Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (35 page)

Wil wiped wet hair away from his eyes and stared at the sky. The rain had eased to a soft shower, but the clouds were heavy and sagging as if straining to contain the reservoir of water within. And no sooner had the children stepped back to their trail than the clouds lost their strength and released a deluge atop the mountain. The children bowed and bent under the sheer force of the torrent but dutifully followed Wil, sliding from tree to tree, grasping at bark and branches, roots or rocks, or any other handle the slippery mountainside might offer. At last, Wil ordered his troop to the shelter of a grouping of large boulders and the wet soldiers settled into the rocky enclave.

Karl, however, withdrew from his fellows to the wide trunk of an ancient spruce. He drew his hood over his dripping, red hair and squatted in the mud. He pulled his treasured necklace from under his tunic and followed its steel links with callused fingertips. His mind drifted to memories of his mother—her warm suppers by the hearth fire and the sounds of her rush-broom sweeping stones and sticks from the doorsill and yard path. He closed his eyes and suddenly saw her lying on her bed ghost-white with blood oozing between her lips. Her gaping eyes stared at him vacantly. He covered his eyes with his fists. “Leave me, visions!”

But such images rarely honor such demands and poor Karl’s mind flew him to a scene of his mother’s shrouded body being carried stiffly toward a simple earthen grave. He could see the miller and the weaver, the dyer and his wretched Uncle Arnold tilting her corpse awkwardly toward its dark and rooty hole. He shook his head and pressed the tears from his eyes.

The boy thrashed about the wet forest, whimpering and rasping across the pitch, warring valiantly against what sanity demanded. Finally he fell across a log and yielded with a loud cry. “There is no miracle; Mother is dead.”

Wil’s commanding voice was hard to hear above the din of the rain and wind but he reassembled the crusaders and ordered them forward. Karl stumbled halfheartedly to the rear of the reluctant column and followed his fellows down the mountainside. The pilgrims eventually reached the valley floor and their hearts lifted as they followed their trail over easier terrain.

Feeling safe under the thoughtful faces of the peaks rising sharply on all sides, the pilgrims relaxed into a contented, though spirited gait. But before long their quickened pace brought them to the base of their next ascent and all faces fell as they prepared to climb among the cliffs and clefts of the difficult Brunigpass.

Wil wisely ordered camp to be made and the relieved crusaders scurried to their duties. The children found dry kindling by stripping bark off fallen trees and soon a smoky but adequate fire was burning. Were it not for their inordinate fatigue the soaked travelers would have found it difficult to sleep in the cold rain, but eyes were heavy and quick to close.

For most it seemed that they had barely set their heads to pine-bough pillows when they were awakened to a drizzled dawn. First-meal was a cold, rainwater gruel, but the crusaders ate it without complaint. They then gathered in their customary column and waited for Wil’s command. The drizzle gave way to another heavy rain as the boy led his company toward their difficult ascent and a troubled Pieter took Wil by the shoulder. “Take good care, lad, m’spirit chills with a dread. Give thought to each step for the sky has not been kind to our way.”

The crusaders struggled upward through the rain toward the high pass for most of the morning. The air was damp and pungent with spruce and pine; the pathway rutted and wet. Just before ordering a midday rest, Wil suddenly slipped on a loose rock. He landed hard on his stomach and began to slide helplessly past his surprised comrades, hurtling toward the edge of an unseen cliff not far below. The boy grasped wildly at the rocks and underbrush passing him by, but the mountain simply yielded him hands full of mud and torn roots. Then, as if the angels heard the cries of poor Pieter, Wil’s foot abruptly wedged against the trunk of a stout bush and his fingers grappled through its strong branches. To the relief of his comrades above, Wil held fast and, after composing himself, he struggled to his feet. He looked over the edge of a cliff not more than a few paces beyond him and closed his eyes.

The boy clawed his way back to his cheering friends and collapsed. “Aye,” he panted. “’Tis good to be alive.” After a brief rest he ordered all forward. “Climb with care,” he chuckled. “This mountain has a face I liken to my Uncle Sigmund … holes, scars, humps, and bulges—a terrible thing to meet!”

The tiring crusaders trudged upward until topping the mountain by late day. And, after a brief rest, they immediately began a hard-pressed descent in the hopes of reaching a reasonable shelter for their night’s camp. The grade was steep and the trail dropped fearfully between precipitous cliffs. Such danger kept the children’s senses piqued but their weary legs had been pressed beyond all reasonable limits.

