Pilgrims of Promise (53 page)

But only the splendor of my destined name.

The minstrel then set his lute aside. “This place has something good about it. There, inside those walls is evil, but here I feel the good. Listen! Listen to the music of the water running by us. Can you not hear the rivers singing?”

Tomas grunted in disgust, but Maria answered, “I do, Benedetto. I do. They are telling us tales of their journey—”

“And hopes for the one that lies ahead,” interrupted Frieda.

Pieter leaned forward and stoked the fire with a small stick. He was feeling more rested again. His eyes twinkled in the firelight, and he played with Solomon briefly. Benedetto strummed his lute.

  What thing is that which spins within the potter’s careful touch?

  I wonder if it has a special name,

  For goblets are not platters, nor cups be bowls or such;

  The potter knows each one is not the same.

  He moulds, He shapes, He forms, He wipes, and makes them on His wheel, And means for them to be His precious things.

  And with a name He claims their worth; their purpose He reveals

  So we enjoy the blessings that they bring.

“Where did you learn that?” asked Pieter.

“Oh, I am not sure. But when we learned of these rivers’ names changing, it came back to me. I think it was a rhyme some pilgrim must have taught me back in Fiesch.”

The group quietly lounged by the small fire, whispering about things past and things to be. A few were still anxious about the Templars, but most were enjoying the night sounds of August. Listening to the minstrel’s song, however, gave Otto an idea. The lad stood and spoke. “Listen, all of you.

“Here these rivers change their names. They … they are no longer what they were but have become something new. Methinks they are like us!”

A murmur circled the ring, and Frieda chimed, “
Ja!
Then we ought—”

“Aye! We should take new names too!” cried Otto.

The idea immediately inspired the pilgrims, and they discussed the idea loudly.

Pieter interrupted. “Brothers and sisters, a name is something to be treasured. In the Holy Scriptures, names were given with great purpose and forethought. A name has the power to tell much about you. Otto, are you still Otto of Weyer?”

“No!”

“Tomas … is Tomas the Schwarz enough for you?”

“No!”

Pieter nodded. “Well then, Otto, you may have a good idea. Here in this place, you might help one another find a rightful name, one you can take with you to your new home. I can think of no better time.”

With excitement it was agreed, and for the next hour they bandied about names both silly and serious. Another hour’s conversation ensued and then another’s. Long after Münden’s bells of matins chimed, Otto finally stood. “I have decided.”

The group fell silent.

“I am to be known as Otto Traveler. It is this journey that has changed me.”

The group approved.

Tomas stood next. “I … I should like to be known as Tomas
Retten
… Thomas the Saved. I was once saved from a shearing shed, then from the dungeon at Dragonara … and finally from the way of darkness.” He looked at Pieter.

Helmut was content to keep his name as Helmut for the time being. “I’m not ready yet,” he said.

“Nor I,” said Wilda.

“And what of you, Benedetto?” asked Frieda with a knowing grin.

“
Si
, I have a new name.” The man was blushing. “Maria gave it to me. I… I hope I am worthy of it. I put it in my own tongue. I am to be called Benedetto
Cantore degli Angeli”

The group stared. Maria clapped and said, “It means ‘Singer of the Angels’!”

Now the circle cheered.

“A good name, Benedetto!” cried Tomas.

The beaming minstrel smiled and sat down.

Alwin stood. He had pondered the matter quietly. “I was once Alwin of Gunnar, then Alwin the oblate, then Brother Blasius, the Templar. I am content to remain as Alwin.”

“Nay!” blurted Wil. “Tis not enough. I think you should be Alwin Stoutheart.”

The ring cheered and the knight grew embarrassed. “I… I think it a boastful name….”

“But true enough!” cried Pieter.

Alwin shook his head and then offered shyly, “Perhaps, Alwin
Volker
… Alwin the protector of the folk?”

“Aye!” sounded a chorus of voices.

It was Friederich who took his turn next. He smiled mischievously. “I am to be Friederich Nimblefingers!”

“Friederich Nimblefingers?” roared the circle.

The fellow puffed his chest. “
Ja.
” He wiggled his fingers in the firelight. “They’ve served us all well. ‘Tis what I do best.”

Pieter chuckled. “But, lad, your fingers are only a part of you!”

Friederich stiffened. “But what they do pleases me.”

The priest nodded. “Well said, my boy, well said. Then Nimblefingers it is!”

Wil and Frieda had been whispering together for some time. At last, Wil took his turn. The group fell silent and waited as the young man stood. “I am unsure of all I have become or all that I may be. So I am content to be known as Wilhelm
Freimann
… Wilhelm the freeman. My wife shall be known by Freimann as well. As a freeman I’ll live, and as a freeman I’ll die!”

The group roared its approval.

Maria stood. “And until I marry, I shall be Maria of Heinrich.”

Frieda took her hand and squeezed it. “A good name, my dear sister. A good name indeed.”

Now all faces turned toward the priest. He drew Solomon to his side and pulled himself up slowly on his staff. Standing on his badly bowed legs and stroking his beard, he looked about the circle. “So it has come to me. I think it too late for a change.”

The group protested loudly.

“I have been Pieter the Broken for many years. You all know the story of m’cracked hips! It has been a good name, methinks, but I confess it is one that is not so true. I fear I have not been a broken man at all, but rather a willful one, stubbornly disposed toward a stiff neck.

“But perhaps I overstate the point. This have I learned:
who
we are is not how we look, from whence we’ve come, or what we have. We are not what we do, nor even what we think. Nay, in the end, who we are is what we love.”

