The First Night

The Star in the Crypt 

Anselm raised his head from the pillow — at least he tried to. The squealing door hinges had raised him out of a dreamless sleep. From his place in the bed he drowsily noticed the upper edge of the oak door swinging back. Then a puff of fresh air swirled around the stale air of the small room. Nothing more happened. Nobody entered the small room. While the door swung back into the lock with a slight thud suddenly the small face of a boy with a pageboy haircut bent down over Anselm, studying him anxiously.

“Glad you are back again, my friend! Do you feel better?” a strange voice sounding like a church bell asked, and relieved and dark eyes looked straight into Anselm’s blue ones. These eyes exerted a fascinating anticipation on Anselm but at the same time made him feel drowsy. Exhausted, he closed his eyes, while bit by bit the events of the last afternoon came back to his mind.

*.*.*

Leaving the bus at the station in the shade of an old lime tree, the summer heat hit Anselm, together with the scent of dust from the country road, of water from the nearby Neckar River, and the sweet smell of lime blossoms. When Anselm crossed the road, his sandals nearly got stuck in the runny tar. The few steps to the pub, named “Abbot’s Hermitage” on the opposite side, was enough to make sweat run down his back. The small terrace of the pub was crowded by visitors waiting in the chilling shade of lime trees for the beginning of the Vespers Service in the small church of the Abbey of Niwenburg on the low foothill of the Odenwald (Oden Forest). Anselm checked the crowd for familiar faces. Luckily, he could not spot a single one. All visitors seemed to be tourists attracted to the monastery of St. Bartholomew for the Gregorian Chants performed by the monks at the Vespers in afternoon hours.

Neither did Anselm join the crowd chilling in the shade of the trees nor did he climb up the steep walkway to the church. On the contrary, he searched his way around the pub past the garbage cans. A jungle-like grove sprawled from the back of the pub up to the trout pond of St. Bartholomew and further up the small glen.

Immersed in the cool shadow of wild under-brush of hazelnuts and alder, Anselm immediately felt refreshed. The cool draft coming down the glen from the pond reminded him of the opera “The Freeshooter” (Freischütz, Opera by Carl Maria von Weber) whose composer was inspired to the romantic tunes of just this glen, the “Wolf’s Glen”, as it was called since centuries. Anselm knew there were no wolves in this part of Germany, neither grey wolves nor werewolves. None the less, the cool air made his sun-kissed flesh crawl while he made his way to the wire mesh fence about 20 yards up the glen. There he stopped to throw his small backpack over it and then climbed himself into the enclosure of St. Bartholomew, that is straight into the realm of the Benedictine Monks residing in the monastery.

Once inside he scrambled over to the wall of rough field stones protecting the Abbey from unwelcome visitors. The high rising wall blocked the view of the monastery buildings, and only the spire of St. Bartholomew was visible from his position close to the wall. To his right a beech forest climbed up to the foothills of the Odenwald. At the level of the spire Anselm fought his way through the entangled shrubbery to the foot of the wall. Resting his back against a trunk of a beech tree he scanned it meticulous for the window-like entrance to the crypt. After a short time, he was able to locate a small wooden window shutter hidden by ivy climbing and ferns growing in the joints between the field stones. From his previous visit to the monastery he knew this small door high up in the wall had been used in earlier times as getaway for the monks in case of a siege by enemies.

Anselm heaved a sigh of relief because he had succeeded in the first part of the endeavour to discover the secret of the crypt of St. Bartholomew because he had located the hidden entrance to the crypt. Now he had to overcome the next problem. This was far more difficult, because he had to climb up the sheer wall and open the shutter to the entrance to the crypt. But this probably was not the most dangerous part of his endeavour. The most demanding part would be the investigation of the dark, murky crypt, extending from this secret entrance to the other end below the grated opening to the sanctuary just in front of the high altar.

*.*.*

About a month earlier Anselm and his mother had visited the Abbey to attend a Vespers in the church. They had undertaken this excursion as he had developed a liking for Gregorian Chants, after being introduced to these solemn medieval recitations in school. After the service still singing along the chants floating freely in his mind, the friars had offered the churchgoers to take a tour through the monastery. After a short introduction in the history of the Abbey, which reached back to twelfth century they had asked the group to split up gender-wise, because the women were not supposed to enter to the enclosure of the abbey.

Being surprised Anselm had shot a questioning look to his mother. She however just smiled,  “The monks still haven’t arrived in modern times! Go ahead and visit the enclosure while I stay with the women. But be back in time, I don’t want to lose you to the monks.”

“Don’t hope for that, Mom! There is no danger of it happening,” Anselm answered, laughing.

While Friar Adalbert showed a rather big group of women the non-restricted part of the abbey, like the stables, the nursery, the wine cellar, and the guest house, Anselm and a middle-aged man were left in the charge of an impish-looking young monk named Pius. Soon the man and Friar Pius were engrossed in a heated discussion about the sense of monastic life in modern times. Meanwhile Anselm got bored to death. Luckily on the way to the library the three ran into Abbot Albertus who smiled at Anselm asking, “Are you bored, young man?” and then released Pius from his task to defend the Benedictine rules and took over the task himself.

Immediately Friar Pius’ face lit up like Anselm’s also, and he suggested, “Come on, Boy! On a beautiful day like that I do not like disputes. Let’s go into the garden and enjoy that sunny day.”

First Friar Pius showed Anselm the garden in the back of the abbey, then the Wolf’s Glen, pointing out the origin of the name, asked him to feed trout in the pond, and then they walked back to rose garden in front of the church.

During the tour Anselm learned all about the duties of the different members of the small Benedictine community, like the one of the Abbot, of the Prior, of the Cellarer, of the Bibliothecary, of the common monks, and last not least of the Novice Master.

Putting his arm around Anselm’s shoulder Pius invited him to spend some time in the monastery during the summer holidays. “You do not have to become a monk, just because you are visiting here, and you don’t have to pray all the time either. As a city boy I bet you would enjoy staying here. For example, you could help me and Friar Johannes to tend the horses and cows, the pigs and chickens, and to bring in the hay harvest. That was just the way I loved to learn about living in the monastery. We have a lot of things a young man like you may enjoy, not only our animals and a library full of books, but also a swimming pool.”

“Are girls allowed in the pool?” Anselm asked mischievously!

“Girls?” Friar Pius turned crimson, “No, no, it’s for men only. Remember, the pool is inside the enclosure!”

In the rose garden Friar Pius pointed to a trapdoor, opened it just a small crack and pointed into the dark. When Anselm looked at him with questioning eyes, he raised a warning finger, “That’s the entrance to the crypt of our monastery! You are not supposed to enter this holy place, because this is the final resting place of our brothers. Down here their bodies are resting till the second coming of Our Lord. Bow your head in awe!” When Anselm got big eyes, Friar Pius explained, “All member of this monastery are buried down here since the monastery was founded. They are not buried in soil like common Christians. Their dead bodies are put into niche graves in the wall of the crypt. They are not buried in coffins either, they are buried just clad in the habit they had used in daily live. Then the niche is closed with a stone slab bearing only the religious name of the monk and neither his birth name nor his day of birth or the date of his death.”

Anselm looked startled. Wanting to get it right, he asked. “Then your grave will say only Pius, and nobody will remember your birth name or your family-name or the name of your ancestors?”

“Yes, my boy, so it is! I got rechristened after I entered the monastery and took the solemn vows. Now the members of the monastic community are my family!”

*.*.*

Anselm didn’t believe anything that Pius was telling him. Naturally he did believe that the monks are buried in the crypt, however he did not believe that they were buried just clad in a simple habit. He had seen the tombs of princes and kings. He had visited the golden shrine of Charlemagne in Aachen, he had adored the Mummies of the Egyptian Emperors in a museum in Berlin. He had seen all the gold, the silver, the gemstones adoring the sarcophagus of kings and emperors. He just could not believe that monks, especially abbots, just were buried like common people. He wanted to check out the graves in the crypt with his own eyes.

“Can I visit the crypt? I like mystique places!” he pleaded. When the friar wagged his head, Anselm made him puppy eyes, “Please! Please, Friar Pius, I promise not to disturb the rest and the peace of the dead!”

“I told you already, you are not allowed! As a layman you must have a special permission by the abbot.” When Anselm looked disappointed Friar Pius tried to cheer him up, by telling him more about the history of the abbey. “The monastery and the crypt are very old. This crypt is even older that the present buildings, like the church, the refectory and the dormitories. Maybe the crypt was excavated more than 900 years ago. I do not know exactly when, but maybe the first were put to rest as early as 1104!”

Anselm pressed again, “This old? There must be gold, silver, pearls and armour in the graves, a lot of precious items like these. In cathedrals and museums, I saw big sarcophagi and all the precious things the nobles were buried with in older times. Did you know the Egyptians buried their kings with all they may need in the next world, with food, with servants and horses, sometimes even their wives have been put into their tombs? Are you really sure the niches of the former abbots just contain their bones? I can’t believe this! No, Friar Pius, I just can’t believe you!”

“You have to, Boy! It holds true for Benedictine monks all around the world since our order was founded in 800. Benedictine monks have sworn the vow of poverty since ever. Believe me or ask the abbot! Understand it my dear young man, monks are buried in the crypt without any wealthy goods.”

Anselm couldn’t believe this and secretly decided to visit the crypt as soon as possible and clandestinely. Therefore, the rest of the tour he tried hard to come to know all the entrances to the crypt. Besides the trapdoor Friar Pius showed him the grated opening in the sanctuary of the church just in front of the main altar. He also pointed out there was a small entrance to the crypt high up in the wall surrounding the monastery. “It’s not in use anymore. In medieval times, however, it was used as an escape during sieges by enemies.”

Friar Pius and Anselm separated as friends, or nearly as friends, because monks are not supposed to have friends. They are not allowed to entertain personal friendships at all. When he shook hands with the friar at the door, he knew he had to visit the crypt, to visit it by himself, unhindered and unwatched.

*.*.*

Anselm studied the ivy-covered wall thoroughly. Some of the ivy vines were thick as an arm, other thin like spider-legs. Once at a friend’s house he had tried to climb up the thick green coat covering the house-walls to his friend’s window in the upper floor. His friend had warned him, “You’ll fall down!” but he didn’t because the plants were cemented to the roughcast with their root’s plugs. He hoped this would work today also!

He put on his small headlamp, fastened his Swiss pocket tool to the belt and checked for the keyring with home-made lock picks. He was proud of the picks especially, as he had to spend nearly all his birthday money for the rugged Swiss tool and the sturdy lock picks. These had been fitted to suit old locks especially. Expecting the crypt to be cold he put on the dark-blue hoodie he had carried around his middle, strapped on his backpack, and slowly began to climb to the small entrance high up in the wall.

