Bloodline: of Peasants, Pilgrims and Poets

By Larry Warkentin

Bloodline spans a thousand years of murder, sex, suicide and insanity,balanced by faith, family loyalty, pacifism and pilgrimage. It follows a family from the Middle Ages in Holland to the Twentieth Century in Oklahoma. The family chooses a unique faith--Anabaptist-Mennonite--and for that reason they are hounded across Europe by the political and religious establishment. The historical details have been carefully researched, however most of the characters are fictionalized. Each character is a storyteller speaking in the first person. Dialogue is written without quotation marks
and identification of the persons speaking must be determined from the words spoken.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477131091

Larry Warkentin

Larry Warkentin‘s writing experience includes seven years as classical music critic for the Fresno Bee with a circulation of 200,000. He has published articles on Mennonite genealogy as well as academic articles on music. Three major sections of Bloodline have been broadcast by Fresno’s NPR station on “Valley Writers Read”. Bloodline is his first novel. His family history gives Bloodline its title. He holds a doctorate from the University of Southern California and is professor emeritus at Fresno Pacific University. He and his wife Paula live in Fresno, California and are members of North Fresno Mennonite Brethren Church.

Book preview

Bloodline

Of Peasants, Pilgrims and Poets

Larry Warkentin

Copyright

© 2012 by Larry Warkentin.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911008

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4771-3108-4

Softcover 978-1-4771-3107-7

Ebook 978-1-4771-3109-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

Prologue

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

XXXIX

XL

XLI

XLII

XLIII

XLIV

XLV

XLVI

XLVII

XLVIII

XLIX

L

LI

LII

LIII

LIV

LV

To my family:

past, present and future.

Prologue

It could be any tree in any yard; ancient, gnarled by storms and passing seasons; growing from a single seed dropped in moist soil uncounted years ago; nourished by unseen roots, renewed by scion and seed. The scenes witnessed by its leaves, if stained by sunset rain and brushed by breezes across the level polders of The Netherlands would humble the hands of Rembrandt and Vermeer.

I stand by this ancient linden tree in a hidden corner of Gelderland and hear its memoirs and myths. Trees cannot speak, yet I listen. The branches move, the leaves mummer, stirred by unseen wind. What is it that I hear?

You too are seed planted in moist soil. You too hold history in your heart. Your eyes preserve paintings. Remember, remember, remember Eve, Sarah, Bathsheba, Esther, Ruth, Mary, Beatrice, Eleanor, and Anna. Life begins with you. Life begins before you and follows you. Remember, remember . . . .

I have flown across the great ocean, wandered narrow lanes, searched dusty documents to stand at the center of my universe. The long story begins and ends here. I remember the Creator in the days of my youth and in the days of my dying. What are we that God is mindful of us? We are but dust. Yet we breathe the breath of God. We search the tree of good and evil and fill our basket with its fruit; knowledge and wisdom.

The stirring ceases. The message continues to echo in my mind. Here in the shadow of Zutphen, in the village of Warken, in the small circle of cottages and plowed fields where tender buds are nourished, leaves unfold and branches mature, the story begins . . . .

Bloodline

Jan and Anna of Warken, 1200-1270 Warken, Gelderland (The Netherlands)

They moved to Lübeck and finally to Rostock where Jan became known as Johann Nicholas Verken, director of Verken Brewery. The Rostock city archive preserves his name in a legal document dated 1260.

Aron and Harmon of Warken 1225-1300

Twin sons of Jan of Warken, later known as Aron Verken and Harmon Janson

Margarita (Verken) von Blisecow 1230-1300 Rostock, Mecklenburg (Germany)

Daughter of Johann Verken, wife of Herman von Blisecow

Jan von Blisecow 1255-1330 Rostock, Mecklenburg (Germany)

Son of Margarita and Herman, grandson of Johann (Jan) Verken

- - - - - - - - 1330-1480 - - - - - - - -

the Verken family thrives in Rostock

Jacob Verken 1480-1550 Rostock, Mecklenburg (Germany)

Descendant of Aron Verken

Peter Verken 1510-1582 Graduate of Rostock University

Son of Jacob Verken. He became an Anabaptist (Mennonite) while visiting Warken, The Netherlands. He assumed the name Peter Warkentin

Johannes Werkentin 1550-1620 Rostock, (Germany)

Son of Peter Warkentin. Johannes is listed in the matriculation register of Rostock University in 1574. He became a Lutheran pastor in Sternberg, (Germany)

Herman Warkentin 1584-1631 died in Danzig, Poland

Son of Johannes. He returned to the Anabaptist faith of his grandfather. With his tragic death the Verken Brewery business comes to an end.

Herman Warkentin II I610-1646 died in Rosenort, Poland

Son of Herman moved from Danzig to Rosenort. He & his wife died in the epidemic of 1646

Arendt Warkentin 1632-1710 died in Rosenort, Poland

Son of Herman. Orphaned at age 14. His marriage to Sortjen Tamsen is recorded in the Danzig Mennonite Church register-1667

Arendt Warkentin 1668-1728 died in Rosenort, Poland

Son of Arendt.

Arendt Warkentin 1698-1738 died in Rosenort, Poland

Son of Arendt. Died of complications of an infected tic bite.

Frederich Warkentin 1720-1795 died in Danzig

Son of Arendt. In 1739 he was abducted by agents of Frederick William to serve in the Potsdam (Giant) Guard. All men in this regiment were at least 6’5" or taller.

Cornelius Warkentin 1730-1809 Younger brother of Frederich.

The tombstone of Cornelius appears on the cover of this book.

Aron Warkentin 1770-1830 died in Schönau, South Russia

Son of Frederich. 1804-moved to the village of Schönau, in the Mennonite colony of Molotschna South Russia

Aron Warkentin 1807-1875 born in Friedensdorf, Molotschna

Son of Aron. Transported supplies to the Russian army during the Crimean War.

