Pilgrims of Promise (55 page)

“I say, who goes?” The voice was low and menacing and moving closer.

Alwin and Heinrich drew their swords, Wil his dagger. Maria and the women felt their way to the center of their comrades as Pieter held his dog close.

“We are armed,” said Wil threateningly. “Show yourself.”

Another voice roared from ahead. “Armed? If you could see, you’d laugh at yourselves.”

The pilgrims strained to see into the inky curtain surrounding them. Their fire crackled a bit, casting a little yellow light at their feet.

“Now, put your swords away,” ordered the first voice. A small, barely flickering torch rose from the ground, lifted by an unseen hand. It moved through the air as though it were floating on its own. It rocked toward the terrified pilgrims in long, sweeping arcs until it rose to expose the face of a man. The trembling company could barely see more than patches of the man’s face, but judging by the height of the torch, they knew they were being confronted by a giant.

The second man now drew close with a flickering faggot of his own. He, too, appeared to be a giant. “Do as my brother says. Put your swords away.”

With one giant in front and one in the rear, the trapped travelers had nowhere to escape except into the coal-black mysteries of the forest. They sheathed their swords, and Alwin said bravely, “We have put our weapons away, sirs. Now, can you help us? We are pilgrims.”

“Ah, so it is you,” came the strange answer.

The company murmured.

“Have you been following us?” asked Wil.

“No.”

“Then how do you know us?”

“Our birds led you here. It seems castaways and pilgrims are want to follow them.”

Maria gasped. “Then you are good?”

“Ha! Ha!” roared both giants. “We do not know the answer to that! But we mean you no harm. Come. You must follow us.”

Wil and Heinrich whispered with Alwin, and, with some reluctance, they agreed that they should obey. No sooner had they taken their first steps, however, when other torches rose from some cover on either side of the path.

“All is well,” roared one of the giants to his fellows. “We’ve a band of pilgrims.”

“To the village, then,” came the answer. It was an unseen man, seemingly giving orders to others. Heinrich thought his voice sounded odd.

The column marched between the giants cautiously, following a smooth, spongy trail for what seemed to be a great distance. The lines of torchbearers following them on either side were unnerving but had not threatened them.

Finally the giant in the fore halted. “Now y’must wait,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant—as a giant’s should be—but no longer fearsome. Maria thought it was almost kindly.

Poor Benedetto, however, shook uncontrollably. He wanted to burst out in tears, but Frieda wrapped her arm gently around him. “Don’t worry. We are with you, Singer of the Angels!”

Ahead, another figure greeted the giant, and the company was again instructed to follow. They carefully descended into a short ravine and transversed it for another half hour until Solomon stopped and lifted his nose.

“Aye, hound,” boomed the giant in the rear. “Tis a village y’smell!”

Within moments, the column was ushered around a corner and, to the pilgrims’ great surprise, into a welcoming hamlet glowing yellow in the firelight of several hearths. A lone man beckoned them to come to the village center, where a large bonfire was being stoked. To Wil’s keen eye, it appeared that the man was a priest or monk. The giants nudged the company forward. As the bonfire rose, the pilgrims turned to face the giants, and they gasped.

“Welcome,” one said as he bowed. Standing nearly twice the height of a tall man, he bent low and smiled. But more than that, he was also white as a ghost—as was the other, whom he introduced as his twin.

“Albinos,” whispered Pieter. “I’ve ne’er seen one … and here are two!”

The village cleric approached. “Welcome, pilgrims. Come, sit, eat, and drink. You are our guests tonight.” He eyed Pieter and his staff, then Benedetto and his lute. The man grinned. “So, we’ve a priest and a balladeer! Wonderful! You two have much in common: you both make things up!” He laughed loudly.

Confused, Wil and his fellows obediently followed the young churchman to a group of benches set closer to the fire. As the pilgrims sat, he introduced himself. “The villagers call me Oswald—God’s protection. I was once an anchorite in the wastelands of Estonia but am now called to serve those in need. Actually, I am really Friar Oswald, ‘friar’ being the new name for we monks who mingle with the world that needs us. I have been led by God to serve the good folk of this village where no other priest will come.”