Some of the vines yielded under his body weight and his heart nearly dropped into his gut. But finally, he made it to the wooden shutter covering the entrance, his heart pounding like mad. Tearing away the ivy twigs in front of the shutter he found the old-fashioned lock. He tried out one of the picks after the other, but none worked. Like an expert burglar he concluded that the lock was rusted. Having prepared for this possibility in advance he had brought along a small can of silicon oil. Spraying an ample amount of the oil into the keyhole he waited impatiently. After several minutes and many trials, the bolt gave way and he was able to pull open the door.
The air flowing out of the dark crypt smelled cold but clean, neither the stench of death nor the hint of withering flowers hit his nostrils.

Switching on the headlamp he detected a steep ramp, moist and slick with algae, leading down into the dark. He had expected some kind of steps but not a smooth chute. The light of his headlamp seemed unable to hit the floor of the crypt. A velveteen blackness devoured its rays completely.

A shiver was running down Anselm’s spine. For the first time he felt uneasy about his endeavour. Should he abandon it, close the door and retreat without having achieved his goal? He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed down his fear and decided to slide down the ramp feet first.

Bracing his arms and legs against the side walls he tried to slow down his decent into the blackness. In vain! Neither with hands nor feet could he slow down his plunge into the darkness. The last picture he remembered later was the pavement of ragged stone slabs of the floor. Hitting the bottom his mind went black. Later, much later, he concluded he had crashed to the stone-floor foot forward and banged with the back of his head against the wall, because the steep ramp suddenly changed into the upright wall of the vault.

*.*.*

Faint Gregorian chants aroused Anselm from a long blackout. He found himself curled up on his left side in fetal position. He could move his left arm with pain only. A throbbing headache made him squirm. After a short glimpse around he closed his eyes again, because he couldn’t even stand the faint light seeping in through the opening high up in the wall.

Slowly he began to feel his head with the fingers of his right hand. His forehead and temples seemed uninjured, but the hair at the back of his head was soggy and the hairs sticky. Sniffing at his fingertips they smelt like rusty iron. The soggy stuff at the back of his head had to be blood! His head was cut!

His backpack was still in place. He wanted to look up the time at his watch at his left arm. However, when he finally was able to move his arm he couldn’t read the time, because the glass of the watch was shattered. Now he noticed his head-torch was missing also.

Anselm listened into the darkness resounding with soft Gregorian chants. After some time, he was able to locate the origin of the chants. They came from the opposite end of the vaulted crypt where he assumed the grated opening to the nave of the church was located. He tried to identify the Latin chants, at first in vain. However, when the chants finally faded away, he remembered the words of the last one. “Alma Redemptoris Mater” the monks had performed, “Mother of Christ! Hear thou thy people’s cry, star of the deep, and portal of the sky!” Anselm took the song for a sign of encouragement. He was not lost in the dark!

With his sharp eyes Anselm tried to penetrate the darkness. He needed to know more about the crypt. The walls on both sides of his place on foot of the window curved slightly indicating an approximately rectangular room with the window on the narrow edge at the wall surrounding the monastery and the opening to the nave on the other end.

He tried to rise. When he had straightened himself up, he staggered and had to crouch down on his heels to avoid falling over. The sharp pain in his left arm caused him to cry out. This stabbing pain was even worse than the one of his head and made him close his eyes for a moment. When he had recovered all the noises coming down through opening to the of the church had finally died away. Silence filled the darkness.

He pulled himself together again, rose to his feet and looked around. The late afternoon light dimmed from the trees in the Wolf’s Glen illuminated a small circle of the ground close to the window only and the feeble rays were not able to penetrate the darkness in front of him. Shakily he searched the stone paved ground for the lost headlamp. He found it, but the back holding the batteries had broken away from the head with the LEDs and the batteries had dropped out. Feverishly he searched the ground for the batteries and the back cover; finally, he recovered them all. Reassembling the parts, he happily found that the light still worked. All eight LEDs worked but their light was too weak to penetrate the darkness up to the other end of the now silent crypt.

Suddenly Anselm’s head started spinning and everything went black again. He tried to keep upright but fell forward and fainted. After an unknown period, he regained consciousness and felt recovered. Pulling himself together he considered what to do next. Recalling his original intention, he decided to investigate the crypt according to his plan while he waited for the Compline to begin, which should be around seven in the evening.

He dimmed his headlight to prolong the power of the batteries. Neglecting the pain in his bruised head and arm, Anselm felt his way along the left wall where the entrance to the crypt through the trapdoor should be located. On his way to the staircase to the door he counted twelve rows of niche graves. In each row there were three graves above one another each one sealed with a tomb slab of reddish sandstone and marked with a name and a date. The ones closest to the small entrance high up in the wall seemed to be the youngest, as the engravings were of a rather modern style.

Climbing up the staircase Anselm found that the iron-bound trapdoor was blocked by a latch from the outside and all his trials to open it were in vain. He started pounding against the door and called for help till his voice got hoarse. However, nobody heard him.

Disillusioned, he continued his survey of the niche graves. Where the long side met the short side of the vault, Anselm came upon a single tomb slab halfway up the wall. The surface of this tomb slab was polished and adorned with a star only. It was marked neither with a name nor a date. Becoming curious and agitated he tried to pry open the grave. At first glance the slab seemed to be inset into the wall seamlessly. He tried to push the slab back, but it didn’t move. Therefore, he decided to continue with the investigation of the crypt.

Soon Anselm was standing below the opening to the sanctuary. He peered through to the grated opening and was able to discern the colourful painting on the ceiling of the church. He listened, but there was neither the soft mumbling of visitors nor the shuffling of feet to be heard.

Examining the graves on the other side of the vault he wasn’t surprised to find the same pattern of niche graves he had encountered already. So far, he had counted about thirty-two rows of graves closed with decorated caps and eight open graves, just deep holes line with stone slabs extending about two meters into the underground. The open holes were swept clean and neither a bone nor another relict was left. Anselm guessed the crypt would house the bones of at least 100 deceased monks. So far, he hadn’t detected anything of value. Not even an altar, a mural or a statue was in the crypt, nothing he remembered from the gravesides of Egyptian rulers.

Something was preying on his mind. Some unknown power seemed to draw him back to the other side of the crypt. Was it the trapdoor? About half-ways to the staircase the unknown power urged him to a stop. He tried to walk on, but now the power pulled him back and caused him to study the corner of the crypt with the single grave again. It was the with the star instead of a name on the closing slap. He inspected the tomb slab again and finally decided to scrape the dust of the centuries out of the nearly invisible furrow surrounding the plate with his Swiss tool. Little by little Anselm was successful. Finally, he was able to ease the point of his blade between the plate and the rough stones surrounding it.

After some rocking, the slab came loose. Anselm pushed on its left edge and it moved away slightly and gave access to the interior of the tomb. The crack was just a hand breath wide. In the light of his headlamp the burial cave seemed to be empty. On the second glance however he spotted a small cord thick as a straw running further into the dark. With two fingers he got hold of it. Pulling it out he found a small medal tied to a string of leather.

The oval medal had the size of a two Euro coin and was tarnished black. At both sides of the pendant he could feel strange engravings. Were these Arabic or Hebrew or Indian or Korean characters? He could not discern. Scraping away some of the black tarnish on the edge of the coin it started to shine like silver.

Suddenly something strange happened. Pictures began flowing through his mind freely, pictures of a town built at the foot of a sky-high rock, surrounded by battlements with crenellations, studded with towers, besieged by men on horses with shields and swords. Before his eyes he saw assailants with wooden ladders approaching the sky-high walls, battering rams drawn by horses ramming the town-gates, four-wheeled siege towers approaching manned with archers shooting flaming arrows across the wall into the town. In his mind Anselm saw crossbowmen trying to hit the defenders behind the crenellations. He saw spear-men, pike-men, and swordsmen waiting to be close enough to seize the mural crown and the turrets. He saw people fleeing the city in terror, women, children, young men and old men. They were attacked by knights on horseback and by foot soldiers brandishing clubs. Nauseated Anselm tried to chase away these pictures of dismay. Hiding the enchanted medal in the pocket of his hoodie he walked over to the opening in the ceiling of the vault to the sanctuary and waited for the monks take to the choir stalls in the nave.

Because of the nightmare Anselm had lost track of time. Therefore, the ringing of the bell of St. Bartholomew and the chants of the monks at the beginning of the service alarmed him.

“Hello! Hello! Hi, I am down here! Here I am, in the crypt! Can you hear me? Please! Please! Help!” His shouts were echoed by the vault. They resounded. The sound was horrible. After a long, seemingly endless time, the chants ceased. Anselm saw dark shadows bending down to the opening in the church floor. He got frightened and relieved at the same time. Remembering that he was hidden by the dark, he made himself visible by shining the head-lamp on himself while he shouted, “Friar Pius, it’s me! It’s Anselm, please help! I am down in the vault! Please help me, save me! I am scared to death!”

After a seemingly endless time he heard the trapdoor creaking in its hinges and then light footsteps coming down the staircase. Out of the dark men in black habits closed in, one of them panning a feeble spotlight. When Anselm was hit by the beam of light a voice the asked, “Is it you? Are you the student wanting to know all about our monastery and the crypt?” Then the voice added with a scarcely audible snicker, “I expected you earlier my friend, but above ground!” In the light of his own headlight Anselm recognized the round face with the dark stubble on his scalp. It was of Friar Pius! “Thanks God, it’s you Pius, Friar Pius!” That was all Anselm could exclaim before he collapsed on the ground.

Jerusalem is Burning 

The ringing of the angelus bell aroused Anselm from deep sleep. The boy with the pageboy haircut did not sit on the edge of the bed any more hypnotizing him with dark eyes. Anselm missed him!

He looked around trying to get acquainted with the room. The walls and ceiling were plain whitewashed and the wooden door dark. The smell of roses wafted through the open, uncurtained window. The room was so small that the bed on the long wall gave room only for a washbasin with an unframed mirror at the foot end. The other side of the room was furnished with a small working desk with a lamp, a wooden chair and a small locker. A crucifix decorated the wall above the desk. A room made was for monks, Anselm thought, it looks like a monk’s cell.

Shakily he left the warm bed. The face greeting him in the mirror was pale, his dark hair was hidden by a tube bandage even covering his ears. The elbow on his left arm was heavily bandaged, and the shoulder patched up. Still studying his looks the soft creaking noise of the door alarmed him. However, the face reflected by the mirror calmed him. It was Friar Pius, clad in a ragged blue work habit, smiling cheerily. “You slept like a log. I have been here already two times to invite you for breakfast, but…!” pushing the door open, “May I enter?” without awaiting an answer, he came in grinning and closed the door, “Don’t mind! I smell like a cowshed, but the milking has to be done. Your clothes are in the locker. Get dressed because Friar Arnulf will soon arrive to check on your wounds, especially the one on your head!” Leaving Anselm, “We will see each other later, because you have to stay in the monastery until we are sure you’ll be alright!”

When Friar Pius was already halfway down the hallway, Anselm called after him, “Where is the boy who was keeping watch on me last night, the boy with dark eyes and a pageboy haircut?” Pius turned shaking his head, “There are no boys in the monastery with exception of you!” Then he started down the staircase of sandstone.

