Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (32 page)

Pieter offered what comfort he could, though few could hear his soothing voice above the howling tempest. Maria quickly squeezed herself tightly between Karl and Wil, pulling her feet away from the rivulets of mud beginning to find their way inside. Each flash of lightning drew a whimper from the girl and Karl took her by the hand. “All shall be well … you’ve no cause to fear….” At the crack of each peal of thunder, Karl desperately wished to believe his own words.

The storm continued for about an hour before the thunder began to fade into distant rolls. Lightning could be seen spidering the sky like fiery veins over the western valleys, but the rain continued to pour as if by buckets and barrels until nearly midnight. Finally, the wind began to ease and the rain changed to an even patter on the soaked thatch above the travelers’ heads and its gentler fall steadied them. Relieved and sleepy, the young soldiers soon fell fast asleep, cold, but feeling quite secure.

Solomon, however, blessed by his Maker with senses not common to his fellows, stirred restlessly. He whined and pawed at his irritated master until ordered sternly to silence. But such cautions ought not have been so rudely dismissed, for the dog’s instinct was reliable and peril was indeed imminent. The faithful beast laid his head obediently, though reluctantly, upon Pieter’s legs but his ears stayed cocked and pointed, his bright eyes wide.

The heavens opened again and once more heavy rain pounded the plain for the next hours. Solomon shifted uncomfortably, wary and anxious as the roar seemed ever to increase. Suddenly he jerked his nose high in the air and tilted his head to one side. He strained to listen with his jaw locked tightly and his keen eyes sharpened. Then, as if jolted by a hot bolt of lightning he sprang to his feet, barking wildly and pawing furiously at the slumbering Pieter. The old man rolled to his side and stretched a calming hand toward his frantic dog. The yelping awakened Karl.

“Why is he barking?” the boy cried over the crashing rain.

“I don’t know!” Pieter answered loudly.

But before another word could be uttered, a sound like none had ever heard before enveloped them all. It was like thunder, though deeper and crueler, and the ground itself shook and trembled as if cowered by the might of a terrible thing. Then, before a single waking crusader could do more than cry out, a river of mud, tumbling rocks, and surging water crashed over and around the edges of the quaking shed, filling the refuge with the floodwaters of a broken dam!

The sturdy little shelter had no chance at all against the deluge. It collapsed into a tumbling heap of splinters and was swept into the raging current with the hapless pilgrims. Away washed the children, the old man, and their poor dog. Churning midst rocking logs and swirling brush they disappeared into the night. Mouths gaping, limbs flailing, the wretches were lost on the back of an angry serpent.

Wil toppled head-for-heels beneath the water. Desperately trying to break the surface with his mouth, he clawed and rolled and vainly lurched where nature bid he try. At last, his head bobbed upward and he gasped and gasped again. He pedaled his feet rapidly along the vanishing riverbed and struggled to keep his head above the water when he caught his ankle in the cleft of a rock. The force of the flood immediately pressed him under again.

The lad frantically clutched at the branches he felt dragging against him and could hear nothing but the muffled sounds of his own panic. He writhed and labored to lift his face for a breath and finally broke himself free to ride the currents toward the bank. There he lunged toward the trunk of a well-rooted tree and wrapped his arms around it tightly.

Relieved, Wil sucked air into his lungs and nearly cried for joy. His relief was short-lived, however, for a heavy limb careened close and snagged one leg. The startled lad held tightly but his burning arms soon gave way to his grasping hands, which, in turn, gave way to clinging fingers. Then, though his fingertips dug desperately into the stubborn tree’s rough bark, they soon failed him as well and Wil was gone.

As swiftly as the unexpected had arrived, it passed. No sounds were heard other than the wash of calmer waves streaming timidly around displaced trees and rocks. The rain had slowed to a gentle drip and an eerie hush now ruled the night. A passing breeze stirred a rustle among the willows but no sound of the crusaders could be heard.

In the ghoulish calm the storm clouds soon abandoned the night sky, granting consent for the moon and stars to shadow the river that was now shrouded by a heavy mist. And so the silver-eyed keepers of the night held fast until finally chased away by the merciful sun that arrived like the shining armor of a valiant knight riding hard from the east.

As beams of yellow light pierced the fog, magpies began to play and flutter about, indifferent to the carnage all around them. Thrush began to sing and wood-chucks poked their whiskered faces from the valley’s edges. Here and there, chamois teetered atop the displaced rocks and snow mice scrambled gingerly from log to log. A soaring eagle rode the cool air on his morning’s flight, giving nothing more than passing notice to the rutted valley below. As it were, the only few who seemed mindful of the night’s tragedy were the groups of vultures now floating in circles with eyes fixed expectantly on the destruction below.

Suddenly, a snow mouse froze. He pointed his little ears toward some strange new sounds. First here, then there, he jerked his tiny head from side to side. Here he heard a cry, there a sob, a whimper, or a cough—finally a feeble call for help, then another and another. The thrush stopped singing and the magpies stood still.

Wil opened his mud-caked eyes and squinted as a ray of sunshine blinded him for a moment. He was confused but regaining his senses. He slowly lifted his head and found himself tangled among broken branches and bound in thick mud. He wiggled and squirmed and toiled to free himself from the rubble to finally crawl atop the soggy bank, grateful for his life. His tunic and leggings were torn; his hands and feet were bruised and cut; dried blood covered one side of his face. He felt no broken bones and found no deep wounds. Satisfied with his own condition, he promptly began the search for his companions.

Wil needed to look no farther than a few paces upstream where he spotted the mud-caked head of his sister. She had been mercifully carried atop the buoyant timber of a broken river willow and, though frightened and nearly buried alive in bramble and mud, she was spared far worse. Wil charged toward her and threw off the debris that weighed on her. He dug frantically with his bare hands through the mud and, before long, he pulled a most thankful Maria to her feet. The two embraced.