Suddenly, Karl lost his footing and tumbled headlong off the narrow trail, screaming down the mountain in a wash of tumbling gravel and stone. His shocked companions stood helpless as the boy cascaded toward the edge of a cliff. He desperately plunged his fingers into the rubble rushing all around him and pressed his thin-soled shoes hard against the mountain’s breast—but he found no hold. Then, with a loud shriek, he was gone!

Karl’s companions stood paralyzed in disbelief. Unable to move, unable to speak, they simply stared at the silent edge of the precipice. All, that is, save Wil who dashed, wide-eyed and panicked down the mountain, crashing from tree to tree, slipping and reeling, frantically sliding down the mud-washed slope to the rim of the cliff. He grabbed hold of a stout branch and inched his eyes over the edge to gape fearfully into the abyss below.

Above, the crusaders shouted, “Karl! K…a…r… l!” To a soul, each faithful comrade stumbled and lurched their way down toward the cliff-top. Wil suddenly pointed and shouted, “There! There! He’s there—in a tree!”

Some three or four man-lengths below, growing from the side of the cliff, a gnarly tree extended over a flat ledge some three lengths further beneath. Karl was miraculously cradled in a cracking tangle of its old limbs and wet leaves, too terrified to make a sound.

No sooner had he been spotted, however, when a few dead boughs gave way with a loud snap and Karl dropped through the branches. As he crashed through the limbs his necklace snagged a stout branch and he was suddenly hanging by his neck, choking and gasping for air. The steel links cut deep into the boy’s throat pinching any passage to his lungs. He desperately grabbed at the leafy gallows that suspended him! He kicked and flailed his legs wildly and lurched toward the branch, but the twisting necklace soon squeezed all breath from the boy.

The hysterical crusaders lying prostrate on the cliff’s edge above screamed in a frightful chorus. Wil stared helplessly at Pieter in hopes of plucking a quick plan from the man’s nimble mind, but the poor priest was stalled and blank-faced. Instinct, however, seized the lad and he bolted to the far edge of the cliff and slipped his way down the bordering slope toward a point in line with the ledge below Karl’s legs.

Karl’s arms now hung limply at his side and his face was beginning to bloat and grow purple. He twitched and jerked slightly, then hung motionless, swaying a little in the wind.

As the rest of the children howled and groaned to the angels for help, Maria clutched Pieter’s robes, begging and pleading for the old man to save her brother. None knew what to do.

Then Georg stood abruptly to his feet and set his toes at the very brink of the cliff. He closed his eyes and muttered a few words, then looked briefly at Pieter who gaped at him speechlessly. The boy smiled a quivering smile, kissed his wooden cross, and leapt off the edge.

His startled fellows gasped as Georg plummeted through the air, tucked tightly in a ball of pink flesh and brown wool as he hurtled toward Karl’s tree below. “Nay! Georg, na—!” But it only took a moment—a frightening, horrifying, virtuous instant—for Georg’s falling body to crash upon Karl’s leafy gallows. The tree dared not resist such valor and yielded with a loud crack, dumping the two lads into a tangle of arms, legs, and broken branches on the unforgiving rock shelf below.

Above, the company stared breathlessly, watching for some movement, some sign of life from either boy. At last Frieda cried out and scrambled down Wil’s path. “Hurry Wil! Hurry!”

Indeed, Wil had almost reached the ledge and on his heels were Otto and Conrad. Pieter squinted anxiously at the scene below and whispered a prayer. He held Maria by the hand as they waited for word.

It seemed a lifetime before Wil finally reached the boys and he furiously tore away at the clutter of branches covering them. “Karl!… Karl!” he cried through tear-blurred eyes. “Georg! … Karl! …’tis Wil… I’m here!”

Wil reached Karl first and lifted him out of the debris. He quickly laid him on his back and yanked at the clasp of the necklace until it finally yielded. He pulled the steel off his brother’s bloodied throat and stared helplessly at his placid face. Wil groaned and embraced the boy as Frieda collapsed at his side.

Suddenly Karl began to stir. He gagged and coughed weakly, then wrenched himself from his brother’s hold and rolled on his belly, gasping for air and crying. Wil wiped his eyes and laughed for joy.