Aron Warkentine 1864-1931 born in Konteniusfeld, Molotschna

Son of Aron. Died in Corn, Oklahoma. Emigrated in 1879 on S.S.Switzerland. After his father’s death in 1875 his mother Elizabeth (Quiring) married Jacob Graves (Gräve). Aron, aged 16 years, is listed in the ship records as Aron Gräve. On the same ship was the family of his uncle, Johann Warkentin (b.1833) including his cousin, Abraham, born in 1862.

Dietrich Warkentin 1886-1966 born in Lehigh,Kansas

Son of Aron. Lived in Kansas, Colorado, Oklahoma and Texas. Died in Reedley, CA

Peter Dietrich Warkentin 1911-1995 born in Corn, Oklahoma

Son of Dietrich. Moved from Oklahoma to Texas and to California where he died in Reedley.

Larry Ray Warkentin 1940— born in Reedley, California

Son of Peter. Music professor, composer and author

I

Gelderland, 1230 A.D.

Everyone is sleeping peacefully, except me. Harmon and Aron are breathing deeply on their mat near the dying embers of the fire. The smoke slowly rises, winding its way upward, sifting through the thatched roof. The room cools and the boys wiggle closer together, pulling the woolen blanket more tightly around their slender shoulders.

Anna presses her warm body close to mine, and I feel a slight twitch in her swelling abdomen. Soon another child will bless our union. Perhaps a sister for the twin boys. I know that is Anna’s dream.

She is a good wife. She keeps our simple cottage clean. She tends the garden and daily discovers new ways to enrich our beet soup. And for the feast of the changing season, when the sun begins its slow march southward across the horizon, she prepares the best chicken soup.

It is a marvel to watch her scatter grain in the yard to attract the cackling chickens. Then she surprises the chosen one and holds it by the neck. With a deft twist of her hand, she snaps it from life to death. The convulsing body is stretched on the chopping block near the old linden tree, and with one quick swing of the ax, the head is severed from the neck. She holds the wings and legs firmly as the blood spurts, painting the block and the ground around it. The body continues to struggle as if the life spirit does not want to leave.

One time she lost control of the wings and feet. The chicken flapped and fluttered around the yard with Anna in close pursuit. They were both running around like a chicken with its head chopped off. I could not help but laugh. I leaned on my hoe and nearly fell down with laughter.

Apparently, Anna did not appreciate her audience. Once the chicken fell silent, she picked up the ax and chased me around the garden shouting something about a man’s place is in the field; and if I have nothing better to do than laugh at a hard-working wife, then she would put me in the field, six feet under. I think she wasn’t serious, but one can never be too sure. All I can say is that any stranger who comes around and threatens her while I am gone had better be wary of the ax.

I couldn’t wish for a better woman. She puts down the ax and gives me a warm hug. Then she points toward the field. Enough gawking for today. But I know the rest of the process. She plunges the feathered body into a kettle of boiling water and begins to strip off the loosened feathers placing them in a cloth bag for drying and future use in pillows and covers. Then, on the cutting board near our cottage, she removes the entrails. Her hands and the sharp knife are guided by generations of mother-daughter instruction. The intestines go to the dog. The eggs that only moments before had been waiting in daily succession, each smaller than the next in their transparent tunnel, are given to the cat sitting wide-eyed on the window ledge safely out of the dog’s reach.

All of this is prelude to the real mystery. With sharpened knife she severs the legs then splits the breast, laying open all the machinery that recently gave this old hen life—everything that made it cluck, run, lay, and produce fertilizer for our garden. The heart, gizzard and liver will be boiled and eaten with ceremonial pleasure. These are the givers of life, transmitting health and virility. The warmth of the disemboweled flesh gives the air a dark, moist scent. That smell is soon replaced by the delicious aroma of herbs and chicken meat cooking.

On the feast day, Anna will move our heavy dining table into the garden, and we will enjoy the rare treat of a dinner with meat. Harmon and Aron will consider themselves lucky when they find the chicken feet in their bowls. The soft, buttery meat between the toes isn’t easy to retrieve, but they consider it well worth the challenge.

Anna and I will find our luck when one of us gets the Y-shaped breastbone, the wishbone. She holds one arm of the Y and I the other. We each close our eyes and make a wish, then jerk the bone apart until it snaps. The one who winds up holding the arm and foot of the wishbone is the winner. But the wish only comes true if it is never told.

She never betrays her secret, but I think I know. Last winter she was the winner and that night she seemed particularly amorous. Even though I had worked all day plowing the pasture, walking behind the two-handled shaft of the plow, keeping our ox moving, and then cleaning the stable fouled by Lizzie and Trina, our faithful cows—even with all this she obviously wanted more from me. More I was usually more than willing to give. But after such a hard day’s work, I wanted to sleep.

But she was not to be put off, no matter how tired I was. And when she is in that mood, she could raise the dead. She did and I responded. Now she is getting her wish, and I think she won’t consider her wish fulfilled until she brings a baby girl into the world.

Now, here in our one-room cottage all are at peace, except me. I say it is a one-room cottage, but actually there are two rooms under our thatched roof. The doorway on the south side of our living room opens into the stable where Lizzie and Trina sleep. Otto, our ox, stays outside, staked under the linden tree. With his strong shoulders and thick hide, he can endure the coldest weather. Lizzie and Trina need the soft hay to rest on. I can hear the gentle gurgles of their contented stomachs, and their bodies add warmth and a pleasant smell to the house.

The boys are pretty well house broke. If they have a call of nature in the night, we have taught them to go out the front door and water the garden. If it is too cold for that, we have a chamber pot that can be emptied in the morning.

