“Ulrik,” said the brother looking straight into the prince’s eyes. “I suppose I need to thank you for my new assistant.”
“That’s me,” chimed in Edgar in answer to Ulrik’s puzzled look. “Brother Salvador says Edgar got a nature eye.”
“A natural eye,” corrected Salvador, “It doesn’t take him long to identify the right plant from the wrong one. I show him what I need, send him out, and he brings it back right away. Not many assistants can do that. Most of the ones I’ve tried to train before couldn’t tell a cowslip from a dandelion.”
“Edgar can,” he said, smiling as far as his scarred face would allow. He leaned over and put his face next to the Brother’s for Ulrik to compare. “Brother Salvador says we like twins.”
Brother Salvador smiled briefly, then grumbled, “Enough of that stuff. Let’s get back to work.” Ulrik left them to their tasks, knowing that his friend had found a place he could never have found at the castle- a home and a true vocation.
When Ulrik entered the chapel he had to ask whether it was Wednesday or Thursday because Prester John was leading the service instead of the abbot. When he was told it was Wednesday his confusion increased because Wednesday was always the abbot’s day. While Ulrik tried to get his teacher’s attention, Prester John made a point of ignoring him throughout the service.
Following the prayer service, Prester John instructed the prince to follow him to the abbot’s study. Ulrik struggled to keep up with his teacher’s long strides.
As soon as Ulrik saw Abbot Peter’s face, he knew this meeting was about him. His stomach churned with anxiety.
“Ulrik,” said the abbot, moving close to him. “We’ve received information regarding your father.”
The word “dead” caught Ulrik in the throat; a word so empty he couldn’t bring himself to pronounce it.
“No, he’s not dead,” added the abbot, almost reading the prince’s mind, “but his condition is graver than we had believed. Ulrik, my son, there is more.” He motioned Ulrik to sit down on a bench in the study and then joined him. “The wizard’s power is increasing. I don’t know what he is up to. Our friends haven’t been able to tell us much . . .”
“Helga!” Ulrik exclaimed with fear in his eyes.
“She’s fine, as far as we know. She has a remarkable strength and trust in God. She’s the last one I’d worry about. The first one, Ulrik, is you,” said the abbot. Ulrik’s eyes quizzed him.
“You’re my first worry because you must leave right away. Your father and the kingdom need you back safe and whole, and I have little idea what dangers you will encounter on the way. I’m sending Prester John with you. You still need to complete your education and he may prove to be the company you’ll need for the journey.”
Prester John shifted uncomfortably, not sure of what to say or do until at last he broke the silence. “We’d best get packing. We should leave while it’s cool. I’ll help you pack,” he said before exiting quickly.
“Prester John carries far too heavy a load,” Abbot Peter commented.
Back in Ulrik’s room, Prester John gave out the instructions, “Pack as lightly as possible, little more that the clothes on your back. Much else gets too heavy. The pack pony will carry our food and water. Now show me what you plan to pack.” Ulrik told him he had no pack, for all he owned had been left behind on the sky-ship. “Take mine, I’ve an extra.” Prester John tossed a very worn pack on the bed. “Make sure you don’t over-pack it. Leave yourself extra room in it. You’ll need it.” The teacher left the prince to his packing.
Ulrik easily followed the instructions because he had accumulated little since his arrival- an extra set of clothes, a broad-brimmed hat, an apron from the bakery, and his mother’s Enchiridion. This most precious object he carefully wrapped in a shirt and placed in the pack. He would return the apron to Henry and Ethel.
In the courtyard a crowd had started to gather. The abbot, in his chapel vestments, stood beside the pack pony arguing with Prester John. The argument was cut short when the abbot raised his voice and said, “No, you don’t have a choice. You will take it and you will teach the boy. Being a servant of God’s Church doesn’t mean amnesia regarding old skills.” Prester John accepted the answer but didn’t like it, for while the others collected in the center of the courtyard from various corners of the abbey he remained to one side, near the pony.
“Farewell and Godspeed” was the rite used to bid them good-bye, which explained why Abbot Peter wore his vestments. Edgar stood alongside Brother Salvador; Henry and Ethel stood near, still lightly dusted with flour; Father William, whom Ulrik wished he’d gotten to know better, also stood nearby along with the rest of the abbey’s community.
