Free Pilgrims of Promise by C. D. Baker

supplication to the Lord on behalf of the half-starved children standing quietly before him. He then embraced Pieter and kissed him as well as every member of the flock. “I am Brother Patroclus, the superior of this cloister. These are my brothers; each is here to serve you.”
    The twenty monks had now all assembled and bowed respectfully. They were delighted by the appearance of their unexpected guests and rejoiced to see needful souls to serve.
    “Brother Timotheos, bring food for our guests—and plenty of it! Brother Simeon, fetch buckets for feet washing, and prepare a bed for the sick lad.”
    As the monks scurried to their tasks, a light-haired one stepped forward with a bowed head. He was about thirty years of age, sharp featured, and lean. He whispered to Patroclus, who motioned him forward. With a smile, the monk addressed the company. “Wilkommen! Alles gut!”
    Hearing their own tongue, the pilgrims cheered.
    “My name is Brother Stefano. I was born in Charlemagne’s great city of Aachen and baptized as Leopold, third son of Lord Jurgen von Baldemar. However, like the other monks, my name was changed when I took my vows. But that is quite enough about me!
    “Since I speak your language, I shall speak for you and to you on behalf of the brethren. You are welcome here, and we shall try to serve you.”
    Pieter spoke to the monk for a few moments, introducing himself, Heinrich, and the children. He explained their predicament and their needs. Stefano listened carefully, then bade all to rest by the water’s edge while he sought Patroclus and the deacons.
    The company lounged happily in the shade of tall palm trees that a monk claimed were brought as seedlings from a pilgrimage to Rome some thirty years prior. Soon generous portions of food and buckets of fresh springwater were delivered. Nearly undone by their good fortune, eager hands plunged into baskets of bread, trays of smoked fish, and platters of fresh-picked grapes. The children gorged themselves on pickled olives and zucca, artichoke and berries. Heinrich gnawed cheerfully on salted rabbit and a handful of scallions as Pieter nearly danced for joy with his own tray of mussels, crab, and buttered anchovies.
    The sun smiled from above; the air was gentle and warm. The water at the company’s feet was clear and inviting. Soon, with Patroclus’s laughing permission, most were racing across the sand to plunge into the crystal waters of the bay.
    Wil was carried to the monks’ infirmary, where the herbalist and infirmer removed his bandages and studied his wounds. Heinrich, Frieda, Pieter, and Otto hovered nearby, offering bits of history as to the lad’s condition over the past days. Wil grimaced a bit, then smiled at Frieda as the nimble fingers of the monks lightly ran along his many stripes. They mumbled and nodded, shrugged and wrinkled their noses until the infirmer turned to Pieter. “You’ve done well!”
    The old man nodded and tilted his head toward Frieda. “We’ve done well.”
    “With permission, we would like to treat him with our own herbs and methods. We would like to start by laying him on that reed bed without bandages so that the wounds may dry. Later, we may soak him in the bay for an hour a day.”
    “The salt.”
    “Si, Pater. The salt and the sunlight. The water is as clean as any on the earth. It shall heal him like no other balm. In the night we shall wrap him in fresh compresses soaked in our own herbs. For most of the day we need to leave his wounds dry in the shade. In the meanwhile, he needs much citrus and vegetables. We abound in lemons and have a few struggling citron groves. Our gardens yield every green thing one might want.
    “In any case, the lad is keen eyed and strong. His fever’s nearly gone and his mind is clear. I’ve great hope for him.”
    Heinrich wiped his eye and nodded gratefully. “He’s m’son…. Pieter, tell them he’s m’son.”

     
    It was true that Eden’s gates had been long since