Barely dressed, a knock on the door startled Anselm again. A monk edged through the door soft-footed carrying a first-aid kid and some towels. Anselm guessed it was Friar Arnulf, the guest friar. He was taller than Pius, lean, looking nearly dried-out like a dead gnu in the heat of the desert. His features were pious, but Anselm wasn’t sure if this pious look was genuine or a put-on.

He ordered Anselm to sit down on the chair and without further words he set out to remove the tube-bandage and the wound dressing, “Your head seems alright already. Young boys sport heads hard like rocks!” He commented doing his chore, “I was right. It was not necessary to take you to the hospital!” After he had renewed the bandage at the elbow and the plaster on the shoulder, he ordered, “Clean your face and then come to the main building. Breakfast time is nearly over! I will wait for you in the garden.”

Slipping into his hoodie Anselm felt the pendant on the string he had found in the empty niche grave with the star-adorned stone slab. Cleaning it in running water he decided the safest place for his treasure would be around his neck. As soon the cold metal touched his chest a feeling of peace and lightness started to grow in his heart, and he was certain his endeavour would come to a good end. But he knew also he could not leave St. Bartholomew without finding the boy with the dark eyes and the pageboy haircut.

In the garden Anselm caught up with Friar Arnulf who was praying the rosary. “Do you have novices here in St. Bartholomew or boys on holiday?” he inquired, not trying to ask specifically for his nightly visitor. “I think I have seen a boy slightly younger than me, younger and smaller!”

“No! Certainly not! We would like to get novices. We really would, because those here are growing older day by day. But nowadays?” the friar shrugged the shoulders, “Students spending the holidays with us? No. I should know because I am responsible for the guests. I am not only the sick nurse but also Guest Friar. Now hurry up!”

*.*.*

Anselm crossed the hot court in front of the barn. The big dunghill buzzed with flies. The door on the far side of the barn was ajar, so he spied into the dark. On the left two big farm horses were nervously chasing off millions of tormenting flies with their tails. The big brown gelding turned his head greeting the unknown visitor with a snort.

On the right side of the stable eight cows were chewing their cud unimpressed by the invader, while a baby calf turned its heads immediately in his direction. As a city boy Anselm had great respect of the big horses and stayed away. However, he immediately felt affection for the small calf. Looking into its sky-blue eyes he started petting it while it began to lick his bare arm. Anselm started laughing. “Hey Sweetie, do you like my sweat? You are so cute! Your eyelashes are longer than a girl’s and your eyes bluer than the sky!”

“Hey! And you young man! You look fresh like a lily and the dark hair fits you better than a tube bandage!” Anselm turn around scared, not knowing if he was welcomed, “You are welcome! Little Annie likes you already! She’s just two days old. She was born when we rescued you. Your name is Anselm, I understand. Not every young man has such a great namesake!”

In front of Anselm stood a very tall, very lean, already balding monk, cleaning his hands on a grey apron and smiling down on him. “I don’t mind if you don’t know about him. It’s Anselm of Canterbury, a Benedictine Monk like me, but unlike me who is a humble monk, he was the greatest philosopher of his times and the Archbishop of Canterbury. He was living just around the time this monastery was in full swing.” Patting Anselm on the shoulder, “You should try to equal him. Curiosity as well as persistence is the basic requirements of a future scientist! And I already know you have both, curiosity and persistence!”

As Anselm blushed with embarrassment, the Friar changed the subject, “I have heard you will stay with us for now.” Back on safe territory Anselm found his courage, “Yes, I was permitted to stay despite my…!” then he hesitated, because he didn’t like to declare his endeavour a crime, “my secret visit to the crypt!” When he realized the good-tempered look in the monk’s eyes, “I didn’t want to disturb the dead! I trespassed! I am aware of that.” Then looking up, “You must be Friar Johannes, Friar Pius’ senior!”

“Sure, that’s me, the master of the stables! Do you like animals and helping by hay-making? We always need a helper and manual work clears the mind. I will show you around, let’s go.”

At the end of a tour through the stables and the big hay-barn, Friar Johannes suddenly tensed up and looked around, as to make sure there was no undesired listener around. “Pius told me of your visitor last night.” He hesitated and scanned again the hot stable. “Your visitor, the one with the dark eyes and the pageboy haircut. Did he also wear an old-fashioned velvet blouse? Did he?” Then after a long break he announced with a solemn voice, “You are chosen!” Then repeated again, looking around carefully, “You are chosen! You are a chosen one.”

He muttered under his breath. “Not anybody has the chance to meet him, the mysterious boy. He appears only to severely injured persons, like wounded soldiers. Last time he manifested himself it was at the very end of World War II.” Pondering if Anselm was grown up enough for to know of this period, “It was in wartime. A young wounded Hitler Youth was hunted by the chain-dogs, the cruel men of the military police. He was accused of condemning the Nazi-pogroms of innocents, like for example deserted boys.

The Hitler Youth knocked at the monastery’s gate one stormy night in March 1945. He was severely wounded. The old doorman noticed the blood-soaked blouse at first glance and knew he had to give him shelter. In secret he ushered the weak youth to the crypt, keeping the hiding place secrete because he did not want to endanger the other monks.” Anselm got big eyes and his toes curled in horror, because he knew about the atrocities committed by the Nazis at the end of WWII. Friar Johannes noticed Anselm’s fright and tried to comfort him. “The doorman did his best to keep the presence of the boy secret, he even shared his meager meals with the young man. Not until the war was over, then he told the other monks about the guest in the crypt. At his departure the young men thanked the doorman and asked him to give his special thanks to the boy with the black eyes who had guarded him every night giving him confidence and strength to survive.”

Now Friar Johannes’ voice became even more conspiratorial, “However, neither did the doorman know of a boy with black eyes in the monastery, nor did the abbot nor any of the monks. The abbot decided the apparition was a miracle he had to keep from the public. Only his Holiness the Pope was informed. That’s why only his Holiness knows about the boy and some of us monks. However not one of us has seen the miracle working boy despite our prayers. You are the first one here to see him! You are a chosen one!” After a lengthy pause of thoughts, he disclosed, “Friar Pius knows about the black-eyed boy also and he believes you. So, do I!”

At the noon meal in the refectory and during the recreation in the garden the attitude of the convent cheered Anselm up. All day long and whenever he met a member of the convent, a Father, a Friar, or a hand, he got questioning glances and friendly smiles. Even Arnulf, the stern Guest Friar, and Father John, the harsh cellarer, gave him a friendly nod.

*.*.*

After the Angelus prayer the air was still hot. Anselm was too excited to go to bed already. First he visited the Wolf’s Glen with the trout pond, checked the entrance to the crypt in the wall, and finally walked back to his cell in the guest wing of the monastery still humming Gregorian Chants. In his small room he didn’t even switch on the light, just undressed, slipped under the covers and dropped off to sleep as soon he hit the bed. With heart and soul, he wished the boy with the pageboy haircut would visit him again, despite that his wounds had nearly healed.

After sundown the sweet scent of roses aroused Anselm from his sleep. Beams of moonlight seeped in through the open window. Out of the dark a gray shadow materialized beside the bed. First a small face framed by black curls became visible, then a slim body clad in a velvet vest. “The boy with the pageboy haircut is back”, Anselm immediately knew it, “the boy with the silvery voice!”

“Can I sit down?” the voice asked. When Anselm didn’t reply right away, the voice repeated urgently, “Can I sit with you, my brave Zeki?” Anselm squinted into the dark to assure himself that it was the visitors from the night before. “Yes! Sure, go ahead! But I am not Zeki! My name is Anselm. Everyone calls me Anselm.” He moved over towards the wall to give place to the visitor. “I know the others call you Anselm!” the boy with the silvery voice brushed off the response. “I know better, you are Zeki, my brother, my prudent brother Zeki, my dear helper in times of need.” When Anselm tried to object again, “But…” the visitor interrupted him, “Yes, I know everybody is calling you Anselm, I know! I however know you are Zeki in the body of Anselm. You are my beloved brother Zeki. I can look in your heart, you my prudent brother, my strong brother, my brave brother.” Stroking Anselm’s hair affectionately, “Trust me, trust your brother Aenis, your brother, who loves you more than his life.”

Anselm closed his eyes. He was incapable to comprehend this proposition. He was Anselm! He always had been Anselm. He just couldn’t be an incarnation of someone gone. Only Buddhists believe in incarnation and he was Christians. The silver voice however was thus intriguing, thus conjuring, the clear light of the moon thus radiant, the scent of roses thus overwhelming Anselm wasn’t able to fight Aenis’ revelations. Aenis must be true! And now he even felt the hand of Aenis stroking his hair. He stroked it like his mother had done it when he was a small boy. Aenis hand was real. Aenis wasn’t an apparition.

Timidly Anselm touched Aenis’ shoulder. It felt like the shoulder of Chuck, his boyfriend in school. Aenis was real! Real! Real! Real! He just wanted to cry out loud: Aenis is real! In the blink of an eye, he wasn’t alone any more, he had a brother, a fair and sweet brother.

“Please Aenis, please, lay down on my side, come closer take shelter from the night-wind.” Aenis’ declined to do so with a silvery laugh, “I can’t lay down beside you, as much as I desire, my dear Zeki. If I lay down beside you, I will become invisible in the next moment.” Breathing deeply, he explained with despair in his voice “In my first life I didn’t fade away when I did lay down on a bed. I enjoyed snuggling with my brother and my playmates. The first time my body began to fade away was after the monks laid me down on the funeral bier, scented my body with chrism and send songs of mourning to heaven. When my body was laid out in the crypt it still was there. When it was housed in the narrow niche grave it was still there. However, after the niche was sealed with the slab with a star my body case slowly began to wither away and finally passed into oblivion.”

“But you are real again Aenis. I can touch you like I can touch like my friend. You are real! Your body is real and warm like mine!” “I know, dear Anselm, dear Zeki! But let me what happened then.

Next time I woke up, I met the reincarnation of Zeki, my brother the first time. At his time Zeki was a knight in the army of Frederick II, the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. I had joined the army also. Together we passed many adventures fighting evil. Zeki was wounded, but recovered while I nursed him back to health. My body faded away and I vanished into oblivion. Next time we met was when the Thirty Years’ War divided Europe. Zeki was wounded again, however I could help him, he survived and recovered while my body withered away after short time, an even shorter time than before. Now every time I am helping the wounded body of my Zeki to recover, my body fades away after a shorter time than before. I can only prolong my stay with my brother if I doesn’t lie down to rest. I am afraid, if I lie down with you and my body touches the sheets of the bed it will only last for moments. Please my Zeki, let me sit on the edge of the bed and enjoy our exchange; enjoy our love.”

Anselm felt something he never had felt before. He suddenly had the desire to be close to Aenis, to hold him, to kiss him, to never let him go. He couldn’t let Aenis slip away, slip into oblivion, slip into the unknown, into the third country. Anselm sat up, leaning forward he pulled Aenis into his arms, “Please Aenis, let’s sit side by side. Then you can lean against my body and I can lean against yours.” He wanted to kiss him so urgently, he had never wanted to kiss somebody this way, neither his boyfriend Chuck, his best friend since kindergarten, nor his late girlfriend May, the girl he had lost his cherry to. It was different with Aenis, completely different.