Abbot Peter kept the service brief to give the well-wishers time to make their good-byes. Henry and Ethel gave Ulrik a loaf of very heavy bread. “This is my great-grandmother’s recipe. She called it ‘Hunger Bread’ to be eaten when all else was gone. It’s nothing like Helga’s. No one in God’s creation can bake like that woman, I tell you. Our bread may not taste like much but if you take a small amount and keep on chewing it until your jaws ache, it’ll fill you up and keep you going. But don’t eat it until you absolutely have to. It’ll keep fresh through anything as long as it’s tightly wrapped,” Ethel explained, and after giving him a great hug said, “I pray you’ll never need to eat it.”
Henry almost wrenched Ulrik’s arm loose by shaking it so much, tears flowing from the baker’s eyes, “Damn it, look at me crying so much. God bless you, Ulrik.”
Several others came by to bid their farewells; some Ulrik knew only by sight. Only a few bade Prester John good-bye, who was still waiting by the pony.
Edgar was the last to say good-bye. Because of the bright sun in the courtyard he kept his wide-brimmed hat on. Clothed in loose white robes, he looked like a larger version of Brother Salvador. Edgar paced back and forth rehearsing what he was about to say. Finally, he went over to the prince. “Uley got Prester John to take care of Uley now. He’s good, strong too. Edgar stay here. Edgar’s face is ugly out there,” he said, pointing off to the horizon. “Not here with Brother Salvador and friends. Uley be all right?”
“Edgar, you’ve been my friend for as long as I can remember. You’ve taken good care of me. Helga would be proud. But now you’re needed here. God bless you, Edgar, and I know he will. Like our friend Christian always said to us, ‘Pax et Bonum.’” Ulrik reached out his arms to embrace his friend, but Edgar had a different plan; he grabbed Ulrik and threw him onto his back, knocking off his own hat and laughing like they were back in the castle kitchen. With the hat gone, Ulrik saw the rawness of the scars and knew that the abbey was the best place for him.
“Edgar! Put him down and put on your hat!” scolded Brother Salvador running across the courtyard to them. “The sun is far too bright for you. For heaven’s sake, put your hat on.” Edgar quietly obeyed, looking like he had been caught doing something naughty.
The abbot interrupted their good-byes by calling Ulrik and Prester John over for the final blessing. They knelt in front of him. He put his hands on their heads and prayed: “Almighty God, creator of heaven and earth, look with love and tenderness upon John and Ulrik as they make their journey on unknown paths. Protect them through storms and dangers and all that may beset them. Grant them traveling mercies, O Lord. In Jesus name….” And the crowd responded with a strong “Amen.”
After the travelers rose to their feet an oddly shaped man whom Ulrik had occasionally seen came around the corner. His back curved in as much as his enormous belly hung out. He smoked a deeply curved pipe, giving the appearance he was made from a collection of S’s. He waddled towards them, striving to keep himself from tipping forward.
“Porter!” called Abbot Peter, “are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, sir. The desert looks clear for the next few days so we shouldn’t have a rough go. I just need my pack.” He gave a sharp whistle and two boys came out struggling with an enormous pack, larger than the one the pony carried. With their help, he hoisted it into the curve of his back with the weight pulling him upright. “Ah, that’s better,” he sighed. “It’s well loaded and balanced to boot. We should make good time.”
“Porter will lead you through the desert to the base of the mountains. He reads the desert better than anyone. He’s carrying enough to get you through so you can save your supplies until you need them. One last thing, Ulrik, do you still have the map?”
The map. Ulrik hadn’t thought of it since his arrival. He remembered he had placed it in the nightstand of his room. He was about to run and get it when the abbot stopped him and instructed the porter’s boys to fetch it. They shot off like rabbits, stumbling over each other to be the first there and back.
“Nagel made some incredible maps in his time,” the abbot commented to Ulrik. “Yours is one of the most remarkable. He was a cartographer who once lived and worked here. He would have visitors and messengers coming in from all over the world, giving him bits of information that he used to complete these wondrous maps. I can still almost see him hunched over his drawing board, a green eye shade pulled over his forehead. Fortunately for his sake, he passed before the dark time came.” The boys returned with the map. Ulrik unfolded it for the first time in many weeks. Rather than looking worse for wear, it looked rejuvenated, as if the time in the abbey allowed it to heal. He unrolled it to see what changes may have taken place. The places where he’d been had faded from the page. In the center was the abbey sharply drawn with the brilliant colors Father William described to him and bore the label: Abbey of Santa Sophia. New to the map was a well-defined mountain range with a spot near the top of the mountain labeled, “Where the Wind Is Born.”