However, Lizzie and Trina seem to respond to nature’s call whenever they have the urge. This can be particularly awkward if Anna happens to be milking at the time. I suppose it is one of the occupational hazards of milking. Anna has to be careful to keep the lemonade out of the milk pail. Come what may, I always clean up after them. By the time spring arrives, we have a nice pile of manure with which we enrich the pasture and the garden.

It is amazing how life moves in cycles. Mothers teach daughters how to butcher a chicken. Fathers teach sons how to plow and prune. Alfalfa is dried and fed to cows who then defecate, and the manure is spread in the pasture to grow more alfalfa that is fed to the cows, and so it goes—again and again.

This is why I’m restless while everything around me seems to be at peace. What’s the point of this circle existence? For thousands of years my ancestors have tilled this same soil. When one generation dies, we put them into the ground. They decay and disappear in the soil, which produces red beets that I eat; and as in the alfalfa cycle, I will be buried and my progeny will some day have red beet soup or sauerkraut grown from my bones.

It doesn’t seem to bother anyone else in our village. Why does it bother me? What difference does it make? Today I’m healthy, I’m strong. I’m doing what my father did. I’ll teach my sons to do what I do. Isn’t that enough?

I should go back to sleep. I can hear Anna snuffling in deep sleep, and the boys are out like a candle that will be relit by the first rays of sunlight, then there will be no more rest. They are like windmills powered by sunlight. When the sun sets they complain like the squealing and growling of a windmill slowing down, but once the sails are still, they are as quiet as a millstone.

Lizzie and Trina seem noisier than usual. It’s been nearly ten cycles of the moon since I took Lizzie for a visit to neighbor Phillip’s pasture. Lizzie was clearly in heat and had been bellowing around the pasture for days. Phillip and I had a brief discussion about payment for old Adolph’s services. We settled on an arm’s length of sausage to be paid when the calf was born. Phillip thought it was funny that I was paying with an arm’s length of sausage, while Adolph was giving only a foot’s length.

It took the old well-hung bull just a few sniffs to get the idea. Actually, I think he already had the idea, and Lizzie simply provided the opportunity.

It’s always a curious activity to watch the planting of a new life. Not so unlike human procreation, but without the understanding. Animals differ from humans in that regard. They don’t seem to ask why; they only respond to their natural urges. We have the same urges, but we ask why and understand, at least partially, what the result may be. Although, some of my friends don’t seem to ask, they just act.

Bees in apple blossoms only know hunger and carry the golden powder of the blossoms to their hives. We know that when there are no bees, there will be no apples or honey. So we keep the hive close to the apple tree.

Relax Jan, close your eyes. Morning will come sooner that you wish. Soon Anna will find her way in the dark room to the fire and will stoke the slumbering embers. She will blow her sweet breath over some dried grass, and smoke will begin to rise. A small flame will flicker. Small sticks and then a few chunks of dried peat will add their ripe aroma to the room. The black kettle hanging over the fire will come to life with boiling water and dried oats.

Sleep! No, there it is again. Lizzie is stirring. Could it be her time? I’d better check. Where did I leave my long shirt and belt? Are these my wooden shoes? My feet must have grown during the night. Ouch! Oh, these are Anna’s. No wonder. Ah, here are mine.

Well Lizzie, what’s happening? This is what you get for a few minutes with old Adolph. Now don’t worry. It’s all part of nature. This is how you came into the world. Ach! You’ve made a mess on the floor. I’ll watch. You push. Here you go. I see something coming out.

Oh no! You’ve got things backward. It’s supposed to be head first, not the rump. What do we do now? I don’t think we can go back and try it the right way. You’ll just have to keep trying. I remember my Dad telling me about this problem. He said something about reaching in and helping pull the calf out, or it will be stillborn.

Well, Lizzie, you keep trying and I’ll see what I can do. Here we go. Yuck! Nature is not always tidy. I can feel the legs. They seem to be folded against the warm body. That’s good. Pardon me while I get both hands in there so I can pull. This can’t be very comfortable for you, but if we’re going to get a whole calf out of you, a couple of arms shouldn’t be too much more.

You push and I’ll pull. Here it comes. Look at that. A beautiful daughter for you. You and Adolph did good. And she wants to stand. Whoa, little one. Give those legs a chance. You act like you’re drunk. Lizzie, let’s get you standing too. You’ve got a bit more stuff to unload but you should be standing so little junior can drink from the fountain. That’s right, lick her clean.

Daddy, where did that come from? Did you go to the market while we were sleeping?

No, Harmon. Lizzie made the calf during the night, and look, now she is giving it milk just like she usually gives us milk, but the calf gets it straight from the source. What shall we call her?

Let’s name her Moonbeam because she came during the night. And look she has a spot of moonlight on her forehead. Yes, let’s name her Moonbeam.

They are happy with the new name and the new life in our house. It doesn’t seem like a miracle to them. That’s just how things happen. They are alive, and don’t think about how it happened. They have a home and parents and food. That’s how things happen. Someday soon they will begin to wonder about things, just as I do, but for now they are like the honeybee that assumes there will always be apple blossoms and nectar.

II

Necessity and Pleasure

I love it when necessity and pleasure come together. Fishing is one of those times. Almost like making love with my dear Anna. It is necessary that we have babies or else people would vanish from the earth. And what pleasure, ah. We don’t always catch fish, but we return to the pleasant banks of the Berkel again and again.

So I fish as often as necessary. Yes, it is necessary or we would soon starve, but what pleasure these early mornings bring with the warm sun rising over the green fields of wheat. And once the coolness of morning disappears, I open my woolen shirt and let the golden glow enter my body. No wonder my ancestors worshipped the sun.

I must not forget my purpose. In all the pleasure I must remember necessity. The hook, the twice-sacrificial worm and the thin line—all have a purpose and a history. This is how my father fed his family. Soon I will teach my sons. Stretch the pole as far as possible over the quiet water, and wait.