Sitting side by side Anselm took Aenis’ hands and began to kiss his soft fingertips, one after the other, without rushing. Without looking up he knew Aenis was smiling, was happy. He grew bolder, he put his arm around Aenis and when their faces touched, he kissed him. Aenis resisted just a moment surprised by Anselm’s display of affection, then leaned into him and answered the kisses, hesitantly at first, like having unlearned to kiss for times immemorial, after a tiny period however his memory came back, and he replied Anselm’s kisses impetuously.

As soon as the light of the moon was displaced by the first morning light, they left the cell and enjoyed the dawn walking slowly along the garden alleys between roses hand in hand. When the sun appeared on the horizon Aenis turned to Anselm and claimed a last kiss “Zeki, please a kiss, a last one for tonight!” Then he vanished in the morning fog, the echo of his voice promising, “Tomorrow we meet again, dear brother!”

*.*.*

A faint scent of roses was still in his cell. Was it the scent of his nightly visitor? His brother? His Aenis? Was it the scent of the Damascus roses in front of the window? Anselm drank in the scent. He couldn’t remember when he came back from their walk in the garden at sunrise. He didn’t remember going to bed. Nine chimes told him he was already late for breakfast. But why would he need a breakfast anyway this morning. His heart was heart was full of what Aenis had told him. He had to relate it to Friar Pius or Friar Johannes or both. They would understand. But where to begin? Gathering all his strength Anselm rose, dressed and left the cell in search of the Friar Pius and Friar William.

Neither the full-faced Pius nor the slim-faced Johannes were in the stable. Studying the steeply ascending slop behind the monastery he saw a heavily loaded hay cart coming down the steep trail slowly, Johannes leading the reins of the draft horses, while Pius supported the wagon from tumbling.

Anselm arrived quite pumped out at the hay cart after flying up the steep road like a bird, “Friar Pius, Friar Johannes! I am so happy! Have you ever been so happy? Have you? I got a brother! I got a love! I got Aenis! He calls me brother! He calls me his love! He calls me Zeki! Zeki my brother!” Surprised Johannes tightened the reins of the horses and Pius applied the brakes. After the  hay wagon stopped moving, both asked in unison, “You are happy, boy? That’s nothing new! You always are looking happy! But now you are beaming! You got a brother? Where did you get him? Out of thin air?” Then Pius smiled and gave Anselm a wink, “You are in love? With someone called Aenis? Aenis who is calling you Zeki?” And Johannes also smiled from ear to ear, “Who is Aenis? Where did you meet Aenis? Strange name!”

“Aenis? Aenis the unique! You know him! You have told me about him! You know him by hearsay! It’s the boy with the pageboy haircut, the one from the crypt, the one who is soothing seriously injured boys, the boy who came to my cell and made me sleep off all my pain!”

“Are you sure, Anselm?”Friar Johannes shook his head in surprise and Friar Pius wanted to know, “You are fooling us! Are you still dreaming?”

“No, no! Aenis came again last night and told me of his story while we strolled hand in hand through the rose garden in the moonlight!” turning beet-red Anselm shyly bowed his head and confessed, “We kissed! We kissed each other! We love each other!” When both friars shook their heads in disbelieve, Anselm affirmed “Believe me!” noting their amazement, “I am not moonstruck, you will believe me after I have told you his story.”

Aenis’ tale of the Fall of the Doomed City of Jerusalem and his Future Fate as recalled by Anselm:

“The first events Aenis could recall from his time as a small boy are houses burning like torches, is the stench of burned flesh, is the metallic taste of blood in the air, and is his brother carrying him on his back through rubble and dark smoke. The suffocating smoke made them both cough! He told of strange looking knights riding on gigantic war horses, wrapped in bloodstained white cloaks with big red crosses. The crusaders were brandishing naked swords, side by side with their squires. Hordes of foot-soldiers were waving lances, short swords or dangerous bludgeons. He recalled pack-mules stumbling over smouldering logs overloaded with bags filled to the brim with silver candlesticks, golden goblets and bowls of tinted glass.”

Listening to this report Friar Pius’ face turned red, he objected to Anselm’s presentation by clenching his fists and grinding his teeth, but didn’t utter a word. Friar Johannes tanned face turned pale and nervously he shuffled his feet. Just when he opened his mouth to express his disbelieve, Anselm shook his head.

“Please wait! Let me tell you more: “Then Aenis told me of Lethalde of Tournay, the famous hero, the crusader who was setting his foot down as the first crusader into Jerusalem and of the other Flemish knights. The Flemish knights had been slaughtering Saracens for days, Aenis told me, like all the other merciless knights of the pope’s horde had. Wading in blood to their knees they burned down mosques and synagogues, broke into house, blundered homes, raped virgins, pregnant women, sweet girls and small boys. In their murderous frenzy the knights and their footmen didn’t even hesitate to plunge captured women and feeble men off the roof the Al-Aqsa Mosque on to the pavement in front of the mosque.”

“Aenis told of the pope’s horde celebrating their victory by rounding up the surviving Saracens and Jews in mosques and synagogues, closing their doors and incinerating these houses of God. He still remembered the cries of desperation of the doomed victims, suffocated to death in the biting smoke or even worse roasted alive. He also told of the shouts of delight of the crusaders listening to the cries of dying women, men, girls and boys. The pope’s men even tried to drown out the cries of the dying by stroking up songs of praise to their lord.”

“With shaking voice Aenis gave the account of the order of their commanders, the Dukes Raymond de Toulouse, Godfrey of Bouillon, Robert of Flandres, Robert of Normandy, and Tancred of Hauteville, to collect the bodies of dead Saracens and Jews which were scattered in the streets, trenches, temples and houses and to stack these bodies to funeral pyres formed like pyramids and burn them. With breaking voice Aenis told of the nauseating smell of burned flesh mixed with the sickly-sweet stench of the dead and the smoke of the smouldering houses combining to an abhorrent plume hovering over the rubble of the Golden City, of the Lord’s city, Jerusalem.”

Anselm hesitated a moment and went on, ignoring the soundless protest of the friars, “It was on such a day that Zeki, the older brother of the four-year-old Aenis, had dug out the wailing kid from under the smouldering logs of their father’s home. The fourteen-year-old teen took his young brother on his back, with the only one objective left, the objective to leave the doomed city, the Golden City of their Saviour Isa ibn Maryam.”

Now both friars had grown silent, thinking about the immeasurable suffering caused by the Crusaders, but Anselm had to go on: “As fate decided, the suffering of the two fleeing youngsters was going to end in an unexpected way. Marauding Flemish knights looking for more booty caught got sight of the two fleeing youngsters in a demolished street. Lethalde of Tournay was one of them!”

Friar Pius sniffled and tried to hold back tears, hoping for a good ending. And he was not belied. “Now after long days of going berserk Lethalde of Tournay, the hero of the crusaders,” Anselm continued, “was tired of all the evil deeds he and the other knights had committed in the name of Jesus Christ. When he noticed Zeki carrying Aenis on his back his heart was seized with remorse. “Jongens, where are you going?” the rough man shouted, “Bolting out of the beaten town?” When Zeki tried to escape into the ruins of a derelict house Lethalde clapped spurs into his horse overtook him, fished Aenis from his back and planted the wailing boy in front of him into the saddle. On command his foot-soldiers caught Zeki, pinioned him and hitched him to Lethalde’s horse. Spurring the horse, the famous knight left the ravaged town at the head of his foot-soldiers and mules packed with loot.”

*.*.*

Friar Pius was the first to recover. Still shocked he directed his question more the sky than Anselm, “Boy, do you really tell us the truth? Did the ghost really tell you all these atrocities? These monstrosities?”

Anselm couldn’t do more then to assert, “Yes, that’s was Aenis told me! I assure you I didn’t neither dream nor make this up!” Friar Johannes just shook his head. He was more educated than his fellow brother, because he had attended the University for two terms before he decided to follow his vocation. He closed his eyes and did send a short plea of mercy to heaven, both for the souls of the murdered citizen of Jerusalem and the bestialized crusaders while Anselm continued Aenis tale:

“In the late afternoon Lethalde’s troop arrived at the encampment of the Flemish crusaders, a city of tents along a nearly dried up creek. The small, poor tents of the foot-soldiers were scattered along the bare mountain slopes, while the comfortable tents of the officers were built along the trickling creek. Lethalde’s tent was partially shaded by some crippled trees and its entrance pointed to the east, to Jerusalem.

Arriving at his present homestead the knight suddenly realized his new responsibilities. The older boy, Lethalde estimated him to be 14 or 15 years old, could make a first-rate squire and maybe even more, guessing from his physical appearance. Naturally he had to train the boy, to tame the heathen and exorcise his pagan beliefs. But what should he do with the wailing child sitting in front of him on the war horse? He sure had no use for a child of four or five during a campaign in a barren country like this. This crying Annoying child even seemed too small to be sold as a slave Lethalde pondered, while his fierce fighting dogs greeting his arrival by tail-wagging. Disparagingly checking up the shivering bundle of fear again he soliloquised, “I shouldn’t have brought that child along anyway, he just annoys me!” Just when Lethalde decided to throw the small boy to the bloodhounds, Aenis turned his tear-stained face to him. Looking into the tear-filled eyes compassion kicked in and a thought hit the rough rider’s mind: This child could be my sister’s little son! No, I can’t feed him to the war dogs! Lethalde opted to keep Aenis and ordered: Go into the shade of the trees, you two! You need to rest like I do.

The night came and with it not only nightmares but also foot soldiers looking for sex. Zeki was aroused from sleep, when two dark figures were trying to rip off his once white, long shirt and rape him. Zeki attempted to scream for help, but he was only able to utter muffled noises, because one of the assailants covered his mouth with a hand. These noises however were enough to awaken the defensive instinct of Lethalde’s bloodhounds and they attacked the intruders. The howling of the dogs aroused the knight from his deathlike sleep. Stepping in front of his tent and watching the frightened boys he decided to take them inside. Huddling with the poor orphans in his camp bed his guilty conscience finally won.”

Now Friar Pius seemed satisfied while Friar Johannes hinted, he wanted to know more.  Anselm was able to satisfy his curiosity: “From this incident on the Flemish knight began to care for Aenis and Zeki like his own sons. Soon Lethalde, Aenis and Zeki, the two Saracens, became friends. In the encampment the two boys were soon known as “Lethalde’s Pagan Jongens”. The rough-looking knight comforted the distressed, orphaned boys and nursed the strange kids back to health. Falling for the dark-eyed boys Lethalde made Zeki his Squire and Aenis his substitute baby son. He didn’t make them into his toy-boys as some of his lewd fellow knights suggested.”

“Over the next two years Zeki developed into a proud squire, skilled with sword and lance, faithful to Lethalde and eager to defend his smaller brother. Aenis grew up to a beautiful boy affectionate and intellectually curious always trying to surpass his adoptive father’s expectations. Being sick of fighting and killing the Saracens, Lethalde decided to return to Tournay taking along his Pagan Jongens and the wealth he had gathered in the service of the pope.”