“Let’s go, sun’s almost down,” called Porter, and he set off. He had become a sure-footed, fast-moving travel guide instead of the waddling man met earlier. Prester John led the pack pony, and Ulrik walked on the pony’s other side. The setting sun cast its shadows long and deep across the desert floor as they stepped forward into their own silhouettes.
Porter maintained his speed during the seven days through the desert. The full moon lit their way although no amount of darkness would have stopped the resourceful Porter. He knew every rock, dune, and place of shade. During the day they slept, always in relative comfort, thanks to their guide’s knowledge. Their journey fell into a regular pattern. Rising at dusk, Porter, without his pack for balance, would waddle about fixing breakfast. Prester John would teach Ulrik the lessons from the Enchiridion. With the Commandments finished, they went on to the first part of the Creed. Prester John closed their meal with prayers and a devotion. Porter surprised them with his deep resounding voice that filled the desert with music of the hymns. Prester John’s devotions brought little fulfillment. Ulrik got the sense that his teacher was preaching as much to himself as to them and with little conviction. The right words were in the right place, but little heart could be found. Rather than listen, Ulrik’s mind wandered off into the desert.
The rhythm of their trek ended when they neared the mountain, close to where the map’s label read, “Where the Wind is born.” Porter’s pack drooped because more than half of its contents had been consumed. He replaced the lost weight with sand, “To keep my balance,” he said. He pointed them to a path leading up the mountain, a path easily discerned from the base and he bade them farewell. He loaded his pipe, lit it, and headed back over the desert toward the abbey leaving puffs of smoke behind him.
Prester John ignored Ulrik’s questions as they worked their way up the winding path, the teacher taking the lead through the narrows. Ulrik picked up on his teacher’s tense alertness and began to scan the vicinity for something—not sure what he was looking for. Occasionally, Prester John would bring them to a soundless halt so he could listen, as if he could draw out a warning hidden in the cracks and fissures of the rocks. He signaled for an early stop in a broad area surrounded by tall rocks. Ulrik unpacked the pony’s bags. A glimmer of metal caught by the late afternoon sun flashed out from under the pack. He reached for it when he was abruptly shouldered to the ground by this teacher. Landing hard in the dust, Ulrik looked up to Prester John, his shock turning to fear when he saw a dangerous look arising from his teacher: a cold, defensive stare of warning. Ulrik scuttled backwards in the dust, like a crab, to get away.
Prester John’s expression turned from warning to anguish. He collapsed to his knees on the ground by the fire, face buried in his hands and he cried out, “The abbot ordered me to bring it. I didn’t want the accursed thing. I never wanted to see it again. Forgive me God; forgive me Ulrik; forgive me . . .” Darkness fell on the inconsolable man languishing in the dust.
“What have we here?” sneered a voice from the darkness, beyond the range of the fire’s small circle of light. Prester John broke from his mourning, threw a fistful of dry stubble into the fire and backed out of the quick-flamed blaze of light. “Move back,” hissed Ulrik’s teacher under his breath, “get out of the light.” Ulrik obeyed.
“Too late for that, I know that trick. We’ve been watching you for some time. I know only the two of you are here—poor lonely travelers, all alone in a great big dangerous desert. We thought we’d come and offer protection.” Laughter filled with hate and bloodlust broke out from all sides coming from men who lived only to satisfy callous appetites.
“Push them back into the light,” the voice from the darkness commanded. The sound of horses pawing and stamping the ground drove Ulrik and Prester John back to the fire. The campfire’s light revealed encircling horses and the men hard, vicious, and devoid of all mercy. Prester John’s body tensed; he transfigured from pastor and teacher to warrior, as long-buried memories resurfaced. He started to edge closer to the pony.
“Let’s take a closer look at our new friends,” said the leader as he jumped from his horse and swaggered close to the light. “A pretty boy and a very ugly man.” The others laughed again, their laughter strangling out the courage remaining in Ulrik. The leader went up to Ulrik and inspected him from all angles, “Pretty indeed, almost as pretty as the boys of Chalendera; just a bit of peach-fuzz not worthy of a barber’s attention. But maybe I can help.” He pulled a dagger from his belt and held the blade against Ulrik’s cheek. Thrusting his face into Ulrik’s, with a diabolical gleam in his eyes, he said, “My shaving skills aren’t keen. I may nick his precious skin.” He spoke loudly, getting the desired rise from the others. Ulrik winced when the knife sliced his cheek. “Look at that. I nicked my customer.”