Free Quest of Hope: A Novel by C. D. Baker Page A

soberly.

Chapter 4
     
    MADONNA AND THE WITCH
     

     
    W ithout a husband, life became unbearable for Berta, and she blamed everyone, including her eldest son, for her suffering. “Boy,” she said flatly one night, “you understand it was for your honor that your father died?”
    Heinrich stared at her in confusion.
    “Aye? Your father had a code to keep.”
    The little boy didn’t understand.
    “There’s an order to life, ‘tis something you’ve needs learn now from Father Gregor. There is a proper way to follow and you must learn the code, like your father and grandfather. But you ought heed the priests’ ways more than your father did. It would be your gift to me and I shall love you for it.”
    Berta was lonely and often desperate. One afternoon she led her children to the village well for a brief respite from the oppressive hovel. It was late and no one was near except for Emma, who usually came after the others had left. The outcast carried a wooden bucket in one hand and gently led her son with the other. Berta thought the woman to be odd but not as fearsome as some did, and on this summer’s evening her loneliness was greater than her discomfort.
    “Good evening,” smiled Emma warmly.
    “G-good evening to you, as well,” Berta stammered.
    Emma cautiously approached and spoke gently. “I was sorry to learn of your husband’s death.” The woman laid a tender hand on Berta’s forearm. “I have not suffered that kind of loss, hut I imagine you must be lonely and confused.”
    Unable to speak, Berta stared at the woman’s hand on her sleeve and nodded. No one had bothered to comfort her in these past few weeks. Gisela didn’t care, she had no true friends, and her cousins were indifferent.
    “I’ve a beehive, you know,” Emma continued. “Could you and your little ones come for a bit of bread and honey?”
    Berta was shocked. “Honey?” Only the monks owned beehives and she feared it was poached.
    “Oh no, good Berta,” chuckled Emma. “’Tis honest honey. I bought the hive and paid the fine to have more. And I’ve a special place to show you!”
    Heinrich was wide-eyed. He waited respectfully for his mother to answer, hoping with all his heart that she would say yes. He studied Emma carefully. He thought her to be softlooking and warm. She was shorter than his mother and plump and snugly. Her brown hair was braided and rolled neatly atop her head. Her brown eyes sparkled kindly from within a gentle, round face.
    After a moment’s hesitation, Berta wavered. She was not quite ready to receive the woman’s kindness, though she wanted desperately to do so. At last she blurted, “Might we come on Sabbath afternoon?”
    “Yes, of course.” Emma masked her disappointment. “I shall look for you on the morrow.”
    The women smiled at each other and the boys bid each other a reluctant farewell. Emma reached out to lightly touch Heinrich on the head. It felt good to him, reassuring and loving. He sighed and stared at the kindly woman with happy eyes. He hated to leave.
    The next day Heinrich could barely endure Mass and begged his mother to hurry. After a meal of mush and a Sunday pottage, Berta asked Arnold’s wife, Gisela, to mind Axel and Effi. Within a quarter hour, mother and son were walking toward the village edge and were soon within sight of the pleasant waters of the Laubusbach.
    They walked a little farther until, just ahead of them, Emma’s cottage appeared. It stood alone beyond the footpaths of the village and near the water’s edge. A squat, one-room hut surrounded by a woven fence, its roof was thatch, its walls well-mudded, and all in all very much like every other hovel in the village. Yet it was enchanting in some indescribable way.
    Emma and Ingelbert saw their guests approaching and hurried to meet them. They welcomed them through the simple gate where Berta suddenly stopped and gaped. The edge of Emma’s croft was lined with the most beautiful assortment of