“Where are we?” asked Wil.

“Ah, forgive my lack of courtesy.” He raised his arms. “Welcome, travelers, to Renwick. It means ‘where the ravens dwell.’”

The pilgrims shifted uneasily and looked up into the darkness of the trees. Wilda leaned close to Alwin and shuddered.

Oswald sensed the concern. “Brothers and sisters, do you fear the ravens? And why not? Some say they blind sinners and carry the souls of the damned to hell. They are accused of being harbingers of evil and destined to feed on the carrion of Armageddon. They are despised, unwanted, feared by the ignorant, who send their pretty falcons to chase them from the sky.

“They gather here in our trees, and they care for us. We know who they really are; we understand them to be our reminders of divine care in places of solitude. They have fed saints in the wilderness, saints such as Paul the Hermit and even Benedict. Yes, they are unclean, as are we all, yet God used them to feed Elijah by the brook of Cherith. Yes, they are often despised, as are we, but they are well cared for. ‘Consider the ravens, for they neither sow nor reap, which have neither storehouse nor barn; and God feeds them.’

“So, my new friends, fear the ravens if you wish, but you may soon learn that they are grateful, affectionate, hopeful, and brave—not unlike you, methinks.” He smiled.

Pieter studied the friar as he spoke. About thirty, he thought. Unusually wise. The man wore a slightly tattered gray robe and sandals. His head was shaven in the tonsure; his face was full and kindly, enlivened by bright brown eyes shining beneath thick, arching brows.

Numbers of figures began to drift from the shadows, and the pilgrims shuffled closer to one another. “Have no fear, any of you,” Oswald said as he smiled. “These are your brothers and sisters in the Lord. Some we have found; others have come to us by following our birds.”

“Your birds led them?” asked Frieda.

“
Ja,
sister. Our ravens bring those that are close by, but we’ve other birds that venture farther. We’ve a few small flocks of gulls, some free falcons, a few hawks, and one eagle. The seabirds seem to prefer flying in groups of three, the others in pairs or alone. They cover great distances, and whenever they come home crying loudly, it seems someone is always following!”

“They are of God then?” Friederich asked open mouthed.

“I believe it to be so. But some say it is simply that those in grave need search the sky for signs like mad fools, and when they see our birds, they follow.”

Wil eyed the villagers slowly moving closer to their fire. He grew wary.

“Now,” Friar Oswald continued, “you must meet my friends.” The man wrapped an arm around the first young man who came near. Like the others he was shy, but when asked by Oswald, he withdrew his hood. The pilgrims shifted on their feet.

“You must see past what you see, my dear guests. Look past the deformities and into the man’s eyes. See the warmth of a gentle heart.”

Maria walked to the young man and took his hand in hers. She looked up and smiled. Indeed, the poor wretch was badly disfigured. His face was extraordinarily broad and his eyes spread unnaturally. His nose was flat and turned upward, stretching his nostrils wide. His jaw was recessed and his ears misshapen. His shoulders were severely uneven. When he spoke, however, his voice was clear and kindly.

“Good Sabbath evening, little maiden,” he said softly.

“And to you, good sir,” answered Maria with a slight curtsy.

Oswald smiled and motioned for the others. Emboldened by the little girl’s kindness, they emerged from the shadows. They removed their hoods and stood before their guests, exposed for what they were. In various degrees, many were disfigured like the young man. They included a nervous huddle of dwarves, two hunchbacks, several suffering microcephaly, one called Spider-legs, two ferais, and others. A woman approached with a gift of bread and handed it to Tomas. The lad backed away slightly. Her face was covered in bumps as were her arms. She stooped and smiled gently, then reached a handful of twisted fingers toward the lad’s head and patted him lightly.

Conjoined twins made their way forward and presented Wil with a basket of mushrooms. “For you, young squire,” they said in unison.

Wil gawked. They were connected at the hip yet walked in perfect step with one another.