Today I enjoy the solitude and the beauty. I wonder what happens to the sun when it disappears each evening. It paints the clouds rich colors of gold and red as it sinks into the water. Some people think it is extinguished in the great ocean. Then God ignites it again each new day by blowing his breath on the embers. Maybe the stars at night are those embers waiting to burst into the flaming sun. If that is really what happens, then God must be very great.

A bite! The pole shivers and my hand responds reflexively. A nibbling fish must be hooked, and the hook needs to be set firmly in its mouth. Wait just a second. If I jerk too soon, the fish may escape with half of the worm, and no hook.

Like so many things in life, there is the question of timing. Like taking our milk cow, Lizzie, to visit Phillip’s bull. Too soon and nothing happens; too late and the opportunity is past. Enough of that. Something is trying to swim away with my hook, and I have a feeling it’s not a frog.

There, it broke the surface. It’s a big carp. I’ve seen him for days, and at last he’s come to dinner—his dinner and ours.

I’ll ease him up to the riverbank. Gently! Hang on, big boy. It’s not time yet. If I try to lift you on the grass, you’ll probably tear the hook from your mouth. Then I’d be disappointed and you would be in pain. You swim until you’re tired. I’ll give you a little more time.

I wonder if you can comprehend what comes next. That little worm had a painful barb. You needed food, and that necessity led to your destruction. I guess necessity and pleasure do not always come in equal proportions. Maybe it is like my plowing the wheat field: it’s a lot more effort than the pleasure it provides.

Or maybe it’s like a military battle. When the Count of Zutphen and the Lord of Arnhem have a disagreement and they can’t come to terms through discussion, they gather all their knights and peasants and prepare for the necessary conflict. It was in such a necessary conflict that my father died. Duke Otto of Gelderland and Duke Hendrik of Brabant claimed the same piece of dirt. They gathered their forces with armed pike men and vulnerable peasants. The soldiers had armor and swords; the peasants had scythes and axes. Even on the final day we hoped that the battle could be avoided since Duke Otto had far superior forces. But Duke Hendrick would not back down. Such an easy solution was not possible. It was a matter of honor. If Duke Hendrick gave a foot today, then Duke Otto would want the whole leg tomorrow.

So the troops advanced and the slaughter began. Father’s group was utterly destroyed. I went through the battlefield with mother, looking for him. After seeing shattered skulls, severed arms and stomachs slit open like butchered steers, we were so numb that when we finally found father slashed from his forehead to his chest, we didn’t even cry. We buried him where he fell.

The line is silent. Old Mr. Carp is tired enough. Carefully I lift him onto the grassy bank. A few more desperate flips of the tail and he is finished. I needn’t have worried. The hook was deeply set. He didn’t have a chance.

I’m almost sorry to get my catch so quickly. I’ll stay a little longer and relax. Just in case someone comes by and wonders what I’m doing, I’ll drop my line in the water. No one has to know I’ve put no bait on the hook.

I wish I had brought my flute. I could wile away the morning playing tunes like some mythical faun. The flute makes me think of Grandpa.

I always knew when Grandfather was near. I could hear his flute. Its tone was sometimes like the questioning voice of an owl, and sometimes like the demanding call of a hawk. But I always knew who it was. He played tunes that haunted the mind with ancient memories and made me want to dance with present joys. Before he rounded the bend in the path or crested the hill, I could hear him coming. His flute and his spirit were united.

Grandfather loved his flute as much as he loved his grandchildren, and he could play either with sincerity or with humor.

One day he asked if I wanted to play the flute.

Yes, Grandfather.

Do you have music in your heart? You can’t make music on your flute unless you have a melody in your heart.

But Grandfather, how can I know what is in my heart if I don’t have my own flute?

Good question. We must get you a flute. Come with me to the old linden tree. That’s where I found my flute. Did you know that flutes grow on trees?

You’re teasing, aren’t you? Just like you teased about putting salt on a bird’s tail so I could catch it.

Was I teasing? Did you try it?

Yes, I carried salt in my pocket for days. But, I could never get close enough to a bird to put salt on its tail.

Oh, but I said if you put salt on a bird’s tail, you could catch it.

It isn’t possible. The bird won’t stand still long enough.

That’s true. But if you ever managed the impossible and put salt on a bird’s tail, you honestly could catch it.

I still think you were teasing. And I know flutes don’t grow on linden tress.

Maybe no. Maybe so. If you are smart enough to stand an egg on end, then you might find a linden tree that grows flutes.

Grandpa, you’re being silly again. No one can stand an egg on end. It will always fall over.

Are you sure? Go find me an egg.

(I’ll show him. I know where the red hen has a clutch of eggs. Here under this clump of broom.)

Pardon me, red hen, I need one of your eggs. Ouch! Don’t be so feisty you old dumb cluck. I just want one egg to prove that Grandpa is wrong. You can keep the others.

Here’s an egg. Show me how to stand it on end.

Do you still have some salt in your pocket?

Now what? Are you trying to change the subject? I already know that I can’t put salt on a bird’s tail.

No, the salt is important to show you that I can stand an egg on end. However, on the subject of bird’s tails let me ask, is a chicken a bird?

Of course.

Did you try putting salt on her tail?

Why should I? I can catch her without salt.

Yes, but if you did, it would work, wouldn’t it? So you weren’t looking at all the possibilities. If you only consider the obvious, then many problems cannot be solved. Now let’s stand an egg on end. Do you have the salt?

Yes, I never had a chance to use it.

Make a little pile of salt on this flat stone. Now give me the egg. See, if I put it gently on the pile of salt, what happens?

It’s standing on its end!

Now carefully blow on the salt.

Woooo. Most of the salt is gone, and it’s still standing on end. But you didn’t say I could use salt to help it stand.

Did I say you couldn’t use salt?

No.

There you have it. And there are other ways to stand an egg on end. For example, you could wait until it hatches and let the chick stand on its own two feet.

