Prologue
For where thou art, there is the world itself,
And where thou art not, desolation.
—William Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 2 – Act 3, Scene 2
Near Vehra, Thuringia
May 1629
On almost any other day, Matthias Ehrenhardt would have taken the path beside the river to make his way home from the church in Henschleben and Pastor Kleinke's Latin lessons. It would have taken hardly a quarter of an hour. But after the furious thunderstorm that had just roared through, it would have been far too easy to slip down the bank and end up covered in mud. Not that there would be much danger of anything worse, in a river as placid as the Unstrut. It was barely wide and deep enough for one boat to pass another.
And, on any other day, nearly anywhere along the roundabout path threading between the open fields, he would have been able to see as far as the orchard just this side of the village, and for that matter another village or two on either side. This early in the season, the crops had hardly sprouted from the dark earth. But two more rain showers overtook him from behind and closed in like gray curtains—and made him turn his attention from the Latin recitation just past to the humps and dips underfoot.
With his shirt thoroughly drenched, the patch on his left elbow began to chafe a little. But what fifteen-year-old son of a half-farmer, with growing yet to be done, could expect to always have new clothes? As plain as the drab linen shirt was, he was clothed. It was enough. It would dry before the hearth in the kitchen.
Then as the rain finally swept away to the northeast, he rounded the last bend in the path, expecting to see his family's house standing two stories tall and as sturdy as ever. What assaulted his eyes instead was a line of mud-spattered neighbors strung out a hundred paces to the river bank, passing buckets to pour on the smoldering wreck. The waist-high stone half-wall was all that still stood. The rest was a tangle of charred timbers. Papa and Mutti were nowhere in sight.
Matthias started running.
Gray-bearded old Jonas Metzel from the cooper shop beyond the bend in the street broke off what he was doing and hurried toward Matthias. He had ashes in his hair and a grim look on his face.
"Herr Metzel, where are my—"
"There." Herr Metzel pointed at what was left of the house. "I'm sorry, boy. So sorry. Before any of us even put our heads outside after the deluge let up, the whole inside was filled with flame. I think they must both have died before anyone saw." His hand swept vaguely toward the other buildings. "It was all we could do to keep it from spreading further. I thank God it was at the edge of the village and only one other house was near. And I thank God for the rain." He wiped the back of his hand across his seamed forehead. It left a black streak.
Matthias's heart froze in his chest. He could find no words, only a low cry. He started toward the ruin.
Herr Metzel took him by the shoulder and gently pulled him back. "You can't go in there yet. You'll only get yourself burned." He pointed at a red streak on the back of his own hand, and a scorch mark on his sleeve. "Tomorrow will be soon enough to dig through that pile and see what there is to be saved."
"What do I do, then? What do I do?"
"Do? There are enough hands here to do what is needed for now." He gestured over his shoulder toward a boy at the top of a ladder, checking the nearest thatched roof for sparks. "Come home with me. The shop is small, but I have no apprentice now. There is room. You can stay with my Barbara and me for a few days, while we think what is to be done. We can at least offer you a place to sleep, and share what we have, as Christ and our good Pastor Kleinke teach us to show compassion to those in their time of need. And we will pray together for their souls, while we wait for the pastor to come."
Matthias turned and followed him, numb with shock.
Henschleben
Daybreak, two weeks later
It was arranged. There was nothing to do now but wait until the freight wagon came down the road from the north. Matthias stood in the main street, taking a last look at the familiar brown stone walls of the church and the black-roofed spire atop the square tower in front, drawing the eye up toward Heaven. The old church where he'd prayed so often, studied so often, and finally listened to Pastor Kleinke offer what words of comfort he could during the funeral, two days after the fire.
Herr Metzel stood beside him. He'd come along from Vehra as a kindness, not a necessity. He could as easily have made his farewell at the shop. At that, he'd dressed in his good gray doublet and tall hat, not his workaday loose vest and apron. The rough sack Matthias carried for lack of a proper traveling bag weighed so little, he could carry it in one hand. Most of what had endured the fire was better sold than carried away. There was a little silver, and an outgrown faded coat a neighbor had found for him. It didn't fit well on his thin body. Perhaps later in the morning he could take it off and stow it in the sack. There was only the slightest breeze, and the day promised to be sunny.
When he looked back toward his lost home again, Herr Metzel took him by both shoulders. "I know it's hard, Matthias, but this is the right choice. What kind of an apprenticeship could you find now, with nothing but a few coins dug from the ashes to pay the fees? Yes, go to your Aunt Grete in Eisenach. She was good to write back to us so quickly. You can finish your schooling, and have time to turn your inheritance rights to something you can use. Remember us, and remember what Pastor Kleinke teaches us about good works, but go."
"Can there be a place anywhere like this, where good works mean so much? Where the people care?"
"I don't know, but remember that your Aunt Grete is one of us. Where she is, there is a little bit of Vehra." He fell silent again.
As the village woke up, three or four schoolmates stole a moment to come shake his hand and wish him well, then went on their way to their work tending the fields or the animals. He managed a few words of thanks.
The sun rose a little higher, and dazzled him for a moment with a reflection off a window. For a moment the breeze shifted, and he smelled baking bread.
Just as he caught the jingle of harness in the distance, Dora Hammelin, the village smith's daughter, came out of a doorway with a sheathed knife in her hands. A few wisps of light brown hair peeked out from the edges of the cap she wore to keep out sparks and cinders. She was perhaps a finger taller than Matthias and half a year younger, and good to look at with her quick movements and ready smile. Today it was a wistful smile.
She crossed the street to where they stood, and held out her hands. "Here, I made this for you, Matthias. A man needs a good knife." She slid it halfway out, to show a gracefully shaped blade and a through-riveted hardwood handle with a checkered grip.
"You did? Thank you, Dora, it's beautiful. I wouldn't have expected such a gift."
"After all our times together? You've always been good to me, helping me with my lessons. Nobody else would have given me any Latin at all." She took him by the wrist in her calloused hands for a few moments. Her voice became softer. "Will we see you again?"
"Yes, Aunt Grete writes that I'll need to return several times with Uncle Berthold to help, before my inheritance is all settled." He squeezed her hands. "I would like very much to see you again."
She lowered her eyes for a moment. "Until then." She turned to go back. He could see the glowing forge through the open door. Matthias had to turn his head away and blink a few times, to clear the blurriness from his eyes.
A covered wagon with a four-horse hitch came in sight at the end of the street. He dug in his bag for the fare.