When the church bell stroke to announce the Vespers the three had to separate and Anselm had to promise to relate the next part of Aenis’ tale as soon as possible.

*.*.*

The Tempest Takes it All

Anselm, still soaked with sweat from bringing home the hay, decided to attend the Vespers despite he would have preferred a refreshing swim in the monastery’s  small pool at the far side of the rose garden. Taking a seat in the last pew he soon got goose bumps all over his back, because the rays of low standing sun shining through the colourful windowpanes were not able to heat up the air in the chapel. Nonetheless, he enjoyed the Gregorian chants which luckily didn’t last too long. After the service he tried to slip out fast to return to the Guest House, but a friar caught him, urging him to attend the evening meal in the refectory.

The refectory is a large dining room, the largest room of St. Bartholomew. Along both of its long sides wooden tables and hard chairs were lined up. At the head of the small side of the room the Abbot’s table was placed below of a big crucifix. The abbot’s chair, a high rising armchair, was in the middle of two lower armchairs, reserved for special guests.

Anselm took his seat on the table for guests in front of the abbot’s table. He let his eyes wander over to the standing desk on the window side, waiting for the evening meal to begin. The reader of the week was already waiting for the beginning of the evening meal. He was stocky and the cowl tensed around his belly. He smiled at Anselm. After the table prayer was recited by the Prior in absence of the Abbot, he opened the reading with the epistle of the day and then continued with a story about the hardship of missionaries in the Republic of Congo. Meanwhile Friar John dished out semolina pudding, the main course of the evening. When Anselm seemed to look slightly disappointed the friar poured a good serving of stewed plums on top of the pudding.

Full to the brim Anselm hardly could wait for the grace to end the evening meal because his skin was still itching from the hay. Without asking he rushed to the small swimming pool of the monastery fenced in by bushes and surrounded by a high wire-mesh fence. Lacking swimming trunks, he jumped bare-arsed into the cold water and frolicked around. Enjoying the refreshing diversion, he suddenly was alarmed by a creaking noise of the door to the pool. Hiding his lower body under the water and turning towards the little door Anselm just caught a glimpse of a black cowl closing the door. Tired as he was from the night before and the hay-making he dressed and returned to his small room in the guest house. When the bell announced the beginning of the Compline at 8 o’clock Anselm already slept like a log.

*.*.*

Anselm was raised out of his deep sleep by faint sound of thunder, turning his eyes to the open window he became aware of a small figure in the old fashioned blouse leaning against the window frame. Immediately  he recognized Aenis  even though his face was obscured by shadow. While Aenis’ moves were only vaguely perceptible, his silvery voice was clear. “I was waiting for you, my brother, but you didn’t wake up, therefore I asked a thunderstorm to arouse you.” His words were accompanied by a chuckle however, making Anselm confident that his new brother was neither able to command thunderclaps nor  lightning. Feeling his ways through to the window he approached his friend embraced him and planted a peck on his cheek. “I missed you throughout the whole day, dear Aenis. I missed you harvesting the hay, I missed you in the chapel during the Vespers and I missed you while I was skinny dipping in the pool. I wanted you to be near me all the time, every moment! I missed you so much!”

With a chuckle in his voice Aenis replied, “I know! Brothers miss each other, always.” Then batting Anselm’s bare back, “Get dressed. I want to show you my favourite place. It’s the perfect night to show you this place!” Turning his head to the open window, “Look, aren’t the streaks of lightning framing the mountaintop like a crown of diamonds frame the head of a king!” And really! The dark clouds approaching from the south had piled up above the Königsstuhl on the opposite side of the river sending showers of lightning down onto its bald peak.

Hand in hand Aenis and Anselm left St. Bartholomew’s grounds and walked up to the wellspring of the small creek supplying the swimming pool and the trout pond of the monastery with cool water. Holding hands, the they walked slowly uphill, to the left the wide meadow with the gurgling creek, to the right a beech forest climbing up the edge of the mountain. When the path entered the forest, the moonlight was blocked by the foliage of the beeches and the two walked on through the dark hands tightly entwined, till they arrived at a clearing in front of the dark cavern leading into the mountain. There was the source of the creek.

“This place was different when I first arrived. The entrance into the cave where the water of the creek seeps out of the rocks was sheltered by a sky-high oak with sweeping branches making the trees around looking like pygmy trees. Then, however, on a night like this, with high rising clouds closing in over the valley, with clouds full of thunder bolts and lightnings, the oak just vanished. Only this clearing was left, covered with ferns, mosses and flowers.” Anselm reflected Aenis’ account and after a while he dared to ask, “Why hadn’t the forest reclaimed the clearing? This event took place about 900 years ago? That’s a long time even for forests!” “No one knows, but it is told this place was once a pilgrimage site of the heathens. This may be true because the water of the spring unfolds a miraculous power, however only in one single night each year. The date of this night changes from year to year, therefore nobody can foretell the night when the water works miracles!”

Suddenly extreme loud thunderclaps drowned out the voice of Aenis followed by gusts of wind shaking the trees around the clearing, blowing leaves from shaking branches and then a rainstorm was following. Not a gentle steady rain, no, curtains of rain blocked the friends view and they were not able to see the trees on the other side of the clearing. In a heartbeat both were wet like a cat rescued from a river. Aenis took Anselm by the hand and dragged him into the entrance of the spring-cave. Shaking with cold they went down on their haunches and waited for the terrible summer storm to calm down. But soon they had to stand upright as the small creek became a raging brook. Clinging to Aenis Anselm waited for the things to come, when the pagan jongen suddenly cleared his throat and began to tell the next part of his live story. 

*.*.*

Aenis’ tale of the Wreckage at the Coast of Sicily as Recalled by Anselm:

“It was on a night like this.” Aenis pointed to the torrent of rain beating down outside the cave. “No, that night was even worse. It was the most terrible night I experienced since the days the bloodthirsty crusaders seized Jerusalem, the Golden Town. Sky-scraping waves were rocking our small sailing boat like a leaf in a thunderstorm. The sirocco had already broken the boat’s mast and torn the triangular sail to shreds while polishing the deck-planks with rough grains of sand from the African desert. The Venetian captain had gone overboard, while trying to steer the cockleshell straight north. Now not one of the crew members was able to hold the ship’s course. The frightened war-horses in the ship’s belly were running riot. The heavy creatures pounded with their hoofs the planks, while their fearful neighing was drowned out by the howling of the tempest.”

“I was clinging to the railing, seasick, puking out my guts, utterly helpless. I felt lost as lost as in the blazing house of my parents back in the Golden City. Holding onto the railing I shouted for my life. I shouted for Zeki, for Lethalde, for just anybody. But my feeble voice was drowned out the storm. When Lethalde finally came aware of my desperate situation, he made it hand over hand to me on a life-line and tried to calm me.”

Even before Anselm had digested the terrible news, Aenis commenced, “A week before the ship had left the small harbour of Akkon on the Palestinian shore and crossed the Mediterranean Sea to Cyprus. The sea was calm as we rolled from the Kyrenia towards Sicily. But out of the blue a desert storm hit our cockleshell of a boat offshore Sicily. Unexpectedly the small single-masted sailing boat was caught in the Sirocco carrying along tons and tons of red sand from the Libyan dessert. Sky-high waves were jerking and knocking about the boat for three days. All the time the Sirocco had neither slowed down, nor lost force. In the gray morning light of the third day the raging hurricane blew our boat northward, suddenly out of the sky-high waves serrated rocks of a cape of Sicily’s shore emerged in the twilight. The churning sea tossed our small boat against the rocks. It broke  into pieces. The war horses came free from the ships hold and were carried away by the waves. Lethalde was able to take hold of me and we were was washed ashore. I was whimpering like a baby. I was not able to think straight anymore.”

Anselm’s heart was beating with fear and compassion. Aenis’ report was far off the stories in newspapers he liked to devour and far off of the Robinsonades he liked. Now his heart was hammering against his rib-cage afraid of the next news. He dared to ask, “You survived? Lethalde survived? But Zeki, you brother, did he survive also?” While tonight’s thunderstorm slowly ebbed away, Aenis continued talking with closed eyes, “Wait, brother, wait! In gray morning hours Lethalde searched the beach for survivors. Stuck between rocks he found Zeki, unconscious but alive and without a single bone broken. Dragging him up the small beach he was able to reanimate him.” Aenis smiled slightly remembering the time and strengthened bis embrace around Anselm. “At noon in the pale light of an enshrouded sky we three became aware of our desperate situation. We seemed to be the only survivors. Nothing was left of the boat, not a plank, not a piece of the cargo. All the wealth Lethalde had stored in the boat’s hold was gone, all the loot he had collected at the fall of Jerusalem was drowned in the raging sea. The only ray of hope was a single war horses we found grazing upcountry.”

Slightly trembling from the memory rattling his brain, Aenis continued. “Walking inland we were arrested by a troop of lansquenets of Roger Bosso, the Great Count of Sicily. The troop of fourteen horsemen and their commander, a rough looking man, accused us of being Muslims, committing espionage for the Sultan and stealing one of the count’s valuable war horses. Without asking, they took us captive, shackled us and forced us to walk further inland. In the evening at the campfire Lethalde tried convincing the captain of our innocence but to no avail. One of the horsemen however remembered a drawing of Lethalde he had seen after the capture of Jerusalem by the crusaders. “Aren’t you Lethalde de Tournay?” he asked, “the Flemish knight entering Jerusalem as the first of the defender of our saviour?” When Lethalde affirmed his identity the Captain of the troop didn’t believe him and asked for a single combat. The Captain lost in the fight, despite he used a long sword while my new father had a thick club to defend his honour. This profoundly convinced horsemen of Lethalde’s identity and made him their new leader.”

Now Aenis relaxed like the torrent. The lightning weakened, thunderclaps fell silent and the curtains of rain turned into a slight trickle. “After some days we and the troop of lansquenets arrived at the war camp of Roger the Count of Sicily. He had wrestled Sicily from the Muslims and slowly replaced the Muslim-Greek rulers by his Norman and Lombard followers and implemented the Latin Christianity. Proud to host the famous knight, who had as the first crusader stepped into Jerusalem, he offered Lethalde to become Captain in his army. Considering the situation my new father decided to take service with the Count of Sicily and serve him. Zeki became his squire and I was allowed to become the apprentice of the Rogers feldsher, a famous scholar of Muslim creed.

Lethalde favored this arrangement as Roger’s army consisted of a motley group of Norman, Lombard and Muslim fighters. This pleased Zeki and me also as we were not forced to convert to the Christian creed. And Lethalde? He didn’t mind having the Saracen Pagan Jongens as his adopted sons.”