That’s not an egg!

Oh? Is it a horse? What else is it? It’s a grown-up egg, nothing more, nothing less.

If you are going to think like that, then I know another way.

How?

If I tap the egg carefully on this rock, the end of the shell will be crushed and the egg will stand on end. It might be messy, but it would be standing.

Good thinking. Some solutions may have too great a cost. In this case we couldn’t eat the egg and it certainly wouldn’t hatch. Let’s not smash this one. I think your red hen would like it back. Go put it back in her nest. Then we’ll look for a flute in our linden tree.

(I wonder how this puzzle will be resolved. I’ve heard the wind in the branches. Maybe that’s it.)

Here’s your egg. Settle down and keep it warm.

(Or maybe Grandpa has tied a flute to the branches and he’ll pretend that it grew there.)

Now, Grandpa, show me a flute tree. I already know what a fruit tree is, but if we had a flute tree, we could pick the flutes and sell them at the market in Zutphen, just like we sell apples.

There’s one!

One what? All I see are a bunch of branches and twigs.

There. That straight branch that is about as long as my arm from fingertip to elbow and as thick as my nose.

That’s not a flute. It’s a branch.

Don’t forget the egg and the salt. Things are not always what they seem.

I suppose that branch could look like a flute, but it needs to be hollow and it needs finger holes and it needs an end with a whistle or whatever you call it.

Here, I brought my little saw. We’ll cut that branch and see if it isn’t a flute.

If you are so sure it’s a flute, why don’t you play it for me?

Well, it needs a little loving care before it will have a tune. It’s a flute alright; it just isn’t ready to sing. Here’s what we will do. I’ll leave it with you today. Your father has a little knife. Take that knife and make this not-yet-flute as smooth and straight as you can. Shave off all the little bumps and make it as straight as the axle on your father’s cart.

How will I know when it’s straight enough?

When it is straight.

But how straight?

There is only one straight. Less than straight is crooked.

Then how will I know when it is not crooked.

When it rolls on a flat stone without any part leaving the stone.

I’ll do my best. But there must be more if it is to be a flute.

Oh yes. There is much more. I’ll show you tomorrow.

There was much more. On the following day Grandpa brought a sharp knife, and when he was satisfied that I had trimmed the branch until it was perfectly straight, he took his knife and carefully split it into two halves. Then he used a small chisel—he called it a routing chisel with a scooped out point, and made a channel in each half of the branch. We let the wood dry for a couple of days and then we put sticky pitch from a tree on each half and glued the two halves together. We had created a hollow wooden tube. To make sure it stayed together, we wrapped string around it.

He cut five finger holes in the body of the tube, and carved a hole near the top end of the flute. This hole had a straight, sharp edge. Finally, he carved the top end narrower so it could easily fit between his lips. All of this took many days. I thought it would never be finished. At last he took me out under the linden tree and began to blow into the flute. Warm notes of amazing beauty floated through the air. He didn’t have to remind me that our flute grew on a tree.

Here, you try it.

I wasn’t sure what to do. He showed me how to cover the holes with my fingers, and when I blew into the flute, I created one amazing tone.

In the days that followed, Grandpa taught me how to create new tones by lifting my fingers and soon I could play melodies.

Next time I go fishing I’ll bring my flute.

Now back to the other necessities of life. Today the twins have their final lesson in swimming.

Aron, Harmon come here.

They hear my strong call and interrupt their play.

It’s a warm day and time for your swimming lesson. You will be like fish. Everywhere near Warken is water, and if you are not fish, you will be like rocks that sink to the bottom.

When will you teach us to fly? We have air all around us, and if we fall from a tree, we will fall like rocks.

Sorry boys, my father never taught me to fly. Sometimes I fly in my dreams, but then when I wake I always forget how. Only at the end of our life will we fly. That is when our spirit soars above the clouds to be with God.

Now get your clothes off and get in the water. Today I won’t get in with you. You’ve seen how I swim. I’ll hold this long branch over the water. You hold on until you feel brave enough to let go.

I couldn’t be more proud of my twins. I was always hoping our first child would be a boy. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t imagine two boys. We considered naming them Jacob and Esau, but we decided to be traditional and name them after our fathers. Anna’s father was Harmon; mine was Aron. I might have been named Aron, but I was not the oldest son, so I had to settle for Jan. When we have another son, we can name him after me. It didn’t seem right to name one of the twins after me; then the other twin would always feel like second choice. Besides, Isaac didn’t name his twins after himself. I certainly hope Aron and Harmon don’t have conflicts with each other like the biblical twins.

Hey! Don’t just stand there with mud between your toes. Get in there with the fish. Hang on. Now kick your feet. Good! Now let go of the branch. Come on. Let’s see how brave you are. It won’t hurt you to drink a little water. Let go. I’ll jump in if you have trouble.

Both hands. Imagine you are flying. Flap your wings. I said both hands. A bird can’t fly with one wing, and a fish can’t swim with one fin. If that’s how you want it, I’ll yank the stick away. There you go.

How long do I let them struggle? I remember how I thought my father wanted me to drown. Didn’t he care for me? I’ll show him. I can get to shore if I really work at it. Amazing . . . I can almost float, and if I turn my head a bit, I can catch a breath of air.

They look so helpless. Their little bodies seem pale and soft. Shall I rescue them? I never imagined parenting would be so difficult. When to let go . . . when to step in? Now I understand why my father had tears in his eyes when I finally got to shore.

The branch . . . I’ve got to reach it out to them now. But no! They’re not sinking. They are beginning to float . . . not like ducks, but at least like water-soaked logs. They’re moving toward shore. Throw away the branch. Why are there tears in my eyes? They are my boys. They will be strong men.

Not bad for a first swim. Here, dry yourselves on my shirt. I’m proud of you both. Get your clothes on. I see a boat coming. Maybe it is Olaf. He said he would come for the big wheel of cheese mother has been aging down in the well.