More came from the shadows to bow and curtsy. A few began to dance around the guests, singing nonsense to the air. Oswald quickly silenced them and addressed the company.

“We have found one another, and together we have built a village. We have woodsmen and a tinker, a potter, a silversmith, a saddler, a cobbler, and more. We raise crops on land we were given by the monks in Corvey. We have a swine yard and raise sheep. We’ve much to boast. The villagers elsewhere call this place ‘Abscheindorf’—village of discards! Can you imagine that? What fools! Discards? Indeed not! But now, my friends, come, follow me.”

The pilgrims listened to all of this in amazement. They stared at the villagers uncomfortably and walked closely together as the friar led them deeper into the village. The misshapen bodies of the folk were eerie to see in the yellow glow of the fires. It was true that the villagers seemed friendly enough, but some of the pilgrims could not help but shudder whenever they drew too close. “Two score or more,” mumbled Helmut. “It is like a night terror.”

“Actually, young sir, we are three score and four; by morning perhaps three score and five. Our dyer’s wife is to bear a child at any moment.”

“These people are married?” challenged Otto.

“Indeed, my son. They love as we love, they touch, they laugh, they eat and drink. They are very much like you.”

Finally the company arrived at a nicely built timber house. It was sturdy and well thatched. A low fire crackled in the hearth at the center of its long room, and straw was heaped about for bedding.

“Till the morning then,” said Oswald.

Still dazed, Wil’s company found their beds quietly. They said little but lay atop their straw wide eyed and anxious. It proved to be a long night for all of them except Maria.

Morning came with a happy cry from some young villager with gamboling eyes and a cleft palette. Seeing his smiling face in the first light of the new day gave the startled pilgrims pause, but they soon laughed with him as they followed him to the chapel for morning prayers.

The column walked briskly behind the cheerful lad, but none could avoid casting their eyes warily at the many blackbirds crowding the treetops above. The birds called to one another loudly, as if engaging in a morning’s conversation. They leapt from branch to branch, sometimes fluttering briefly upward or down. They preened and fluffed their feathers, content to be as much a part of Renwick as the long line of wool-clad folk now funneling to church beneath them.

The chapel was a simple log building set in a small clearing just beyond the village edge. It was the pathway to it, however, that caught the attention of all. It was covered in a heavy blanket of pine needles, making it soft and spongy. It was about two rods wide, its margins marked by round, rope-wrapped beehives. In the early morning mist, the hives appeared to be vacant. Curious, Otto leaned his ear to one and quickly retreated.

“They’re buzzing about inside!”

Their escort laughed. “Friends. They’d be our friends. Friar says they fly far for us. He says they find flowers in the meadows by the river and make honey for us.”

Pieter marveled. The double row of hives extended the entire length of the path—perhaps forty paces—and were spaced about two rods apart from one another.

“I count twenty,” he said slowly. His finger trembled as he counted them again. “Yes, yes, twenty. I’m sure of it.”

Frieda took the priest’s hand and let him lean on her as they walked forward.
“Ja,
Pieter. I count twenty as well. And look there! Other paths join the church from the right and the left. They, too, are lined with hives!” Indeed, the chapel was positioned in the very center of an intersection of paths that formed the shape of a cross.

As they neared the doorway, Friar Oswald greeted his guests. “Brother, you like our apiary?”

Pieter nodded. “Tis a marvel.”

“We sell honey far and wide. The river meadows are filled with flowers, and the glades in our forests have the same. To the east the mountains are cut by fertile valleys, and the bees swarm about those as well. But they are here for other reasons, too.” He smiled. “Now please join us.”

Friar Oswald walked through the small sanctuary, now filled to nearly overflowing with his beloved folk standing quietly before the simple altar. He read from the psalms, then a chapter from the Gospels. He turned to Pieter and invited the old man to pray. Pieter agreed and walked gingerly to the fore. A wave of giggles rolled through the folk, and the old man grinned. When he did so, his snaggletooth earned a few more chortles.
They think I’m the one who’s strange!
Pieter was delighted.