A Tale of the Kloster Part 18

But now that the spirit of our brother had left its earthly prison house, I stood for a few moments and prayed earnestly that his soul might see clearly that which on earth had been shown darkly as through a gla.s.s, to our bewildered brother.

Then it came to me like a great shock, what was to be done with his body? At first, it seemed to me I could not let it lie in these cold, dreary mountains. And yet I could not unaided bear him to the Kloster.

Neither was I certain I could find my way back on the morrow with the Brethren, for these hills were utterly strange to me. And yet, for such was my faith, though it may seem harsh to some, why could he not rest here as well as anywhere else? The imperishable, immortal soul had gone to its Maker; that which remained was merely the earthly sh.e.l.l that would mix with the elements, no matter where buried.

Much against my will I finally persuaded myself I must leave him in this wild, lonely spot. But I could not leave him exposed to the winds and the rain and the beasts of the woods, and yet I had nothing to dig up the hard frozen ground to make him a grave. And then just as I was about to give up in despair thinking I could do no better than cover him with brush, I saw a short distance farther up the mountain two long rocks, meeting at one end, but spread out at the other like a sharp angle, the opening toward me. Like a flash it came to me I could enrich these rough rocks by using them as a resting-place for Brother Alburtus.

I hastened up the hill and swept and sc.r.a.ped the snow out from between the rocks, making a bed of twigs on the hard earth. But it was no light task getting the great form of our brother up that steep slope, and more than once it seemed I must give up. But at last I did get him lying snugly between the two huge stones. Then I made a roof over him by laying heavy branches across the rocks, on top of the branches placing such heavy stones as I could loosen from the hard ground. In this manner I also closed up the end of my brother's death _Kammer_, and to help me find the spot, should I have call to revisit it, I rolled a large stone at the upper end of the little vault, and after a last prayer for the soul of our sainted brother, I left, sad at heart, but rejoicing I had been able to do these last honors for our dead.

It was dark when I started down the mountains and so rough and slippery was the way I had many a fall ere I reached the foot; but the longest and most toilsome way hath nevertheless an end, and though the night was well on when I reached my cell, I arrived none the less, safe and sound, only that our brethren were greatly alarmed at my absence, fearing I too had been captured by the Indians.

At the midnight meeting I recounted to my brethren the doings of the day, the death of Brother Alburtus, but not saying anything of his last words, requesting rather consideration as to what should be done with his body. As the greater part of us thought nothing could be done while the way was so rough and slippery with rocks and snow, we decided to let our brother rest for the time at least in his strange grave; but we held special services in his memory and in his cell we hung, as was our custom, a tablet, on which were inscribed in beautiful letters by the Sisterhood the words:

"Blessed in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints."

CHAPTER XXII

SONNLEIN TAKETH THE ORDEAL

There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio.

--Shakespeare.

Over a month had pa.s.sed away since the death of our Brother Alburtus and his lonely burial far up in the mountain. My brethren, though at first of a mind to bring him to our little graveyard in the meadow, at last reluctantly came to my way of thinking that he should be left to rest undisturbed where I had laid him.

Often as the days came and went I wondered what Sonnlein would say when he returned, to find his dear Brother Alburtus gone. Oftener still in those dreary days I would ponder and puzzle over the dying words of our brother. I could understand how by the great shock of his fall he did not know me, for I had seen more than once what a misty veil cometh over the sight of the dying so that they know not at all even their most beloved ones. But what I could not solve was why he called himself by a name I had never heard before. Was David Seymour his own, right name or the name of some friend of earlier days, and did our brother in his last moments imagine himself that other one? And 'Lisbeth and the baby, were these wife and child, or merely long-buried memories of acquaintances revived in the very shadow of death? With all my pondering and puzzling I could not solve the matter, and gradually it left me, though never wholly cast aside.

Indeed, with the wandering away of our Brother Alburtus and his dying up in those lonely mountains, and the loss of our Genoveva and my boy, my cup of woe was well-nigh running over. The winter was now on the wane, almost three months having elapsed since Sister Genoveva and Sonnlein had gone, and still we knew no more than when they left us; for though our justice kept me and our little Kloster in most affectionate remembrance, I receiving many letters from him in all his great work and responsibility, yet he had nothing to tell us other than not to lose faith and courage; and for this we loved him, even though he gave us no knowledge of our lost ones.

But surely it is cowardly and ungrateful in man or woman to complain because the infinite Father doth not always explain to our narrow, little minds why and wherefore he doeth this or that, for I have ever found that if one will but possess his soul in patience and cease repining and keep on doing his work all will come out right in the end.

So on a beautiful moonlight night, after I had retired to my _Kammer_, shortly after the midnight services and had fallen into my usual sound sleep, I felt, or at first dreamt I felt, a shaking of my arm; but as I was about to turn over in my drowsy state, I received another shake of the arm, this time so decided I no longer doubted I was awake. As I sat up more frightened than I care to tell, I saw bending over me a form--surely it could not be! but then as I heard my boy call me, "_Vaterchen_," with such sadness and despair and weariness in his voice as I thought would make my heart burst with very pity for him, I clasped him in my arms and kissed him and wept over him as some mother over a long-lost child. Such a simpleton was I, as all will agree, and yet I doubt not I should do the same thing over again were there similar occasion for it.

I know not to this day whether or not my boy wept, but his voice was soft and gentle as a woman's as he said to me, "I could not wait till morning."