Good day, Olaf. How’s it going?

On two legs, as usual. Who are these tadpoles?

They are my sons, Aron and Harmon. They just learned to swim. Now I’ll have trouble keeping then out of the canal.

Olaf is a big Swede with long blond hair. Anna always says he is a Viking pirate, because he never pays enough for our cheese. The guilders we earn from the cheese help us buy cloth and shoes, or a little wheat if we have had a bad crop.

Olaf brings news of the distant world. Our little canal feeds into the Berkel River, and near Zutphen it meets the IJssel, which eventually leads to the IJssel Sea. After that I have very little idea where the water reaches. But Olaf tells stories of a great sea and big ships that sail to great cities where rich people live in castles.

Today his news is a bit closer to home. Apparently, Hendrik II has decided his mother, Mathilde of Flanders who married Hendrik I, was the rightful heir to the county of Zutphen, but Gerard III, who has succeeded his brother Otto I as Duke of Gelderland, is convinced that his mother’s blood gives him the right to the castle and taxes in Zutphen County. If they can’t resolve their disagreement, there will be a battle.

I’m glad I don’t have royal blood, because noblemen always seem to be fighting about who has the royal right to this or that. From all I can see, they look like everyone else, they defecate like everyone else, and if they get wounded in battle, they bleed red blood like everyone else. I guess someone has to be Duke or Count or King or Emperor, but I think they should earn the position, not inherit it.

Fortunately, my father gained ownership of our property through service to Count van Zutphen. Unfortunately, he paid for the land with his blood, but at least now we are known as freemen and get to keep what we produce, after paying taxes, of course.

And I have to admit that we do get some benefit from the Duke. Whenever there is a threat of a battle, we pack up our wagon and head into Zutphen. Our little farm village of Warken has no defensive wall, but Zutphen is well fortified and it provides a place of safety. The townspeople let us stay in a cellar room in exchange for produce we bring with us.

It seems that every time things start going well for us, with good crops and good weather, then some neighboring Count or Duke decides he wants the territory that belongs to our county. These conflicts are usually brief, like summer thunderstorms, but they always leave the countryside in shambles. A few citizens who don’t make it to the safety of Zutphen are massacred in their homes. They say that lightning never strikes twice in the same place, but that’s no comfort to the one who gets the first strike.

Uncle Olaf, tell us a story, the boys beg as they slip their long shirts over their damp bodies.

(Olaf is a colorful man and has traveled far and wide in his younger days.)

What shall I tell?

(He knows what they want.)

Tell about the pirates of the North Sea.

If you insist. But it might be scary.

When I was a young man about the age of your father, I wanted to see the world. I had no wife and children and was free to do whatever I wanted. So, one day I decided to go to Emden, way up in the north of Friesland, to get a job working on a big boat carrying wool and cheese and fine lace from Burgundy and chests of spices that come all the way from Byzantium.

The boats were like big brothers of this little boat I came on today. Much bigger brothers. They were made like great wooden shoes with turned up toes at both ends. The outside was finished with long narrow boards that fit tightly together, secured with wooden pegs to the inner skeleton of strong beams of the best wood. Every seam was sealed with pitch so no water could get in.

The bow was covered with a flat roof. Under that roof is where we slept in rope beds that hung close together. Although there were ten men working on the boat, there were only five beds. We worked and slept in five-man shifts.

Please, Uncle, not so much detail. We want to hear about the pirates.

Be patient. You have to understand how things looked so you’ll know how we fought the pirates.

In the bottom of the boat near the center was all the stuff we were shipping. The weight helped keep the boat stable. A strong plank floor covered this storage area. At the stern was the tiller. That’s a long handle that reaches out to the rudder. With this the captain controls where the boat goes. And in the very center was the tall mast from which hung the sail. At the very top of the sail was our blue and white flag that identified us as a Frisian boat.

Our destination was the historic city of Hamburg. There our cargo would be transferred by wagon to Lübeck and then by another large boat to Rostock at the mouth of the Warnow River.

It was summer, and in that region the sun hardly sets. The night is distinguished from day only by degrees of light. The tide, the wind, and the distance to our destination were carefully considered, and in the middle of the night, Captain van Dyck shouted, Cast off the ropes! And we were off.

The first few hours were peaceful. We slipped out of the harbor, past warehouses and docks. Each warehouse had a tall crane that was used to lift heavy cargo from ships. The cranes looked like long-necked storks silhouetted in the morning glow. The city and the harbor disappeared, and soon all we could see were a few blue hills along the shore.

Captain van Dyck was careful to keep the shoreline in sight. He knew every hill and tree and cove. This was how he could calculate how fast we were moving, and it kept us from getting lost in the great expanse of water. If the wind would blow us beyond sight of the shore, especially if there was a storm, we might get disoriented and we’d never find land.

But what about the pirates?

Oh yes. The problem with staying close to shore was the possibility of pirates; heartless men with long matted beards who wore torn shirts and carried curved swords imported from Persia.

Did they have wooden legs and ugly scares across their weathered faces?

Now who’s telling this story, me or you?

Sorry, Uncle.

We rounded a spit of land near the town of Dornum, and with the East Frisian Islands in the distant horizon, we saw a filthy boat with a patched sail coming toward us. No flag could be seen on its mast. It seemed to come out of nowhere and it was bearing down on us. It was smaller than our boat and was moving fast.

Captain van Dyck called us together and gave us our orders:

I want only two of you to work the sail and I’ll handle the tiller. We want the pirates to think we have a small crew. Then, if they try to board us, the rest of you suddenly rush out from the sleeping shelter. Shout as loud as you can. Terror is always a strong force in battle.