Jumping from one dry spot of the trail to the other Aenis and Anselm made it back to St. Bartholomew and as the paths between the flowerbeds were soaked as well, we decided to stay for the rest of the night in my small room. Sitting side by side on my bed snuggled up to one another Anselm and Aenis waited for the sunrise. They didn’t talk just enjoyed the closeness of each other dreaming up a future. At least Anselm was dreaming up a future with Aenis, he dreamed of journeys to Sicily, to Cyprus, to Jerusalem, visiting all these places together as friends, as brothers, as lovers. Closing his eyes, he began to imaginable the sky-high walls of Jerusalem before the crusaders broke breaks into the fortress ring and molested the town and their inhabitants. From photos he knew that there was no city wall surrounding Jerusalem today, but! But in his imagination, he was in the past about 900 years ago. Aenis’ tale had spurred his imagination and he couldn’t tell the present from the past.

Absorbed in his thought Anselm had fallen asleep leaning against the headboard of his small bed. When the jingling of the church bell aroused him from a deep sleep it was already the time for the Terce and to his horror he had missed the Vigils as well as the Lauds. With rumbling stomach, he scurried to the window of kitchen to ask for a late breakfast. Friar John was preparing the dinner already. Slightly surprised by Anselms request for a late breakfast first wrinkled his forehead and wagged his forefinger, but then he grinned and prepared a slice of bread thickly with sliced ham. While offering him the slice of bread he whispered conspiratorially, “The whole night active again, meeting the BOY?” he asked, “Be careful! The Abbot is back. He is a stern man and is following the papal orders strictly. Also, he does not believe in apparitions.”

Following the Sext and the dinner in the refectory Anselm was asked to come to the Abbot’s cell. When he knocked at the door of cell Anselm’s nerves fluttered and he got soft knees. Gathering all his courage he entered room anticipating a good scolding. In contrast to his expectation the Abbot’s cell was nearly as spacious as the refectory directly below. Sun rays streaming through the open window nearly blinded him. Not till his eyes were used to the brightness he caught sight of Abbot Albertus sitting behind a big writing desk. “Laudetur Jesus Christus!” he was greeted and recalling the time as an altar boy he answered with a slight stutter and a deep bow “Praised be Jesus Christ!” Waiting for the scolding he took a stand opposite the abbot hanging his head.

“Awaiting chastisement?” the abbot began the interrogation with a light smirk. “You sure deserve a good caning for braking into the crypt, however…” Albertus paused a moment, “however how could I give a caning to a boy whose was rewarded for his wrongdoing with a face to face encounter with the Mystic Healer of St. Bartholomew?”

Waiting for the impact of his speech to settle the abbot continued pointing on a chair in front of the desk, “Calm down and sit down!” After meditating for a long time he asked, “What shall I call you? What shall I do with you? Why did the Lord decide that I his simple servant have to decide about a such complicated question?” Anselm knew the abbot wasn’t addressing him but then an idea hit him, “Are you calling Aenis a Mystic Healer? I do not know if he is a mystic, for me he is real. I do not know if he is a healer, for me he is my brother!” When Abbot Albertus furrowed his brow, Anselm clarified, “Aenis, that’s his name, the mystic boy’s name. Aenis calls me his brother. He told me he likes me like his real brother, like Zeki. Mostly he does not even use my Christian name, he calls me Zeki.” When the abbot didn’t seem not to know Aenis’ story of life, Anselm began to repeat part of the narrative he had given the Friars. Being more careful however he omitted the bloodcurdling details of the capture of the Golden Town by the crusaders. While the abbot seemed to be deeply interested in his report Anselm wasn’t sure he was convinced. Therefore, he played his trump card. “You believe in God, I am right? Have you seen him face by face? Have you touched him? Have you hugged him, and has he hugged you?” he paused a moment and continued, “For two nights now I was face to face with Aenis, I was touching him, holding hands and hugging one another.” Taking a deep breath, “I was with him, in my room, in the rose garden, at the spring of the creek feeding the fish pond and the pool. I enjoyed his presence in the sweet air of the rose garden and the freezing cold air of the tempest last night.” When the Abbot seemed to be at loss, Anselm played his last card. “Have you been in love as a boy, as a teen, as a teen in my age?” Anselm fixed the Abbot Albertus, who was at least fifty years older or even sixty. “Have you been in love with a girl or a boy, when you have been in my age? No?” Figuring that this was a question Abbot Albertus would never answer voluntarily, Anselm decided to give away his secrets, “I have had a boyfriend since kindergarten and I also have had a girlfriend once. I exchanges kisses with both, however all the kisses we exchanged cannot be compared to the ones Aenis and I exchange. Previously I have never experienced feelings like these before.” Anselm’s eyes suddenly watered. Streaks of tears began running down his cheeks. Pretending to be strong, he tried to hold back his sobbing and with stiffing voice he tried to explain the inexplainable, “Aenis will leave, I know he will leave, the first day he already warned me.” While a spasmodic sobbing shook Anselm’s body, he blurted out to Abbot Albertus, he told “I have to return to the yonder world, the third world, to the blue, to the dark, as soon as you are whole again!” With a last effort Anselm implored, “Can you help me! You are a holy man!”

Witnessing Anselm’s pain, the wheels in Abbot Albertus brain set in to spin. Closing his eyes, he remembered Carrot, he remembered the boy nicknamed Carrot because of the color of his hair. The Abbot remembered Carrots eyes with the green chips in the brown iris, with the pale skin spangled with reddish freckles. His mind returned to their nightly hikes up the hills, the knuckles of their fists touching every now and then and the bolts of fire he felt the moment their knuckles came in contact with each other. He had never confessed his love to Carrot till it was too late.

Carrot left town due to a student exchange program overseas. He left town for a country high school student married immediately after graduation. Carrot returned presenting him a book of poems by his favorite songwriter and announcing the same moment, “I met a girl over there, Violet is her name, we will get married in two weeks!” The Abbot still did feel the immediate shock he had suffered. In an instant his heart was broken and from that moment on he devoted himself exclusively to his vocation and became a monk. Returning from his dream to the presence it became clear to him, he would never meet a Carrot again.

Trying to answer Anselm’s distressed cry for help, the Abbot opened his eyes, but Anselm was gone, clouds covered the sun and his cell went gloomy.

*.*.*

Anselm needed fresh air. Not that the air in the Abbot’s room was stifling hot, no, the air in the room was cool and refreshing like in the other rooms of St. Bartholomew. He needed to clear his brain. Considering his options either looking for the always happy Friar Pius in the barn or going for a swim, he decided for the latter. However, he didn’t reckon without Father John, the cook. Crossing the dark floor in front of the kitchen he called on him. “Hey Anselm, do you like strawberry preserves? Get in here. I need your help cleaning the strawberries. The chore has to be done before the Compline starts at eight o’clock. As a reward you can eat as many strawberries you want.”

Anselm hesitated, not because he did mind the chore or to gobble down strawberries, but because of Father John. The tall, ascetic friar seemed to be the most mysterious of all the members of the convent. Even when he was smiling Anselm couldn’t figure out what it meant. Reluctantly he entered the kitchen, took the apron John offered him and began to remove the green from the berries. “Did you meet the BOY?” he wanted to know, emphasizing boy. When Anselm didn’t answer, he repeated, “Did you meet the BOY from the other world?” John insisted. At first Anselm wanted to deny the contact, then however he decided to affirm it answering, “Aenis?” He nearly was singing the name. “Yes! I met Aenis!” hesitating a short moment he added, “Yes! I met Aenis and if you want to know!” He hesitated, “I am in love with Aenis! Aenis is my brother!” With not interpretable look Father John inquired, “What do you expect Aenis to be? A figure out of your dreams? An apparition? A holy apparition?” When Anselm seem not to fathom the question, Father John began to exemplify, “You sure have heard of our Lady of Lourdes and of the girl who claimed to have experienced the apparitions of a maiden dressed in white and with a blue belt around her waist, the apparition of the Virgin Mary?” When Anselm confirmed his knowledge by nodding his head, Father John continued, “This apparition is proved by miracles, by the healing power of the water of the Holy Spring. So far, your Aenis is just an imagination, a dream figure or,” Father Johannes lowered his voice, “or an evil prompting of a demon,” and after a deep-drawn sigh, crossed himself he spit out “or of Satanas!” 

These words shocked Anselm and without hesitating he turned and fled the kitchen. Throwing down the apron he vowed never to set a foot into the kitchen again and not to eat anything prepared by Father John. The rest of the day he hiked aimlessly in the wooded valley behind the monastery considering these accusations. Finally he ended up where Aenis and he had taken shelter from the thunderstorm the night before. Reflecting the days and nights before a last time he decided to write a letter to Father John.

Back in the guestroom he ripped out a page from his pocketbook and wrote, “Reverend Father John! Aenis is neither an evil ghost nor the devil’s envoy. His task is to heal. The Almighty has given him the power of healing. He came to heal the wounds I inflicted on myself by breaching his peace by entering the crypt. He didn’t take revenge, instead he made me his brother. Can a healer be an envoy of the devil? Consider this! Anselm.”

Night Hike to the Third Country 

The night came and Anselm went to bed with a growling stomach. Tired from hiking he was already asleep when a knock on the door aroused him. Feeling his way through the dim room he found a bowl with strawberries in front of the door with a small note saying: Please accept my apologies. Fr. John.

Savoring the treat in the moonlight entering through the window a barely noticeable draught startled him and a kiss proved that Aenis had appeared. “Thanks brother!” when Anselm shrugged his shoulders. Aenis explained, “Thank you for venturing to my defense. I am used to the ignorance of my monk-brother. They only believe what is sanctified by their popes as my people only hold true what our imams are reading into the quran or the rabbis are reading in into the bible. But remember there are as many truths as people are living.” Kissing Anselm again the boy from the Golden City took his hand and together they walked into the garden.

“We should climb the small tower to have a better look on the place Zeki is resting.”  Anselm hesitated, then turned to Aenis requesting information.  However Aenis didn’t wait, instead begged, “Please walk on dear Anselm, I can’t carry you to the top of the tower.” Sighing in despair he added, “My physical strength is waning.” When Anselm looked surprised, “Look at the moon. He is always circling the earth, but two nights ago he was full, and his light was strong, but today he is already waning and his light weaker. Two nights ago, I gave you all I had, my strength! my vigor! my lust for life! But tonight, my task is almost accomplished.” Just now the waning moon hid his face behind a small cloud, “Healing you was my task, Anselm my dear Brother.” Aenis added with a smile shy as a deer. When the moon left the shade of the cloud Anselm had the impression that the fine features of his new brother had become transparent. The grip of his hand was still as strong as two day ago and the air he exhaled warm and soft like ever. “And your task, my brother?” Aenis stated embracing Anselm full of confidence and hope, “You will find your task in time, like I found mine!”

Up on the tower  Aenis’ wistful mood suddenly seemed to blow away. “Look there, the town!” happily he pointed at the town downstream, “When I arrived, a long time ago, there was no cathedral, no bridge, no castle. There were just some small houses along the river and three monasteries. The one on the Heiligen Berg (Saint’s Mountain) and another one close by are gone now. Only the Niwenburg, now dedicated to St Bartholomew still exists and the mountains are looking down on it. The past is still there, and HE is still there.” Aenis held his breath for a moment, “Zeki is still up there on the mountain top! His head is pointing east, to the rising sun and the tip of his sharp sword is pointing west, to the place we all desired to go.”

