frenchmen thought Pieter and his boys to be a respectable trio of a priest and two novices. Believing them to be so, the pilgrims graciously shared their provisions under their canvas tent. Unfortunately, their fine red wine oiled Pieter’s tongue, and he soon told them of the failed crusade. Upon learning of the children’s past, the mood changed. In one voice they insisted the three be sent away. “We’ll not share the night with the likes of these!” cried one.
Astonished, Pieter objected loudly.
“Non, old man. Non! Mon Dieux! We’ve heresies all over France! We’ve no need to suffer the spirits of these who have abandoned the faith as well!”
Pieter stood to his feet and shook his crook at them all. “A curse be upon you, imbécile! No faith in all Christendom has withstood such a test. You pitiful dogs are not fit to share your table with them.” He spat, then snatched up his satchel. “We leave you to your crumbs! Come, lads; come Solomon. We’ve better places to be.”
The two boys had not understood the Frenchmen’s words, and Pieter chose to shield them. “Ah, you know those dandies! They think we Teutons to be barbarians and not fit to share their table. Ach, let them gag on their snails and their dainties.”
It was late on the eighth day when the three made camp at the south shore of Lago Maggiore. The night was cold but clear, and the two boys scampered about gathering firewood under the cover of a starry sky. Pieter walked away from the fire and knelt alongside Solomon to pray atop the pebbly shore. From the moment he had left San Fruttuoso, he had thought of little else other than Maria. “Is she alive or with the angels, Solomon?” Now that he was within a half-day’s journey of the answer, he secretly feared what they might find. Oh, that I might see her smile again. He remembered Maria’s innocence, her unsullied charity, and her selflessness. Such a sweet child, he thought. Cursed with deformity yet always giving. His throat swelled, and he faced the dark, lapping waters of the lake sadly. “Another miracle, Karl?” he whispered. “Could there yet be one more?”
“I confess I can barely take another step. My legs are trembling like a sinner at the Judgment.” Pieter paused to stare some three bowshots ahead at the clay rooftops of Arona peeking above its sandstone walls. He swallowed hard against a mouth now dry with fear. His heart fluttered nervously, and he stooped to cup some clean water from Lago Maggiore. “I suppose I should feel comfort if she is with the angels now,” he muttered. “But, by the saints, I pray she is yet here, with us still.”
Otto
Shouting every blasphemy the howling boys had ever heard, the old priest found his footing, then thrashed through the water toward the far shore.
“Only yer feet, Father!” roared Heinz. “Only yer feet!”
The Po was quickly left behind, and the trio spent the fifth day of its journey marching past the brown soil of the northern Piedmont’s fallowed fields. Soon they were within earshot of the graceful herons of the Sesia and then finally entered the town of Vercelli, where a church gave them shelter. Grateful, they stretched out comfortably before a generous hearth and accepted a meal of fresh wheat bread, olive oil, chicken stew, and a large platter of boiled vegetables.
The following night was spent farther north with some French pilgrims traveling from distant Lyons to the grand cathedral in Milan. At first glance, the Frenchmen thought Pieter and his boys to be a respectable trio of a priest and two novices. Believing them to be so, the pilgrims graciously shared their provisions under their canvas tent. Unfortunately, their fine red wine oiled Pieter’s tongue, and he soon told them of the failed crusade. Upon learning of the children’s past, the mood changed. In one voice they insisted the three be sent away. “We’ll not share the night with the likes of these!” cried one.
Astonished, Pieter objected loudly.
“Non, old man. Non! Mon Dieux! We’ve heresies all over France! We’ve no need to suffer the spirits of these who have abandoned the faith as well!”
Pieter stood to his feet and shook his crook at them all. “A curse be upon you, imbécile! No faith in all Christendom has withstood such a test. You pitiful dogs are not fit to share your table with them.” He spat, then snatched up his satchel. “We leave you to your crumbs! Come, lads; come Solomon. We’ve better places to be.”
The two boys had not understood the Frenchmen’s words, and Pieter chose to shield them. “Ah, you know those dandies! They think we Teutons to be barbarians and not fit to share their table. Ach, let them gag on their snails and their dainties.”
It was late on the eighth day when the three made camp at the south shore of Lago Maggiore. The night was cold but clear, and the two boys scampered about gathering firewood under the cover of a starry sky. Pieter walked away from the fire and knelt alongside Solomon to pray atop the pebbly shore. From the moment he had left San Fruttuoso, he had thought of little else other than Maria. “Is she alive or with the angels, Solomon?” Now that he was within a half-day’s journey of the answer, he secretly feared what they might find. Oh, that I might see her smile again. He remembered Maria’s innocence, her unsullied charity, and her selflessness. Such a sweet child, he thought. Cursed with deformity yet always giving. His throat swelled, and he faced the dark, lapping waters of the lake sadly. “Another miracle, Karl?” he whispered. “Could there yet be one more?”
“I confess I can barely take another step. My legs are trembling like a sinner at the Judgment.” Pieter paused to stare some three bowshots ahead at the clay rooftops of Arona peeking above its sandstone walls. He swallowed hard against a mouth now dry with fear. His heart fluttered nervously, and he stooped to cup some clean water from Lago Maggiore. “I suppose I should feel comfort if she is with the angels now,” he muttered. “But, by the saints, I pray she is yet here, with us still.”
Otto
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