Quest of Hope: A Novel by C. D. Baker

Author:C. D. Baker [Baker, C. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Historical, Historical fiction
ISBN: 1456406647
Amazon: B007II002U
Published: 2012-03-06T11:00:00+00:00

Visions of the hanging kept Wil awake at night for months. The boy tossed and turned and whimpered in the darkness. Heinrich lay by his side through the blackest hours of those nights and gently rubbed his forearms, stroked his hair, or hummed a gentle rhyme.

Karl was spared the trauma of the hanging, as Heinrich had wisely hidden the boy’s eyes from the horror of the sight. He was ever cheerful and chattered about each bright imagination that filled his happy mind at any given moment. The boy was endearing to all and eager to win the approval of anyone within sight of his smiling face. He was a blessed gift in a dreary place.

In the passing seasons Marta grew more distant, ever more miserable, and unbearably demanding. Her children were all that was dear to her, though she was often impatient with their troubles and annoyed with their unordered ways. Nevertheless, she wanted to receive their love and affection and she longed for their companionship. It was the weight of her expectations, however, that so often snuffed out the natural warmth the young hearts yearned to tender. So, unable or unwilling to see her own failings, the woman exacted penalties of increasing proportion. Fearful of God, disappointed in her world, and ashamed of herself, the poor woman hardened with every new sorrow that life delivered to her door.

“Wife,” offered Heinrich one autumn evening, “you seem so unhappy. You …”

“’Tis you! ‘Tis you and the children, you are making me mad! Methinks I shall surely lose m’mind!” Marta glared at Heinrich with scalding eyes.

The man detected more pain than evil and his heart grew sad at her suffering. “I … I wish y’to be more at peace, more—”

“You’ve brought naught but ruin to me. You’d not be the man I thought you to be; the children are not what they ought. None thinks of me and m’work. You never please me. And you’d be no man of business as is m’father … nay … not at all. If I could manage that bakery I’d show all how it’s better done! You’ve no ambition. Y’spend your time in thinking and daydreaming with that old hag.” Marta laughed a sneering, wicked laugh, and put her finger in her husband’s face. “And I know you’ve secret sins … ‘tis why we’ve buried three!”

Her words found their mark and Heinrich stood mute and ashamed. Indeed, he thought, he was a sinner to be sure. Marta was right, he did harbor secret sins. How often had he wished his wife would die? What about the Gunnar blood he spilt that horrid night? Were they not two charges of murder? How he coveted the bakery for his own. And his dreams of Katharina, another’s wife, were images that accused his pricked and knotted conscience. But more than all these, he knew his heart was filled with a secret hate for those who had bound his eyes to the ground. Oh, how he longed to break his vow and face the sun—a temptation that twisted through him on every blue-skied day.

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