Olaf, go down near the spice chests. The large chest with the black lock has a sword for each of you and also three crossbows. The crossbows are for such a moment as this. I think our ugly visitors will only have swords, and they will be surprised by our crossbows. When the first one steps on board, send him to Davie Jones locker with a clean shot. If that doesn’t stop them, then wait until another tries to board. I don’t think there will be more than six pirates. We’ll only have time for three shots, so make them count. Then it’s every man for himself. Rush them and cut them down. Show them what true sailors are made of.

Did they catch you?

Did they catch us?! Just as the morning began to brighten, Captain turned toward the open sea. He hoped the pirates would think twice before taking their small boat too far from shore. No such luck.

They caught us and threw ropes with hooks into our boat and pulled theirs alongside. The pirate captain was a frightening character. His bushy beard was streaked with gray. His right eye seemed to shoot out sparks of hatred. His left eye wasn’t an eye at all. It was a dark pit with a wrinkled scar reaching from his forehead to his mouth. A shaggy mustache drooped over his cracked lips. He wore a knitted hat that barely held together. And his greasy hair hung down to his shoulders. His coat had once been a fancy soldier’s uniform but was now a filthy rag with a braided collar, and it hung over his fat belly like a thatched roof that had rotted and slid down exposing the rafters. His loose pants were precariously held in place by a wide belt. The buckle was mostly hidden by his overhanging belly. And his boots, that reached to his knees, looked like a team of mismatched plow horses. His left arm ended at the wrist, over which his sleeve dangled.

And in his right hand he carried a scimitar of etched steel that sparkled in the morning sunlight. If terror is important in a battle, then he alone could stop an army. I huddled in the sleeping shelter with the other seven chosen for this assignment.

Ahoy, you puny merchants. If you want to die, just let me know. Old Akbar, my trusty sword, can do the job. Or you can let us unburden your heavy boat—and live.

No one on board believed his offer, least of all our captain. We all knew that pirates never leave witnesses. Dead men tell no tales!

You can go back to hell where you came from, shouted our captain. We are peaceful merchants who mean no harm.

The pirate captain laughed until I thought he’d loose his pants. So that’s how you want it? So be it.

He took the blade of his sword in his yellow teeth, with his strong right arm grabbed one of the ropes holding our sail in place, and pulled himself on board. The minute his foot touched our deck I aimed my crossbow and let the arrow fly straight at his heart. Just then the boat pitched and he bent forward. I missed my intended target but hit an even more important spot. The arrow struck him in his good eye.

At that moment we all rushed out of the shelter bellowing like a bull bitten by a bumblebee. The other crossbows fired and wounded two more pirates as they tried to board our boat. My friends cut the ropes holding the boats together. The pirates grabbed oars and frantically put as much distance between us as they could.

So we escaped certain death.

But, Uncle, what happened to the pirate captain?

Ah, yes. He was still on our boat, and my arrow had struck his good eye at an angle. The arrow entered his eye and protruded from his cheek. He was a sorry sight. He stumbled around calling for his crew but they were long gone. His wound was bloody but not fatal. So what should we do? If I pulled the arrow out point first, the feathers would only cause more damage. If I pulled it out backward, the point would tear him up bad. I can’t say that I cared very much what happened to him, but after all, he was a fellow human being. Finally, I decided to snap the arrow in two and pull it out in both directions. I have to admit he was a tough old sea dog. He never screamed. But now he was totally blind.

Finish me off, he mumbled.

Our captain had a different plan. We kept the pirate on board until we arrived at Hamburg. A speedy trial was held, and he was immediately hung from one of the cranes conveniently located on the dock. Most of the sailors cheered as the old pirate went to his eternal punishment.

Someday we want to sail on a great boat like that.

Not for a few years. Right now I want you both to go back to the house to help Mother. Olaf and I want to talk.

III

Beauty and Battle

How can a woman be so beautiful, especially when so much of her is covered? Anna doesn’t know I’m watching her. I’ve come home a little earlier than usual. She will be thrilled at the huge carp I have caught, and we will have fish soup for days. That, along with the good rye bread she makes, will be worthy of a celebration. I wait and admire her as she rakes hay that has been drying in the warm spring sun.

What is it that attracts me to her? She is tall but not skinny. Her light brown hair is gathered beneath a white scarf that she has wrapped over her forehead and carefully tied in back. The loose ends of the scarf float down her back. Her shoulders are graceful and the broad neckline of her blouse reveals her delicate neck and light sun kissed skin. She is perspiring a bit, and this makes her clothes cling to her body highlighting her bosom beneath which her skirt is tied. Under the short sleeves of her blue blouse show the long white sleeves of her undergarment. Her hands are strong, handling the rake with determination.

Her skirt matches the blue color of her blouse. Her hips are broad; more like Leah than Rachel from the Bible story. Folds of cloth tumble over her abdomen, where our next child is beginning to grow, and then spread between her legs like a fan.

Usually in the house she wears a light petticoat that covers her ankles, but since it is a warm day and she will be raking most of the morning, I suspect she has omitted the petticoat, revealing her slender ankles and bare feet.

All of this attracts me to her, and I have not yet spoken of her face. Even on this warm morning and while doing this rather mundane task, her face is angelic, like the Mother of Jesus in Saint Walpurga church in Zutphen. Her eyes are deep set, dark and outlined with golden eyebrows. Her nose is narrow and her lips are slightly parted, as if awaiting a kiss. Her cheeks glow like pink clouds after the sun sets.

There is much more that attracts me to her; all that hides beneath her clothing and is revealed from her heart. She is kind, spirited, industrious and determined. How she manages everything is a mystery. Each morning and evening she milks the cows, each day she prepares our meals, each year she rakes hay, picks apples and tends the garden. She watches the boys and soon she will be delivering our third child. I am a lucky man. Who would not love her?

I see you standing there staring. Don’t you have something better to do?

I’ve been discovered. Look what I caught. The biggest carp in the whole world. You’ll need to buy a bigger soup kettle just to make our dinner.

