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Authors: C. D. Baker
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undergrowth, it seemed the path was rarely used. The forest pressed tightly on both sides, leaving a corridor no wider than a small man’s shoulders. Cutting thorns and brambles crowded the way, a certain obstacle for the merely curious. “The monks prefer to travel by boat,” offered Pieter. A chorus of understanding answered.
For two hours the children followed the old priest along the meandering footpath. Most grew discouraged, especially when the trail began to fall through steep ravines and then climb over stony knolls.
The sun was now high overhead, and what sky could be seen was blue. The forest’s green was stale, of course, a thing natural to the season. Wood thrush fluted their throaty song from time to time, and a few warblers added music to the woodland. But, despite their pleasant sounds, Heinrich thought the mountainside to be rather plain and lacking in beauty.
The baker remembered climbing the Appenines weeks before and wishing for all the world that he could be returned to the heavy oak and massive beech of the noble forests of the northland. Here it was only softwoods and stubby maples, tangles of small-leafed brush and useless stands of scrubby pines.
The pilgrims pressed on, dragging themselves along the tight pathway in and out of the shadows of the wood. They had climbed steeply for a considerable distance and had begun a partial descent, when Pieter raced ahead. He turned and raised his staff. “Come, my blessed ones!”
The company followed him onto a sunny outcropping, where they gaped in awe at the splendid scene below. There, at the end of their sharply descending trail, was a simple jewel placed by the angels neatly at the edge of a crystal sea. Astonished, the column stared at the little paradise tucked safely away from the perils of a broken world. Below them were the old white buildings and impeccable gardens of the monastery of San Fruttuoso.
The complex had been built at the end of a narrow bay shaped like a blue finger that probed deeply into the green mountains. From high above, a sandy shoreline looked like a narrow white ribbon rimmed with palms and umbrella pines. On one shore stood a simple church and the monks’ cloister that were set a comfortable walk from the water’s edge. Directly across was an arched arcade that served as the monks’ boathouse. The water was clear and inviting. A more welcoming haven none had ever seen.
Pieter then pointed the pilgrims’ attention to the larger view. The bay gradually widened in the distance until it finally yielded to the great sea that marked the horizon with a subtle blue line. Its waters were beautiful and shimmered blue-green, hemmed on three sides by steep, rugged mountains covered in pines, softwoods, and heavy shrubs and scarred with stark cliffs and crags.
The children’s gazes remained fixed on the wondrous scene for long, dreamy moments, and they smiled. A pleasant scent from a landscape of hidden shrubs filled the nostrils of the forty glad-hearted travelers. The terrors of a lost crusade were briefly forgotten. The hypnotic cry of soaring gulls and the hush of distant surf softened the heartaches of comrades lost and of broken dreams. The sight before them was a healing balm, a gift from heaven to little ones who so desperately needed a Sabbath rest. Heinrich and Pieter gazed about their tattered column with the joy of good shepherds. They now hoped the brethren below would be as charitable as the wondrous vision might suggest.
In the meantime, Wil had been helped up from his litter by Frieda, and he stared at the panorama quietly as she lightly supported him. The aroma of fragrant flora mixed well with the scent of the sea, and he inhaled deeply. The warmth of Frieda’s body faintly heating his own made his blood swim with joy. His belly fluttered and his skin tingled. Yet, despite the power of that moment, a haunting memory suddenly stole the young man’s thoughts, and his eyes began to sting. He shifted
For two hours the children followed the old priest along the meandering footpath. Most grew discouraged, especially when the trail began to fall through steep ravines and then climb over stony knolls.
The sun was now high overhead, and what sky could be seen was blue. The forest’s green was stale, of course, a thing natural to the season. Wood thrush fluted their throaty song from time to time, and a few warblers added music to the woodland. But, despite their pleasant sounds, Heinrich thought the mountainside to be rather plain and lacking in beauty.
The baker remembered climbing the Appenines weeks before and wishing for all the world that he could be returned to the heavy oak and massive beech of the noble forests of the northland. Here it was only softwoods and stubby maples, tangles of small-leafed brush and useless stands of scrubby pines.
The pilgrims pressed on, dragging themselves along the tight pathway in and out of the shadows of the wood. They had climbed steeply for a considerable distance and had begun a partial descent, when Pieter raced ahead. He turned and raised his staff. “Come, my blessed ones!”
The company followed him onto a sunny outcropping, where they gaped in awe at the splendid scene below. There, at the end of their sharply descending trail, was a simple jewel placed by the angels neatly at the edge of a crystal sea. Astonished, the column stared at the little paradise tucked safely away from the perils of a broken world. Below them were the old white buildings and impeccable gardens of the monastery of San Fruttuoso.
The complex had been built at the end of a narrow bay shaped like a blue finger that probed deeply into the green mountains. From high above, a sandy shoreline looked like a narrow white ribbon rimmed with palms and umbrella pines. On one shore stood a simple church and the monks’ cloister that were set a comfortable walk from the water’s edge. Directly across was an arched arcade that served as the monks’ boathouse. The water was clear and inviting. A more welcoming haven none had ever seen.
Pieter then pointed the pilgrims’ attention to the larger view. The bay gradually widened in the distance until it finally yielded to the great sea that marked the horizon with a subtle blue line. Its waters were beautiful and shimmered blue-green, hemmed on three sides by steep, rugged mountains covered in pines, softwoods, and heavy shrubs and scarred with stark cliffs and crags.
The children’s gazes remained fixed on the wondrous scene for long, dreamy moments, and they smiled. A pleasant scent from a landscape of hidden shrubs filled the nostrils of the forty glad-hearted travelers. The terrors of a lost crusade were briefly forgotten. The hypnotic cry of soaring gulls and the hush of distant surf softened the heartaches of comrades lost and of broken dreams. The sight before them was a healing balm, a gift from heaven to little ones who so desperately needed a Sabbath rest. Heinrich and Pieter gazed about their tattered column with the joy of good shepherds. They now hoped the brethren below would be as charitable as the wondrous vision might suggest.
In the meantime, Wil had been helped up from his litter by Frieda, and he stared at the panorama quietly as she lightly supported him. The aroma of fragrant flora mixed well with the scent of the sea, and he inhaled deeply. The warmth of Frieda’s body faintly heating his own made his blood swim with joy. His belly fluttered and his skin tingled. Yet, despite the power of that moment, a haunting memory suddenly stole the young man’s thoughts, and his eyes began to sting. He shifted
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