"If thou hadst let me sleep till morning and not know of thy coming I would never have forgiven thee," I a.s.sured him joyfully, holding him by the arms. And then I turned toward the door of my _Kammer_, and was opening it when he said, "Where art going? Surely thou'rt not tired of me so soon?"

"Nay, to tell our leader and the Brothers and Sisters of thy return. It were selfish to keep all this great joy to myself," and again I turned toward the door, first lighting my fat lamp; but then as the flame grew up I saw my boy was so faint and weak he would have fallen to the floor had I not caught him to me and helped him to my bench, making him as easy as our hard life would allow.

And surely I was well repaid for what I had suffered in all these months; for as I lay down on the floor of my cell--not finding it to my liking to let him go to his own--he whispered tenderly before he dropped off to sleep, "Thou'rt the same old _Vaterchen_;" and this praise, with my poor weakness for kind words, I held snug and warm in my heart for many a year.

Thus we both slept long into the morning, only for once in my life I slept not so soundly; for I could hear that Sonnlein was tossing and murmuring in his sleep, contrary to his former habit, for like me he had always been good at sleeping.

With the bright light of the morning I saw plainly now what his voice and bearing had told me but faintly in the night; for as he lay asleep, stirring often uneasily I could see that he was but a mere skeleton, his face gaunt and haggard, with great hollows under the deep set eyes, and the beard he had let grow was tangled and unkempt. A sudden fear clutched my heart that he had come home but to die.

But truly the healing powers G.o.d hath placed in these bodies of ours are wonderful things to set us straight if they be given a chance to work in peace and quiet; for though I must spread the joyful news of Sonnlein's return to our leader and all the Brethren, not forgetting the Sisters, who were of a mind to make a great hero of my boy, and though the Brethren pa.s.sed my cell more quietly than ever often during the day, not one with all the desire to give him greeting would disturb his rest; for he slept on until evening, not even waking ere then to take the lamb's broth our prioress had prepared for him.

But early in the night he sat up, and said, "Such a sleep have I not had for many a day."

"Art not hungry?" I asked anxiously, "shall I not warm this lamb's broth Mutter Maria hath made for thee?"

"Blessings on our good Mutter Maria!" he cried out with some return of his old, fun-loving spirit, "but if thou lovest me," he said, as he gulped down greedily the broth--and I dislike hasty feeding--"bring me the lamb itself, for I am hungry as a wolf."

And, indeed, when I did coax our good prioress to give me such a load of things as she declared was not safe to give him, it did seem to me as though I had food enough for ten men; but he merely smiled when I cautioned him against eating all this stuff, and in less time than I can tell it he had actually eaten up everything so clean not a crumb was left, so that I had not been surprised had he lifted the dishes to his face and licked them off, as he had often done in his childhood.

Thus for a few days I made him take abundance of rest and sleep, and between the Sisters and me he suffered not for food, but I refrained from asking anything of his absence, thinking it better to wait until he were more himself again.

But one evening, as we were sitting in my _Kammer_, about a week after his return, neither of us saying a word for a long while--for with all his lively nature he was never so garrulous as I--not being able to curb my curiosity longer, I finally asked him, "What hast thou learned of our Sister Genoveva?"

"Nothing," he replied sadly, "though I have sought everywhere for her."

"Hast been among the Indians?"

"Yea, and more than one of the French devils hath gone to his long home," he replied savagely.

"Hast been among the Conestogas?" these being a peaceful Indian tribe living in a little town or village not many miles beyond Lancaster, toward the Susquehanna.

"I went there straight on leaving thee, for that way pointed the footprints."

"Could the Conestogas tell thee nothing?"

"Nay, could not or would not--I know not which--though a half-witted one whispered to me when he thought none could hear, that he knew where the white sister was; but on pressing him for fuller knowledge he merely pointed back toward the northeast, whence I had come, saying, 'Up, high, with old woman,' but I paid no great heed to him, for he was not right in his head."

"That night what didst thou make of the footprints?"

"One was Genoveva's, that was plain to be seen; the largest, an Indian warrior's; the third, a squaw's or young Indian lad's, I have never made up my mind which," and then he said nothing more for a long while, but at last he looked at me suddenly, saying as though much puzzled, "Would that I knew what the half-witted one meant; it hath been with me day and night lately, so that I had no other will in me than to come back, for it is in my mind that Genoveva, if she be still alive, is not far away."

After a bit he looked up at me as though he were ashamed to ask, "Dost believe, _Vaterchen_, that if she be nigh her spirit hath called me back?"

To which I could only say, "I know not, though there be among us who claim they have had such communication, both with the living and the dead."

And then in all the simpleness of a boy he asked, "Dost think our sister was caught up into the heavens like Elijah?"

Ere I knew what I was saying I replied with some heat, for his question seemed like blasphemy to me, "Nay, nay, Elijah was a saint!"

"Dost mean Genoveva was not good enough to be taken up like old Elijah?"

he cried out angrily at me, as he had never yet spoken to me.

"Quietly, my Sonnlein, quietly; my reply meant not that I think not highly of our sister; but though we have holy writ that Elijah was translated, yet there have been, as thou knowest, many good men and women since that time who have had to go to heaven by way of the gates of death. I do not think our Genoveva was taken up to heaven, and in this I mean no disrespect."

But he heeded not the gentle reproof in my voice, and after a while he asked, "Dost believe in the state of innocence taught by Brother Onesimus and his brethren while they were with us, and of whom thou hast told me so often?"

"Nay, I ne'er had much faith in their heathenish practices," I replied shortly.

Still he persisted, "They who pa.s.s through the ordeal of purification come forth with limitless vision and with mental powers unbounded."