Well, I can’t make soup until I get this raking done. Put your whale in a bucket of cold water so he won’t be stinking by evening.

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Jan, it’s time . . . .

The baby’s coming, now?! I’ll run to get Sara, so she can help.

No, no—calm down. It’s time we had a talk.

But it’s the middle of the night. We need to sleep. I’ve got a day of plowing ahead of me. You’ve got cows to milk.

That’s exactly the problem. If we don’t’ talk now, we’ll be too busy to talk. Aron and Harmon will be tugging on my skirt. You’ll be out in the field. No it’s time to talk. Now.

Well, I’m wide awake. Talk.

It’s about the baby.

Is something wrong? Is it not moving anymore?

It’s moving and kicking all right. But it is about the baby.

So if everything is all right, then what do you want to talk about?

I’ve been thinking. Why can’t our daughter be a princess?

That’s an easy question. Our daughter, if the baby is a girl, cannot be a princess because you are not a Queen and I am not a King. It’s that simple. We don’t have royal blood and she is ours. Unless you’ve been sleeping with a prince? Ouch! Stop punching me.

Then don’t suggest that I’ve been sleeping with someone else. I don’t have time or energy to sleep with anyone but you. How do you know that you aren’t a prince? Maybe you have royal blood.

I’ll think about that while I’m spreading manure in the field tomorrow.

Where does royal blood come from? Brother Matias said in his homily last Sunday that God created Adam and Eve and they are the father and mother of the entire human family. Doesn’t that mean that we all have the same blood? Just like Margarita will have our blood.

Now the baby has a name already! Isn’t that shooting the arrow before you have a bow.

Maybe. If it’s a boy, how about Marcus? That’s a good Bible name.

I thought the next boy would be named Jan, after me.

As you wish. But if it is a girl she won’t be Janet, or for that matter, she won’t be Anna. Her name will be Margarita. That’s a name for a princess.

We’re back to royalty. I can’t imagine a prince riding into Warken and asking for our daughter’s hand.

And why not? Are we not children of Adam and Eve just like Duke van Gelder?

I can’t argue with that. I suppose I’ll have to move the pile of manure away from the front garden before the prince arrives.

I’m serious. Why do we have to stay just the way we have always been? Our parents lived here in Warken, and our grandparents, and so on as far back as anyone can remember. You work hard all year on our narrow plot of land, and then during harvest you have to work three weeks for Duke van Gelder. And on top of that we must give him one out of every four sheaves of wheat we harvest, and every time we turn around he thinks of another tax we must pay. It is true we are called free landholders but we are as free as a dog in a well. We’re trapped, and if we don’t think of a way to get out of the well we are going to drown. And what does the Duke do? He rides on a great white horse and buys his wife expensive amber jewelry at the Mickelmass Fair.

Is that it? You want me to buy you an amber necklace.

No, that’s not it! It’s you and our children I’m thinking about. You deserve a better place in life. You are a prince in disguise. You are tall and strong. When you lift a heavy ewe at shearing time I see your muscles bulge. I see your broad shoulders, your fine blond hair, your blue eyes, your handsome face and I know I married a prince. You need an opportunity to prove it.

I’m willing, if the world is willing. Tomorrow we can make me a crown and you can call me Jan I of Warken.

Oh, forget that! I’m trying to say something else, but I can’t find the right words. I think we will never know what we can do or be, until we find the right opportunity. If we never think beyond Warken and Zutphen we will never find out what we, and our children, are capable of.

Now I’m beginning to understand what you mean. I too think of far away places. Where do the storks go in summer? Where do ships go when they sail down the IJssel? Where does the sky meet the earth? When Olaf tells of his adventures sailing to distant places, I wonder if there are better opportunities I could be a part of. He talks about a place called Mecklenburg, where Christianity is only beginning. Where there are pagans who don’t know about Jesus. Where wide expanses of land can be cleared and great fields of wheat and barley and hops can be grown. Hops, especially, is good because it is used for beer. Such a place must be wonderful with so much beer.

Quit teasing. The beauty of such a new place is that people can create a new life. I’m sure it will be hard work, just like here, but we won’t owe so much to the nobility.

I see! There our daughter might marry a prince and collect taxes from everyone else.

Oh, forget the princess talk. Think about our children having the opportunity of learning to read books, or living in a house with a tile floor, and maybe not having to live with the threat of invasion by a neighboring Count.

Do people make such big moves?

Ask Olaf about it when he comes again. And don’t forget Saint Walpurga. Remember what Brother Matias has told us about her. She came from a big island across the North Sea. God watched over her and kept her safe when a great storm threatened her boat. She could read and write. She wrote books about her brothers St. Willibald and St. Winibald. She devoted her life to serving God and Jesus.

Did she become a princess?

No, silly. You know she became a saint, a holy person, and that’s why our great church in Zutphen is named after her. If God protected her on such a great journey, then He can watch over us if we travel to a new home.

I don’t know if I can be a saint. Are they permitted to drink beer?

Oh, go to sleep! I don’t think saints make babies either, so you’d better watch out, I might decide to become a saint, after Margarita is born.

Now Anna is asleep and I’m wide awake. Why does she do this? She plants ideas in my head and they start to grow. It’s like making a baby. I plant a seed and it grows in her. But with babies we know it will eventually be delivered. How long does it take for an idea to grow in my head? And when will it be delivered?

It is true that St. Walpurga was a blessed person and her church in Zutphen is impressive. That is where Anna and I pledged our lives together. It was six years ago on the first of May, St. Walpurga’s day. I can still remember the thrill of approaching the great church. It is a hundred times bigger than our cottage. The walls are as thick as a man lying down and stretching his arms as far as possible. The windows are small and seem like the eyes of God looking out at the town. The stone portal is carved with a series of rainbow arches, each growing smaller, as if they