Suddenly Anselm’s heart seems to break and he had a lump in his throat. Clearing his throat, he asked the only question coming to his mind, “Shouldn’t we visit the place Zeki is buried? His bones may have turned to earth, but his sword and his spirit may still hover on the place.” Aenis nodded his assent, smiled one of his matchless smiles and whispered, “You may have found your first task!”

*.*.*

They crossed the dark river with a boat Anselm retrieved from a reed bed, then traveled  the river without a noise and secured the boat at the other side. As they passed the railway underpass a late freight train scared them, but they didn’t abandon their plan.

The hike up the steep ascent to the top of the Königsstuhl started out on a well-lit trail between the lush gardens on the foot of the mountain. Soon however the well-trodden trail entered the dark forest and they had to feel their way through the dark. Both had kept silent while they crossed the gardens out of fear  of arousing the dogs in the neighborhood. Now Anselm posed the question afflicting him since their first encounter, “Aenis,” he asked in small voice, “Aenis, how did you know about me, about my mishap, my injuries? Was it when I broke into the crypt? Was it when I plunged into the sacred place and lay unconscious on the ground? Was it when I discovered your gravesite, the sealed niche grave? Was it when I stole your pendant? It was yours, the amulet I am wearing around my neck?” The night was silent for a moment. No not  completely silent, because the hollow hooting of a little owl sounded from the near village. It was so dark; therefore Anselm couldn’t see Aenis shaking his head, “No! Every one of these single incidents could have been a clue to you, my dear Anselm. However, it was something else. It was the fear, the agony you experienced in the crypt!” “But I wasn’t afraid, maybe I was shocked!” Anselm retorted angrily, then however he swallowed his pride, “Yes, you are  right! I was afraid and I was desperate nobody would find me down in the crypt, this dungeon with the sealed off door. I knew even my mother wouldn’t miss me for days, as she was on a trip.” Slowing down he waited for Aenis to stop also, “Now I remember! The star on the lid of your niche grave energized me. Immediately I felt the impulse to open the grave and as soon as I touched the pendant it made my spirit raise, all weakness left, the pain in the head vanished and all my strength and curiosity returned.”

After a long while Aenis voice chanted the answer, “Kindred spirits do not need one special incident. Kindred spirits are connected since the beginning of all things. Our spirits got in touch the moment Friar Pius awakened your interest for the crypt. He was just the guide marked out from fate. The whole plan to unveil the secrets of the crypt has its origin in our kindred souls.” Anselm didn’t fully comprehend Aenis revelation. Yes, he and Aenis were kindred spirits that he knew from the very first moment he did bend down to him in the first night. But Aenis’ talk about destiny and fate? Anselm didn’t comprehend; he didn’t even want to comprehend. He threw his arms around Aenis, pressed him to his breast and placed the head upon his shoulder. As Aenis did likewise, Anselm could hear the blood rush through their veins. He felt the synchrony of their knocking hearts.

Aenis’ tale of the double-dealing of Pope Paschal and the abduction to St. Bartholome as recalled by Anselm

“Remember my dear Brother Lethalde and we his Pagan Jongens were hired as lansquenets by Roger, the respectable Count of Sicily. Lethalde was appointed captain of a troop, Zeki became his squire and I, after making a vow never to kill a man, neither in a quarrel nor in combat, became the apprentice of a famous Muslim feldsher. Later I joint my father’s troop because I wanted to stay with my Zeki.”

The times were cruel in the dark middle age and Lethalde’s task was to pacify and secure the borders of Roger’s principality, which comprised not only the island of Sicily itself but the southern part of the Italian peninsular. In no time the boldness and trustiness of Lethalde’s small army spread and became known not only in Roger’s realm but also in the neighboring Duchies and last but not least in the counties constituting the essentials part of the Pope Paschalis’ area of influence.”

“Pope Paschalis had followed Pope Urban, the instigator of the first crusade. However, neither the regime of Pope Urban nor that of Pope Paschalis was beyond dispute in Catholic world. There always were other church dignitaries contesting the legitimacy of the bishop of Rome as the head of the Christendom. These adversaries called each other antipopes. Pope Paschalis’ antipope was Pope Sylvester and vice versa. While Sylvester was supported by the Emperor of the German Empire and aristocracy of Rome, Pope Paschalis was backed by the Norman-French monarchs, the count of Sicily and the countess of Tuscany.”

“Pope Sylvester, the archpriest of St.Angelo was enthroned in the Lateran in the absence of Pope Paschalis. Receiving this message Paschalis returned immediately to displace the usurper from Petri’s chair. Immediately he was not successful as the Emperors troops, essentially the soldiery of the Count of Acona and of his captain Berto, defended the antipope Sylvester. As soon as the count’s lansquenets joint forces with the soldiery of the nobles of Rome Paschalis had to take shelter in San Bartolomeo all’Isola, a monastery on an island in the river Tiber. There he held court in the gloomy premises waiting for the troops of his allies to relieve him and secure his regime.”

“Patrolling the northern border of Count Roger’s kingdom Lethalde and his troop  were immediately dispatched by his sovereign to relieve Pope Paschalis and to oust Antipope Sylvester. Count Roger wasn’t the only ally of Pope Paschalis. While the Kingdom of Sicily was in the South of the Papal State, Tuscany was in the North. The Countess Mathilda of Tuscany was an enemy of the German Emperor and supported Pope Paschalis.”

“Arriving in the Holy City and Lethalde and his troop forced their passage through the heavily guarded southern town gate. The troop got a hearty welcome from the citizens of the poorer quarters, like day laborers, craftsmen and farmers. The common people hailed the troop and offered water to the thirty soldiers and their horses. This changed as Lethalde’s troop made it closer to the center of the city. The small houses mutated to small mansions, to fashionable palazzi and finally to castles encased by walls and moats. With the size of the mansions the attitude of the citizens changed. Now the troop was welcomed by tirades instead of cheers, by rotten vegetables and dead cats instead of bread and of flowers and the jugs of water changed to chamber pots full of piss and shit. Disgusted and more than tired from the offensive welcome of the nobles of Rome the troop finally crossed the bridge to the Island of San Bartolomeo.”

“Now I got completely shocked. Instead of the expected clean and well-ordered military camp we had to move through an agglomeration of stalls and shacks and multicolored tents. Soldiers seemed to make up only a small minority of the population, most of the folks seemed to be peddlers, quacks, shams and what irritated me even more was the sheer number of common women and harlots identifiable by yellow ribbons. Some of the harlots didn’t seem to be older than eight- or ten-years others were old toothless wrenches. Even young boys did carry these yellow ribbons, marking them as available to everyone for a copper coin.”

Before we even could settle down Lethalde was ordered to appear before Pope Paschalis. I later I learned it was not because of his fame as the first knight to enter the Golden City but as the protector of the Pagan Jongens. This was the name known for Zeki and me throughout Italy.”

Anselm wondered, “They named you his Papan Jongens? Zeki and you? You still were not respected as Lethalde’s righteous sons? They still called you pagans, heathens? They still thought of you as monsters?”

After a second thought however, Anselm was not surprised anymore, because he remembered, Aenis was talking about the times of around 1100 AD and today this time is known as the dark middle ages. Therefore, Anselm shrugged the shoulders as Aenis just retorted, “Even so! Pope Paschalis held court in the basilica. The nave was murky as hell, with small darkened windows, illuminated by flickering candles only. At first, I could only detect his throne set up in the front of the high altar. The throne was high and looked empty. But then I could sense someone crouched in the dark hole of the throne and then I came aware of the refection of the candle lights in the eyes of a dark shape staring at me like a sorcerer. Then a pale hand emerged out of the dark shape. The spidery fingers mentioned me closer, not Lethalde, not Zeki his squire, NO! The spider fingers waved me closer and closer and then touched my face. A squeaky voice asked, “You are the heathen declining our Lord mercy?” The squeaking voice and the icy fingers let my hair stand on end. I got even more frightened when then the voice uttered, “Your skin is soft!” When he started to ruffle my hair and his voice went on, “Your hair is soft like the coat of a newborn lamb!” I backed off an inch. The pope took hold of my hair. “You smell sweet and young and innocent! You have to share my bed tonight, pagan boy!” Then a head emerged from the bundle of cloth he had been hiding in and I saw the face of Pope Paschalis for the first time. A face with a crooked nose, like the peak of an eagle and lips so small you could hardly discern them in the face. He leaned over to a Cardinal by his side, “Make sure the little pagan shares my bed tonight! I need his blood!”

Just in this moment a horn signal drew the attention of the audience to the entrance of San Bartholomae. Through the open church gate, a company of colorful dressed soldiers approached on horseback headed by a boy of about 12 to 13. He was riding a white gelding on a saddle adorned by silver, fitting to his chain mail of silver. He didn’t wear a coif. Instead his blond hairs fell in curls to his shoulders.

Immediately I was of no interest to Pope Paschalis anymore. He shooed me away while his eyes lit up. Rising from his throne he rushed to the incomers and embraced the dismounting boy. He kissed his brow and patted him affectionately under the chin. Then Pope Paschalis guided the boy to the throne, where they took place side by side. From this moment on neither I nor Lethalde or Zeki were of any interest to Pope Paschalis. We left. Later I was told the boy was the nephew of the Countess of Tuscany and the pope’s preferred toy.”

This vivid report saddened Anselm and embracing Aenis he became aware his new brother was shaking. “Should we go back to the monastery? Look Aenis, it’s still a shorter way to go back, then to hike to the top.” But Aenis declined. “It’s time to visit Zeki’s last resting place. We have to hurry up to get there and greet the rising sun together with him.”

Aenis rose and Anselm had to drag him, because suddenly the strength of his body seemed to dwindle. They hardly made it to the next bench some hundred meters further up to the top of the Königsstuhl. While they paused for breath Aenis let him know the next part for his adventure that finally ended on top of this mountain.

*.*.*

“During this night the island of St.Bartholomae was attacked from three sides. While foot soldiers attempted to cross the bridge to the island, boats manned with archers approached the island from the water. Pope Paschalis concerned with the security of his young guest, the Duke of Tuscany, appealed to Lethalde to rescue his toy boy, get him out of Rome and escort him back to the countess of Tuscany. Lethalde didn’t hesitate a moment and in the gray morning we took our way across the Ponte Cestio to take the road to the castle of the center of Mathilda’s realm.”

“Our charge was wearing the gray cowl of a novice with his hair covered by a hood. Nobody of our troop could see his face. Also, the white gelding wasn’t used therefore everyone watching us, should have been confident a common novice was riding behind Lethalde. Our troop counted about two dozen lansquenets. Zeki, my friend Khaled, a black skinned giant from beyond the Mediterranean Sea and I took the rearguard.”