Wil surveyed both sides of the river and saw Karl staggering along the bank about a bowshot downstream. “Karl!” he cried. “Karl!”

The redhead waved weakly and climbed carefully over a pile of logs. Near him was Georg, waist deep in a sucking mud-pit and straining to free himself. Suddenly Friederich appeared beside the two of them, rubbing his bruised legs. And, before long, another stood, and then another, each bleeding, coughing, or crying. It looked to Wil like a tedious, sluggish resurrection of sorts as one crusader after another slowly emerged from the ground shrouded in brown.

Pieter was pinned against the bank by a large, broken tree trunk and was holding his bloody nose with a free hand. His lips were split and bleeding badly. Georg stumbled to his side and cried to the others, “Come here, come here! Help me! I’ve found Pieter!”

At the sound of the old man’s name, the company forgot their own troubles and clambered over all obstacles to his rescue. Many hands dragged Pieter from the quagmire and Maria gently wiped the mud and gravel from his squinting eyes. The priest lay shivering in the cold morning air but raised his hand limply and offered a faint smile. He strained to speak but could only whisper. “The others, the others …” Pieter laid his quivering head down and closed his eyes.

Maria and Frieda placed some leafy willow wands over Pieter to help warm him as Wil ordered the others to continue the search for more survivors. The children dutifully spread across the terrain and hunted in earnest for any hint of a comrade. Karl forded the lowering river and his eye caught the bottom of a foot protruding from a huge heap of debris. “Here! Come … A foot, I’ve found a foot!” The boy yanked and tugged at the stubborn tangle as his fast as his hands could move. In a few moments Wil and Georg joined him and with a grunt and a heave, the unnamed fellow was tumbled out of his muddy prison. Georg hastily wiped the mud off the boy’s face.

“’Tis Albert,” wheezed Georg.

Wil and Karl stood stone-faced and silent as they stared at the mangled corpse beneath them. Wil lifted Albert and held him compassionately in his arms, but he had only taken a few carefully placed steps when he nearly tread on an arm sticking from the ground. “There. Karl… dig there,” he hoarsed.

Karl and Georg were joined by Jon I and burrowed furiously into the river muck around the limp arm. Wil laid Albert gently aside and joined the others until the lifeless body of poor Jost stared vacantly at them from opened hazel eyes. Were that not horror enough, yet another body lay another few feet downstream.

The three were carried to a large, flat boulder near Pieter and set in a solemn row as others in the company continued their search. A voice was suddenly heard drifting from the valley below and Wil raced upstream to find Frieda struggling out of another clump of broken branches and rubble.

“Wil,” she sobbed. Tears ran down her bruised face as she embraced her friend. Trembling, Frieda’s brown eyes suddenly widened in fear and she began to scream for her brother and sister. Tearing herself away from Wil, she tripped across the rutted bank sobbing and crying desperately. Wil joined her search and the two clambered along the bank in hopes of finding either.

Slowly, more and more stragglers appeared, crawling up both banks from either direction. They joined their tearful comrades gathering around Pieter. “Could someone help me to m’feet?” whispered the old man.

Georg steadied the priest as he rose. Pieter surveyed the landscape until his eyes locked onto the casualties lying on the rock. “Have you taken a count yet?” he groaned.

“No,” answered Karl. “But we’re missing many. I’ve not seen Manfred, Gertrude, Lukas, Otto, and Jon II.”

“Conrad and Jon I are searching over there,” pointed Maria. “But… but where’d be Solomon?”

Pieter collapsed on a rock and began to weep. “Chil… dren. Chil… dren,” he wailed. “Sol… o … monnnn.”

Karl ordered all to scour the valley one more time. “Go, go quickly and look carefully. Go farther downstream, and find what you can.”

Upstream from Pieter an exhausted Wil sat atop a broken hornbeam. Beside him poor Frieda was wailing hysterically and pulling futilely on the limp arm of her brother, Manfred, buried in the rocks at her feet. “Frieda … he is gone,” Wil spoke gently. But his words fell on mute ears until others came to help Wil dig Manfred’s body from the mire. Frieda collapsed on the ground.

In the meantime, Karl and Conrad found Gertrude wedged in the base of an uprooted willow, unconscious but breathing, and they quickly carried her to safety. Otto, however, plodded stiffly across the hillside bearing the broken body of his good friend and fellow traveler, Lukas. He tearfully laid little Lukas alongside Manfred, and Wil sadly recounted his company.

“All are reckoned.” The boy fought the swelling in his throat. The faces of the dead had not become so habitual, or so very familiar, that the sight of them open-eyed and white-faced did yet pierce his heart.

“All, save Solomon,” blurted Maria.

“Aye, sister, all save poor Solomon.” Wil paused and cast a sympathetic eye toward Pieter and continued. “We must bury our friends here, by this rock, which shall mark them. We all know what to do.”

The bodies were washed respectfully with the brown water that had drowned them and were placed in shallow graves scraped into the muddy valley floor. The mounds were set neatly in a row and Pieter offered his prayer slowly. His bones ached and his heart was broken. The children stood respectfully, listening halfheartedly to the words. But even he felt that his prayers were empty, impotent, and pathetically inadequate for the grievous occasion. The ritual was like a dream to him, a blurred, confusing interlude that was over as quickly as it had begun. And, when he said his final “Amen,” the children simply wandered away to stumble about in search of lost provisions.

After an hour of meager success, Wil led his wet, shivering crusaders upstream, past the broken dam and to the mill that had remained unscathed. With a loud curse he kicked the door open, snapping its locks, and ordered all inside.