The company fell silent until Maria finally chirped, “Well, Papa Pieter, tell us what you love.”

Pieter sighed. “Oh, my dear
Mädel
, what a question!” He sat and tossed some sticks into the fire. “I have loved many things. Some I should have loved and some I shouldn’t. Sometimes I love God more than anything else, but I do confess those times are not as often as I’d like. It is good that His love for me does not depend on my love for Him!”

“So what’s your name, then?” blurted Friederich impatiently.

Pieter smiled. “Well, I suppose I
should
call m’self Pieter, lover of God.’”

The circle wasn’t sure it was such a good name. It was met with a volley of grumbles.

Pieter looked about the disappointed faces and shrugged. “Well, as I said, it is only true in part anyway.”

“A name like that is too heavenly,” grumbled Alwin. “Try again.”

Pieter laughed. “I was not serious! Actually, we followers of the Christ are called by Him as his sons.
That
is our true selves! Hmm. As I think of it, perhaps we should all be naming ourselves ‘Godson’!”

Alwin nodded. “More truth could not be told. If we could only grasp all that name means, we’d face the world differently.”

The pilgrims murmured for a few moments until Wil stood up. “It seems you’ve found something here, Pieter. It ought to be as God’s sons that we go forward, whether as Travelers or Rettens, Volkers, Angel Singers, Freimanns, or even Nimblefingers! I think we all should add ‘Godson’ to the middle of our names!”

Pieter scratched his head. “Well, if you think so. ‘Tis a bit odd.”

“And so are we!” roared Otto.

“There it is then,” cried Tomas. I am Tomas Godson Retten.”

“And I am Otto Godson Traveler!”

“Friederich Godson Nimblefingers.”

Wil stood. “And we three shall do the same.” He turned to Benedetto. “And you?”

The minstrel beamed. “In my tongue, my name will sound like magic! I am now to be Benedetto
Figli di Deo Cantore degli Angeli!”

The company shouted its approval.

“Make a song of it!” cried Wilda.

“Si,
donna.
In time I surely will!”

Wil turned to Pieter. “And you?”

Pieter smiled broadly. “What a wondrous night. Aye, my beloved, yes, I do have a new name for m’self.” He looked at the faces eagerly awaiting his announcement. “I see you all, and I see amongst you the faces of others. I see Karl and Georg, Gertrude, Anna, and the Jons. I see Heinz and Manfred … and oh, so many others. Dear ones, I loved them as I love you now.” He wiped his eyes and petted Solomon for a quiet moment.

“Yes, I have a new name for myself.” He lifted his face proudly. “I should like to pass to my eternal rest forever known as Pieter Godson
von Kinder
—Pieter, God’s son, of the children.”

At the bells of prime, Wil assembled his company. “We did not get all the provisions we needed. I want Nimblefingers, Traveler, and the Saved to take some silver into Münden and buy what we need.” The company smiled.

Friederich, Otto, and Tomas eagerly stepped forward. They were handed some coins and given specific instructions as to what to purchase, then sent on their way with a warning. “Do not dally, and do not cause a scene. Have a care in that place,” said Alwin.

The trio nodded solemnly and turned toward the town as the others ate a modest first meal of boiled mush and cheese. Frieda uncorked a clay bottle of red wine and pointed to Heinrich and Katharina. “They’re coming,” she exclaimed happily.

Heinrich and his bride ambled into the camp holding hands like young lovers. Midst a few jibes, they were given a portion of the meal along with a disclosure of the prior night’s namings.

“Freimann?” exclaimed Heinrich. “Wil and Frieda Godson Freimann?” He thought for a moment and then shrugged. “Well, ‘tis new to me, but I think I like it.” He shook Wil’s hand. “So,
Herr
Freimann, then.”

Maria tugged on the baker’s sleeve. “And I said I would be Maria of Heinrich.”

A large lump filled the man’s throat as he looked down at the girl’s wide, hopeful eyes. He knelt in front of her and took her by the hand. He kissed her on the cheek. “Oh, dear daughter, you are indeed mine, and I shall love you always.”

Maria jumped into his embrace. “I love you, too, Papa.”

Katharina handed the wine to Heinrich. “So drink to your daughter’s long life.”

The baker tilted his head back and poured the warm drink into his throat. “Ah,” he said, wiping his sleeve over his beard. “Tis good!” He handed the bottle to Katharina, who took a more delicate drink, and she, in turn, passed it to the others, who prepared to toast the newlyweds.
“Gesundheit und Glück!”
shouted Helmut. “Health and happiness!”

When the applauding was done, Frieda asked, “So what of
your name?”

Katharina turned toward her new husband. “Are you still Heinrich of Weyer?”

The baker looked surprised. “No, I … I suppose not.” It was hard for him to say the words. Weyer had been his only true home; it was where he had always belonged. “Well, it seems I have become a baker without a bakery and a man without a home. Now I am not sure who I am!” He laughed awkwardly.

Katharina took his hand as the group told more of the prior night’s discussions. The woman finally asked, “Then tell me, husband, what do you love?”

“You.”

The company clapped.

“Thankyou, sir,” Katharina said as she curtsied. “Besides me, what do you love?”

“My children.”

“And?”

“My freedom.”

“And?”

Heinrich thought for a long moment. “God?”

Alwin interrupted. “You love truth, my friend. It is truth that has pursued you and set you free. It is truth that now guides those you love. It even hangs on your hip!”