In the meantime, Conrad and Otto had scrambled past to free Georg whose motionless body was facedown, bent awkwardly under a large limb. The two furiously tugged and jerked the branch away and then nudged Georg gently. He did not move and they prodded him a little harder. “Georg … Georg … can y’hear us?”

Otto looked nervously at Conrad. “What ought we do?” he asked.

“P-perhaps we needs roll him over?”

The two grunted and groaned and carefully turned Georg on his back. The boy rolled and as he did, the two cried out. “Oh God! Oh God, no!”

“Wil, come quick!” screamed Otto.

Wil sprang to poor Georg’s side and held the boy’s wobbly head on his lap. He chilled at the lad’s opened eyes for a moment, too shocked to move until, at last, he buried his tears in his comrade’s chest. “Georg. Georg. Oh, Georg,” he moaned. “I’ll ne’er forget.”

Georg’s neck had been broken in the fall, snapping like the bough of the tree that had yielded to his weight. The young lord lay still and lifeless on the lonely mountainside, soiled with mud and wet leaves. But who would doubt that his spirit now soared, bathed and blessed by the tears of angels sent to so honor him?

A trembling Karl crawled to Georg’s side and held him tightly. “My good friend,” the boy sobbed. “Oh … Georg… I am so very, very sorry.” He closed his eyes and wept.

Wil called to the others above. “Georg … is gone … we’ll meet you … there … on yon clearing some below.”

Unable to answer, the company simply nodded obediently and gathered in a solemn column behind Pieter to move silently toward their assigned destination.

Wil, Otto, and Conrad strained as they lifted Georg’s body from the ledge. Stumbling and slipping, panting and heaving, they struggled to bear Georg toward the valley floor in a manner worthy of his sacrifice.

Frieda attended Karl, who suffered woefully in both body and spirit. “You needs slow yer pace, Karl. And … wipe yer eyes so y’can see to step,” she said tenderly.

“Poor Georg. I… I…”

The girl laid a hand on the boy’s heaving shoulders. She was all things feminine: strong, nurturing, wise, and gracious. “Take heart, Karl, your friend loved you and he knew you loved him as well. Here, take his cross.”

Karl received Georg’s wooden cross with his bleeding hands and kissed it. Then, with no more words he leaned into Frieda’s sure arm and followed the others.

For all, the descent to the clearing was but a blur; like a dream at daybreak. But as they fell into the embrace of their weeping fellows they knew it was no dream at all, but rather a moment their memories would grieve for all time. Wil and Otto laid Georg’s body in the clearing, and the crusaders circled ‘round with hands clasped together. After a brief pause Wil solemnly ordered a grave be dug beneath the wide and welcoming branches of an ancient oak tree just beyond them. “Aye, there … ’tis a worthy marker.” Indeed it was, for this old oak stood a remarkable watch over the valley below. It was deep-rooted and strong, well-shaped and stouthearted, proudly fixed in the bosom of a splendid land, true to the character of such as Georg.

Pieter, Frieda, Maria, and Gertrude bathed the lad’s whitening body with puddle water while others plunged their bare hands into the muddy earth and slowly scooped out a shallow grave. Pieter closed the boy’s eyes and folded his arms over his heart. The girls placed his hair neatly across his forehead and shrouded him in his torn tunic and leggings.

When all was ready, Wil, Jon, and Otto carried Georg to his tomb and laid him gently down as if to sleep, his feet toward the east and the Resurrection to come. “Aye, and so, too, his cheeks can feel the rising sun,” sobbed Maria.

The children each took a turn setting rocks on the grave until it was nicely mounded. Karl set his own crusader’s cross securely above the boy’s head and Maria placed a bunch of wildflowers neatly over his heart. Pieter choked and wept his way through an agonizing prayer. His tongue felt thick as he struggled to finish his task. At last, however, with barely enough spirit to coax him to the end, he finished with the familiar words,
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…”

The priest stopped and lifted his hands to the heavens once more. “God in heaven, surely we do not know Your ways; You are a mystery to us. Receive this good servant of Yours, this fine young lord, into Your embrace. May Your loving angels carry him to Your table where he may feast in the presence of our Savior. May he be draped with the finest of Your robes; may the saints that have gone before honor him as is surely due. May he laugh in the sunshine of Your light, delight in the gardens of glory, and rest forever more. Amen.”