“While the fight around the island was raging, we crossed the bridge the hoofs of our horses covered with soft cloth to deaden the noise. At first all went well. The narrow streets were deserted and the only sound disturbing the peace of the night was the plop-plop of the bandaged hoofs of the horses on the cobbled paving.”

Aenis looked up to the nightly sky. Dark firs concealed the moon and only some stars were twinkling. He tried to smile as far as Anselm could observe. Anselm touched Aenis hand. The touch startled his new brother out of his thoughts. He cleared his throat. “When we were halfway to the gate in the city wall, horn signals alarmed the night. At first the signals came from the northern part of the city only, soon however others were coming from the southern quarters also. “They are coming!” Zeki warned us. “The hunt is on its way!” We tried to up the speed of our horses. Then, however we came to circular place with a fountain in its center and about five alleys running in different directions. We were lost. Which way was leading to the city gate? While he thought we were stranded, the young monk took the lead shaking down his hood and pointed to the second alley. “Let’s take this one, it leads us straight to the gate!” he hollered. Immediately we knew, the Pope had cheated us, he had committed a fraud. The alleged novice wasn’t the nephew of Mathilda of Tuscany, it was one of the boys earning their living as joy boy. None the less Lethalde took the road, just as sound of our hunters was drawing nearer.”

*.*.*

The Porta Settimania leading out of Rome was closed for the night. Lethalde tried persuading the guards to open the gate showing a letter of Pope Paschalis granting free passage. It didn’t work. Therefore, he forced them to open up the small door beside the main gate with bare blade. While most of the lansquenets managed to squeeze through the narrow opening, the rearguard, that was I, Zeki, Khaled and two more lansquenets were still inside the city wall when the mercenaries of the Count of Acona arrived and cut us off.”

Immediately a tough fight between us and the count’s mercenary broke out. Zeki and Khaled tried to defend me, knowing that I never was reared using a sword or any other deadly weapon. While I was attacked from behind Khaled was deadly wounded giving me shelter by his body. “

“What happened then I can’t remember. When I regained consciousness, I saw Khaled and the two other soldiers on the ground stabbed by swords and Zeki with bound hands and feet thrown over the back of a horse. Still before dawn Zeki and I were presented hogtied to Berto the Captain of soldiery of Werner the Count of Acona. At first Berto tried to interrogate Zeki, however my dear brother had lost blood to an extent that he fainted continuously despite Berto’s men tried to keep him awake by pouring cold water over his head. Then Berto turned to me, asking with harsh voice what our task had been. At first, I declined to answer, then I tried to fool him pretending we were on our way back to the Kingdom of Sicily. However he knew better. A spy or Pope Paschalis himself had sent to him the purpose and destiny of Lethalde’s convoy. His only answer was, “Don’t fool me boy, the famous Lethalde had to escort the Price of Tuscany safely to his mother.” I shook my head. Initially I didn’t want to betray Pope Paschalis, despite his double-dealing. However, as Zeki’s health got worse and worse, I told him of the Pope’s fraud. Thinking over the details of my account, Berto decided, “Your brother is severely wounded, go ahead and try all you can to keep him alive! Dead hostages are not worth a bulrush to the Count of Acona.”

“Three days later, Zeki’s condition had change to the better, Berto ordered us to get on a small two-wheeled dungeon car. “It’s the Emperor’s will, not mine! It’s his order! He wants everybody to see with own eyes the two pagan boys, who survived the conquest of the Lords City by our Holy Army. He has given order to put you on display in a dungeon car in every city, every village and at every fair all over his empire.”

From this moment on, my wounded brother and I were displayed behind bars like wild animals. We were displayed like tiger, lions and bears. Even worse! The dungeon car  was marked with the following inscription: HEATHENS! HUMAN TRASH! SCUM OF THE EARTH! We were exposed to the curiosity, the hatred and spitefulness of nobles, citizen, farmers and vagabonds on the way across the Alps and along the river Rhine River. Our guards had a hard time to defend our life. The ordeal ended when the Prince Archbishop of Mainz decided to give us into the custody of the newly founded Monastery of St. Bartholomew. That was our luck, my luck at least.“

“In the care of the friars my body was able to recover from the deprivations of this ordeal but the health of my dear Zeki took a turn to the worse. His physical strength declined from day to day and on the thirtieth day in the care of St. Bartholomew Zeki was only the shadow of his own.”

“In the night following this thirtieth day he asked, “Dear Aenis before I wilt away, I have to see my hometown again!” I knew I wouldn’t be able to fulfill his last wish. He was far too weak to master this dangerous voyage back to the Golden City. I racked my brain to find a way to fulfill his last wish. I tried to do the best in my power. I carried him to the top of the Königsstuhl to watch the sun rise in the east, in the hills behind the Golden City. I did it and he stayed at this place forever.”

Aenis’ body was shaking in black despair recalling these details. Anselm tried hard to sooth him. He embraced his new brother in an attempt to calm him while he himself was close to tears. “Aenis, my brother, remember that was nearly a thousand years ago!” As soon as Anselm uttered these words, he became aware that this was no comfort at all. Aenis seeing it the same way, pushed him back. “No, no! This day will always stay in my heart! The day I lost my brother!”

After a deep breath he smiled at Anselm, a very weak smile indeed and pleaded “Can you help me dear brother to reach top of the mountain, where Zeki’s body is sleeping!” Then he paused, “You’ll find his resting place even if I am not any longer around. I marked it with a star, the same star you know from the crypt.”

Aenis and Anselm started for the last part of their voyage to the top of the Königsstuhl. But after about one third up the trail all strength of Aenis’ legs was gone. Anselm took his new-found brother on his back and carried him to the top.

They arrived at the clearing on the mountain top just as the first rays of the morning sun gilded the stone slab besides an old oak tree. White flowering blackberry surrounded the slab and his face was covered by moss and liches. “That’s Zeki’s place!” Aenis gestured to the slab. “Thanks for carrying me up there! I have only one task now. I have to show you the star!”

Anselm put Aenis down on top the stone slab, where he immediately began to search its surface for the star. “Here it is my brother! Feel it with your own fingers. The star is there!” While Anselm traced the faint notches with his fingers, Aenis advised him, “Sit down in the soft moss by the stone, lean back and enjoy the sunrise above the Golden City.” After a long pause he added with a deep sigh, “I am so tired! I need to rest for a while! I need to sleep!”

Anselm didn’t turn around to look back at Aenis, because he sensed this was the end. He squatted down in the moss squinting towards the rising sun because his heart told him, Aenis would lay down on the bed of stone and vanish the way he suddenly had shown up in his room three nights ago. His beating heart told him, they wouldn’t meet again. Just before he fell asleep a soft hand ruffled his hair. It was Aenis’ last farewell.

*.*.*

Epilogue

Voices aroused Anselm and somebody shook him by the shoulder. “Are you sick young man?” The concerned voice of a woman asked. “Your forehead is hot, are you sick?” Anselm needed some moments to come back into reality. With eyes still close he shook his head, “No, no! I just fell asleep.” Opening the eyes he asked, “What time is it?” “About nine in the morning.” the dark voice of the middle-aged man answered. “Then I slept more than four hours. I fell asleep, just at sunrise!” Anselm rose, stretched himself and yawned. “Need some coffee!” the man offered. When the woman poured him a cup of coffee from the vacuum flask she warned, “It’s strong and very hot, don’t burn your tongue!” “Thanks.” Anselm bowed his head slightly and explained, “We……” he hesitated a moment and looked down to the ground and then to the stone with the star, “I……, I did a night walk. I wanted to see the sun rise in the east on top of the mountain! Now I have to hurry back to the monastery. I am already late for breakfast.”

After bowing his head slightly to the strangers, he left. As soon as he entered the small trail down to river, he instinctively felt for the pendant with the Arabic characters he had found in the niche grave. His fingers couldn’t feel it. He felt for the string of the amulet around his neck. It was missing! He was sure he had worn the pendant the evening before, as he had worn it around his neck since the day, he had met Aenis. The pendant was gone! He considered returning to the stone slab with the star, Zeki’s last resting place, but he decided against it. If he had lost it, it was Aenis’ will! His heart said so. Tears started running down his face, he sobbed like he had never before. Halfway down the mountain his tears had dried and with this last sob he was sure the nights with Aenis had passed forever. But he also knew the nights with Aenis, and all of his tales were now a part of himself, a part he had to be proud of.

*.*.*

“We were worried! Where have you been? We missed you!” the booming voice of Friar Pius welcomed him at the Monastery’s gate. “We were concerned after you didn’t turn up for breakfast. I looked for you in your room. Your backpack was still there, so I was sure you were still around.” Heaving a sigh of relief, “Your mother has called. She is back. Here, take the phone, she is worried!”

Moments later he had her on the line, “I am fine! Mom!”……“Don’t worry! I am really fine. I did a night walk.”……”No, no! I did it all alone. I hiked up to the Königsstuhl. I had to celebrate my last night in the monastery!”……“No, No Mom! I really liked it here, they are all so nice, even the abbot.”…… “I even made friends. You have to make the acquaintance of Friars Pius and Johannes, too!”…… “No, you do not have to pick me up! I will get the bus at eleven-thirty and be at home around at noon.”…… “Sooner? No, I can’t make it. I have to say good-bye to all. I have to express my thanks to everybody, especially to the abbot and my friends!”

At 11.30 Anselm took the bus. He was dressed like the day his endeavour started. In his backpack however he carried two jars of strawberry, a gift of Father John, the cook and a bottle of fresh milk for his mother from Friar Pius.

The bus was fully occupied. Only a single seat was left besides a teen of about 13 or 14. The blond boy was absorbed in a book and Anselm got curious. When the bus suddenly stopped with screeching brakes, he took the possibility to pump into his neighbor. “Sorry! I didn’t want to disturb you!” When the boy smiled back, Anselm’s heart told him, he had just met Aenis a second time. After a second thought he dismissed this idea. His imagination had played a trick on him. To bridge the gap to the stranger he asked, “I think I know this book. It’s called Geography Club, isn’t it?” and then, “Do you like it?” The boy nodded, “It’s a great story! I have to read it for school! At first, I thought it’s kind of boring, but now.” Anselm smiled at his neighbor, “Yes Brent Hartinger is a good writer. I got the whole Russel Middlebrook series. I could lend you the books, but we are probably not living in the same town. I never saw you there. I live in Hirschhorn!” “I’m too! Now! We just moved there during the summer holidays.” “That’s great! Then we will attend the same school and I can lend you out some of the books if you like.” After a moment Anselm added, “We should exchange addresses. My name is Anselm. Do you think it’s a funny name? It’s not common nowadays, but it’s the name of a famous medieval philosopher, of Anselm of Canterbury!” The blond boy countered, “My name is kind of unusual too! It’s Ennis. It’s Gaelic, meaning island.”

Surprised Anselm paused for a moment, breathed hard while tears started to pour down his face, “I had a friend whose name sounded like yours.” When he met the questioning eyes of Ennis, “He has left the country! My Aenis has left for  another world, the third country!”

The End

Thanks to The Story Lover and to Colin Kelly for editing!